The Book of Maladies Boxset

by D. K. Holmberg

  He would have to keep writing. That was all he could do.

  “My lady?” the guard asked.

  “I need food. And a bath. I should like to see my father.”

  The guard nodded, waving the other guard out of the room. Alec assumed it was to go for her father.

  It was then the princess seemed to realize there were two bodies in the room with her. Her eyes widened, and she stared at them a long time, before looking to the guard for answers. He paled slightly.

  “My lady, there was a woman found here. We think she killed these two and intended to come after you, but we arrived in time to thwart her.”

  Alec didn’t even dare argue. What would happen to him if he did? But if he said nothing, Sam would be placed in prison. Maybe worse.

  “Where is she now?” the princess asked.

  “We’ve taken her to the prison. She carried a knife with her and…”

  Possessing a knife in the same room with the princess would mean more trouble for Sam than she deserved.

  “She helped you, my lady,” Alec said.

  The guard shot him a look full of anger, but Alec ignored it. If he didn’t speak up, it was becoming clear that not only would Sam end up in prison, but she might be executed.

  The princess looked over to him. “She did what?”

  “Helped. Those men attacked. I think they might have been responsible for your illness. She came to let me have a chance to heal you.”

  As he said it, he realized he had said too much. The princess had been sick for too long, and now he made claims of poisoning and a claim that these men—men she wouldn’t know—had been responsible for it.

  “These men?” She studied him in a strange way. “You know them?”

  Alec shook his head. “I don’t know what brought them here at this time, but I know what I saw, and I know what they attempted. They wanted you gone.”

  The princess’s face paled slightly. “I…”

  She sagged, and Alec hurried toward her, but the guard rounded on him, sword raised. “Do not touch her, physicker. I will see we call the master—”

  Alec pushed the man to the side. “Call who you would like, but I’m going to make certain that she’s unharmed.”

  He reached the princess and touched her lightly on the neck. She breathed, but it was slow. Her pulse was not as regular as it should be. Had the healing begun to fail already?

  Somehow, he needed time to help her. That meant attempting writing on the paper.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  The guard looked toward the door.

  “Go!” Alec urged. “I’ll stay with her and see that she gets the care she needs.”

  The guard looked at him, shooting him a hard warning glance, before racing off into the hall.

  Alec pulled the sheet of paper out and didn’t hesitate as he began writing on it, using his finger. The mixture of blood and saliva in his palm remained liquid. What would he write to help the princess? Somehow, he had to add something that would make the healing hold—or he had to write something that would hold long enough for him to find a way to fully heal her.

  With the guard gone, Alec crouched on the floor next to the princess, thinking of what he could write that would help her.

  Wasting illness, he started, the blood smearing across the page in great looping letter that were less clear than they would have been with a pen. He didn’t risk taking the time to find the makeshift pen he’d dropped, not when he didn’t know when the guard would return. General improvement, but now regressed. No longer coherent. Generalized health returned. Would suggest provilin seeds and penac oil to help. The last he added as things he thought might be able to help the princess, but didn’t really know.

  Alec watched her and was relieved to see her breathing ease again. The blood ink held on the page, thankfully the mixture that he’d formed had been enough. Would it stay? The first attempt hadn’t lasted, and the massive attacker had seemed to know that it wouldn’t, but how could he ensure that it would last? Somehow, he had to help the princess so he could help Sam.

  The sound of footsteps started toward him from outside in the hall. The guard still hadn’t returned. Alec rolled the paper back up and stuffed it into his pocket. After checking on the princess, noting her breathing continued to ease, and the color had once more returned to her cheeks, he left her.

  Staying only meant more questions. Staying meant he would need to find a way to get not only Sam to safety, but himself. Staying meant the physickers would discover his lie.

  Alec fixed the jacket, tugging it down, and hurried into the hall. He quickly retraced his steps, heading down through the halls and back into the healing rooms. He paused there, noting the line along the bench, shaking his head as he thought about how little the physickers would be able to really help these people, and hurried out. He paused when he realized he’d forgotten to take the jacket off. When he reached the gate, he hurried through. Someone called after him, but Alec didn’t pause, quickly losing whoever might be chasing him in the crowds.

  26

  The Inside of a Cell

  The inside of the prison was damp, and there was barely enough light for Sam to see. Sounds disrupted the stillness, but she couldn’t tell where they came from. There was a steady dripping somewhere, and occasionally someone would shout or cry out or even moan. Otherwise, she was left with the occasional sound of a creature crawling through the walls, a scratching sound that broke the silence more than anything else.

  Her hands and legs were free, but that wasn’t surprising since the door to the cell held her completely confined. There was no escape.

  Somewhere in the prison, she’d find Tray.

  Now that she was here—and trapped—she realized what a fool she’d been. And she realized what a mistake it was to involve Alec. Now she was responsible for his rescue, as well. How had she ever expected to make it into the prison, find Tray, and get out again?

  They had left her dressed in her clothing, including her boots, though they had taken her cloak. And that meant they had her staff as well. Her mother’s knife remained tucked into her boot, and she slipped it out, noting the blade had no dried blood on it. Thankfully, they had missed it when they’d hauled her off to the cells.

  Also tucked in her boot, she hoped she still had the sheet of paper she’d taken from Bastan’s table, and if she could reach that… she might be able to use whatever abilities the paper granted to get herself free. But that meant she needed to figure out what Alec had done with the paper, and how he’d made it work, if only she could do the same. It had been her blood after all.

  Sam pulled her boot off and shook out the insole. Buried within was the folded piece of the paper. She took it out, put her boot back, and unfolded it in front of her.

  What was it about the paper that gave it the special abilities? Why did it work, and why did the brutes seem to know so much about it? They were questions for which she didn’t have answers, but she wanted them. First, she had to escape from this cell. Then, she could track down Tray—and Alec. Afterward, she would look for answers.

  But first, if she wanted to try to make the paper work for her, she had to draw blood.

  That was the part she didn’t relish, but there wasn’t any way around it.

  She opened her hand, choosing the same one Alec had cut, and ran the knife along her palm the same way he had. Blood quickly flowed, and as she cupped her hand, it pooled briefly in her palm.

  What had Alec done?

  She’d seen what he’d written when describing the princess’s illness, but not what he’d written about her. How had he enhanced her speed?

  Dipping her finger into the blood, she wrote her name: Samara Elseth.

  Using only the tip of her finger, the markings were thick and without the tidy flow Alec managed, but it was still something. She waited, wondering if the blood would soak back into the page. When Bastan had tried, the blood held on the page for a moment before fading. Would it d
o the same for her?

  She needed some way of writing more neatly than she managed with the tip of her finger. Sam glanced at the knife resting on the ground in front of her and held it like a pen as she dipped it into her blood. Hesitating over the surface of the paper, she considered the way Alec would have written. When trying to heal the princess, he’d described the symptoms. What symptoms did she have other than she was too slow, weak, and small?

  Maybe that was all she needed.

  Writing below her name, she added those words. Slow. Weak. Small.

  Sam sat back, waiting.

  The blood in her palm had congealed, no longer flowing as it had. She wiped her hand on her pants, and clenched her hand tightly, staunching the bleeding. After sliding the knife back into the sheath hidden within her boot, she waited.

  And waited.

  The blood stayed for a few moments, but then faded into nothing.

  She slumped to the ground, staring at the page. Whatever Alec had done had been different. Or maybe he was the key. Either way, she wasn’t going to get out of here without help. Tray wasn’t going to get out of here.

  They were so close… but trapped in the cell as she was, it seemed as if might as well be on the other side of the city.

  A pounding on her cell door startled her from a sleep. She’d been sitting upright, her head slumped against her chest, and had somehow managed to sleep. When she came around, she looked at the walls, trying to remember where she was. Then it came back to her. Trapped in the prison.

  Sam stood and waited. Realizing the sheet of paper remained on the floor, she grabbed it quickly and crumpled it in her palm.

  The cell door opened.

  A pair of guards entered, both carrying unsheathed swords. They were normal guards, not brutes, and they watched her warily.

  “You’re going to come with us,” the nearest said. He was tall and had a muscular frame much like Tray. The leather helmet he wore looked scuffed, as if he had seen a few battles. The sword he pointed at her appeared sharp, and the metal gleamed.

  “Where?”

  He jabbed the sword at her again. “No questions. Put these on.”

  He tossed chains at her feet, and Sam stared at them.

  “Put them on or we put them on you.”

  Taking the chains, she eyed them a moment before sliding the cuffs around her wrists. The metal was cold, and when she clamped them closed, she felt as if she were sealing her fate.

  Sam looked up at the guards when the chains were locked on her wrists. “What now?”

  “Follow us.”

  Her heart hammered. There was only one reason she would be able to leave the prison, and that was if they intended to carry out her punishment. She’d been discovered in the princess’s room. Her, a lowborn. There was only one punishment she could get.

  Fighting would only get her killed sooner, and there remained the distant chance they weren’t marching her to her execution. If they were, wouldn’t they say something about it?

  Probably not. She was lowborn. There was no purpose in telling her anything more about her fate.

  They led her down a long hall lined with other cells. As she walked along here, she realized she wouldn’t even have known which cell to find him in. Might she be passing his cell even now? If she called out, she’d only get them both into more trouble. Bastan must have known how hopeless her idea was, which was why he hadn’t been willing to do anything.

  The guards guided her through a few more doors and down a set of stairs, twisting and turning as they went. Sam lost track of where they led her, knowing only that she wouldn’t be able to find her way back if she needed to. There would be no rescue of Tray. She wondered if there had ever been any real chance to rescue him, or she’d simply kidded herself, thinking she could find a way to free him.

  They led her beyond another door, and the walls changed.

  The darkness that had surrounded her shifted, now a paler sort of stone, and with none of the smells she noted before. The walls were smooth, and though no windows lined them, there was a faint light coming from some hidden source.

  The guards continued, taking her down the hallway until they reached another door, where they stopped and pointed for her to enter.

  Sam hesitated.

  “Go,” the lead guard said. His tone made it clear he didn’t agree with what he’d been asked to do, but did it, anyway. “Tell Marin we’re even.”

  Sam looked over at him, frowning, but he pushed her forward and through the door. Then she found herself outside. She could see the city beyond. A man awaited her. And she noticed he held her cloak.

  The guard grabbed her wrists and quickly unlocked her cuffs before leaving and closing the door behind him.

  When she turned back to the man, he silently held out her cloak to her. She was amazed, but took it from him and put it over her shoulders.

  “Marin sent you?”

  “Quiet,” he whispered. “Not here.” He led her away from the prison. After crossing a bridge, he waved her away.

  Because of Marin, she was free. Why did she feel even more trapped than before?

  Sam walked slowly as she returned to her section of the city, crossing one of the canals, and then another, pausing briefly as she did, mostly to ensure she found her way safely to the other side.

  Marin had freed her. Which meant she still lived.

  Why hadn’t she gotten Tray out sooner? If she had that sort of connection, Marin should have used in for Tray, not for Sam.

  Sam barely paid any attention to the streets as she walked. The buildings slowly shifted from the stone and brick fronts to the less permanent wooden structures, many already starting to fall.

  The sounds in this part of the city changed, as well, shifting from the calm and almost heavy silence she’d experienced near the prison to the more active chaos found near her section. There had been a comfort to the silence, but also a loneliness, especially now that she wasn’t sure she’d be able to do anything to help Tray as she had intended. All Sam could do was sigh.

  When she reached the street with Bastan’s tavern, she hesitated. The tavern wasn’t even there anymore. Nothing was. With the explosion and the fire, all that remained was rubble and ash. There was nothing here for her anymore.

  She thought she could find Bastan in his new hiding spot, but did she want to?

  Not until she knew whether Marin had done the same for Tray as she’d done for Sam. Not until she knew how Marin had survived the Theln attack.

  When she reached Marin’s home, she stood outside, looking up at the empty window. A faint light glowed behind the curtain. It was pale yellow, and had it not been dusk, and had she not been watching, she doubted she would even have noticed it.

  As she started toward the house, she had the vague sense of movement. She spun, but there was no one there. Was that her imagination… or were the brutes after her still? One of them—the lead brute—had survived.

  And Marin had known him.

  With her mind racing, she hurried into the front door and up the stairs. She tried to move silently, but hope that she’d find her brother surged through her. If Marin had managed to get her free, surely she had to have done the same with Tray. Right?

  At the door, she paused and listened.

  She heard heavy breathing, a steady and labored sound that wasn’t familiar.

  Had she made a mistake?

  There was another option about who she might find at Marin’s home, and one she should fear: the brute. He’d disappeared from the university, but that didn’t mean he was gone. And if he knew she was out of prison, she was sure he would find her. His words echoed in her mind. I can smell you.

  She wished she had something to protect herself. She had her mother’s knife, but that was all. Even a canal staff would have been helpful, though it might be too long to be of much use here.

  Slipping the knife from the sheath in her boot, she leaned against the door frame, listening. The breathing was steady
and regular, but there was a quality to it that didn’t sound like it came from the brute.

  Working cautiously, Sam cracked open the door.

  “Hello, Samara.”

  “Marin?”

  27

  Answers

  “It’s good to see you, Samara.”

  “It’s Sam.” Sam glanced around Marin’s small room, eyes taking in the rows of shelves that seemed somehow undisturbed. Hadn’t the brutes destroyed the room when they’d chased her? Wasn’t there more destruction here?

  All of that seemed to have disappeared, or at least to have been repaired.

  Marin smiled and shook her head. “You’ve always fought the name your mother gave you—that fits your heritage.”

  Sam frowned. “I don’t know anything about my heritage,” she said. “My mother died before she was able to share that with me. All I know is what you told me, and I don’t even know if that’s true.”

  “It’s true.”

  “What happened?” she asked. “When I saw you last, the brutes were chasing you. I thought you were dead. And one of them knew you.”

  Marin let out a long breath and stood. Sam realized that Marin was shakier than the last time she’d seen her. The woman grabbed what looked like one half of a canal staff and leaned on it as she made her way toward her. “I was nearly dead,” Marin said. “I’m still not recovered, but there is the hope.”

  “Marin?”

  The woman stopped in front of her, leaning on her makeshift cane. She smelled strangely stale, if that were possible. Her eyes were hollowed and sunken back in her face. Up close, Sam could see the way her hair had thinned, and her skin had a yellowish tint to it.

  “What did they do to you?” she whispered.

  Marin blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re sick, aren’t you?”

  “Ah, Samara, always so observant,” she said, with more sarcasm in her voice than what Sam thought she would manage.