Valor of the Healer

by Angela Highland

  “You’ve confirmed this?”

  “Come now, you know what a compliant little thing she is. She tells me when she errs. And there can be no other explanation for how our Hawks found my door that very night.”

  “Unless they were coconspirators with the assassins.”

  With swift steps the duke returned to the empty chair, leaning forward to pin him with a bright, hungry stare. “A most useful conclusion if it can be proven.”

  Such anticipation resonated through his voice that Enverly’s spirits rose. A cunning mind, indeed. Though Kilmerredes was no fool, he lacked subtlety of discernment. Power and force he understood as only a master of such things could, but the delicacies of intrigue were beyond him; he waged war with cannons, but would miss a single hand that wielded a knife. Fortunately for Shaymis Enverly, Kilmerredes recognized his own shortcoming and paid him very well to make up for it—well enough that it gave Enverly a glow of satisfaction to see his mood shifting now.

  Perhaps he would survive this fiasco after all.

  “Leave that to me, my lord. The first option before us is this. Vaarsen has elven blood. Even if they’re innocent of conspiracy, this will upend him and his partner both. The same applies if they’re guilty. In either case, if we divert the Church’s eye to them, it will help keep it from us. We have too much at stake to risk the Church’s attention now.”

  “And our second option?”

  “Vaarsen’s home barony is among the most heavily Nirrivan corners of this province, and Nirrivans of old made allies of the elves.” Anger began to roll across the duke’s face, but before it could erupt anew, Enverly held up a hand. “I mention this, my lord, only because we can’t overlook any source of arms or supporters if we should succeed in turning the Anreulag to our cause. Her power is great, but not even She can be in more than one place at once. Were we to recruit Vaarsen and his partner, to offer them amnesty and secrecy in exchange for rallying Vaarsen’s people to your banner, it could gain us much. It could be worth the risk of keeping the Hawks in our custody.”

  “No,” the duke barked, a thundercloud gathering across his face. He curled the crop between his fists, as if ready to garrote someone with it. “If he’s a gods-damned elf-blood, I don’t want or need his help. The Anreulag can have him as far as I’m concerned.”

  Enverly inclined his head, knowing better than to show any reaction to his patron’s venom. He himself cared little for the elvenkind, one way or another, for all his skill at parroting the Church’s screeds against them. Before the war Kilmerredes had held them in affable condescension, but after the betrayal of his first, faithless wife, he’d pivoted hard into a virulent hatred that hadn’t faded with the passage of time.

  But then, if Enverly had had to behead his own wife’s lover, he’d have grown to hate the people who’d spawned that lover too. “Then I’ll recommend we continue with the first option,” he said smoothly. “Also, if I may, we must consider who alerted them to the girl’s presence in the Hall.”

  “We know that. The gardener. Hetch.”

  “Indeed. But consider this, sir. Who alerted the gardener that the Hawks were about?”

  A single soft word rumbled up from deep within the duke’s chest. “Ulima.”

  “She’s opposed you at every turn where the girl is concerned.” Enverly leaned back in his chair. It had been, after all, Ulima who had stayed Kilmerredes’s hand, keeping him from killing Yamineh along with her elven paramour. Just as he’d seen Faanshi’s birth and the later emergence of her power, Enverly had been there to see it. That the girl had upheld her kinswoman’s claim that she’d save the duke’s life was almost irrelevant, though, when the man’s temper was so high.

  He knew better, too, than to mention the name of Yamineh now. Instead he waited, and at last the duke growled, “What risk does this mean for your work?”

  This Enverly could answer with unfeigned relief. “Your slave’s time in my keeping wasn’t entirely fruitless, my lord. I have fresh blood from her, but I’ll need time and a safe place to test whether it’ll finish dissolving the protections on the documents. I’m very close now, but I dare not try the charm with the Hawks held so nearby in the town.” He paused. “Of course, with Vaarsen at our disposal for the time being, this may give us yet another advantage. His blood might prove as useful as the girl’s.”

  A moment passed, and then another; then, as abruptly as his temper had arisen, the duke smiled. “Find out. Make any use of Vaarsen you will, anything that will further our goal, until we can be rid of him. Question his partner in the meantime and report to me what you discover.”

  “It shall be done, my lord. What will you do?”

  Kilmerredes’s smile grew. “I’ll have a word with the akresha Ulima.”

  * * *

  Camden’s Church of the Four Gods had but one room to secure a prisoner, and thus the watchmen had to make do with confiscating Celoren’s weapons and escorting him into the nave. But they didn’t leave him there long. The hatchet-faced man, the same guard who’d awakened him before, conveyed in short order that Father Enverly required his presence.

  In a shocked haze he went where he was bidden, aware of little beyond the space and light of the holy chamber and the tramp of their footsteps. The watchman led him outside to the garden path that tracked around behind the church to the priest’s cottage. Morning light washed cleanly across rose blossoms and the statue of the Mother, but Celoren winced at the brightness. It spooked him against all reason. Kes had babbled about sunlight—and the girl. She’d been so meek, barely brave enough to lift her head, but their amulets had burned like suns in her presence. What kind of power had she wielded? What had she done to his partner?

  His neck ached where the dart had struck. His head whirled, and if he moved too quickly, his vision wavered. Yet he forced each foot to move, waiting in vain for his rebelling senses and the world at large to regain some kind of order. No matter how often he slapped his cheeks, hoping to awaken from the nightmare he was certain he must be having, he remained awake, aware and under the watchful eyes of the guard.

  Which meant that he hadn’t dreamed his amulet’s glowing in the cellar.

  Despondent, Celoren pulled it forth from beneath his rumpled shirt. It was quiet now, a mere disk of silver in his palm, the engraved tree as familiar as his name. Yet he stared at it as though he’d never seen it before. It was a treacherous, alien thing—a pistol exploding in his hand, a sword twisting in his grasp. It had betrayed Kestar.

  A prod from the watchman, though, seized his attention. “If you please, m’lord, keep to the path.”

  He complied. There was nothing else to do. Another man in the Duke of Shalridan’s livery stood guard at the priest’s little domicile, and he slid the new arrivals a wary look. Celoren paid no mind to the terse words the two guards exchanged, for they were syllables without weight or meaning. They held no power to return his world to its rightful course.

  Once within the cottage his escort ushered him to a small parlor, and as they paused at its threshold a voice commanded, “Send Sir Valleford in.”

  Father Enverly. With what Celoren had seen, all their amulets shining in Kestar’s presence, the priest could destroy them both. But he’d be damned if he’d grovel. He’d lay down his life for Kestar if it came to that, and do so with pride and a head held high. He was a Hawk, by gods, not a helpless slave. Squaring his shoulders, he stepped into the parlor—and stopped dead at what he saw.

  Shaymis Enverly sat beside a hearth with a cheerfully crackling fire. Within reach of his unwounded arm, a silver tray on a fine wooden table bore sandwiches, a teapot, a pitcher of cream and delicate porcelain cups. The smells of fresh bread, aged cheese and tangerine marmalade wafted to Celoren, and to his consternation, his stomach rumbled a reminder that he’d had no meal since the night before.

  “Don’t stand there gawping, Valleford.” The priest beckoned to the chair beside his own. “One would think you’d never seen a man taking tea b
efore.”

  His comparatively amiable expression was enough to draw Celoren to the chair. But he couldn’t bring himself to reach for the food; guilt stabbed at him that he could even think of eating. “This wasn’t what I expected of an interrogation.”

  “Nonsense. I’m hardly fit for such a thing.” Enverly nodded down to his arm nestled in a silken sling. “This is breakfast, not a tribunal. Pour an old man a cup of tea, if you please?”

  There was no gracious way to refuse that request, so Celoren leaned forward to fulfill it. He’d shaken most of his dizziness, but as he lifted the teapot, a tremor of his fingers betrayed his weakness and hunger. Before he could pour, Enverly intercepted his hand.

  “Forgive me, I should have realized.” No great concern softened the man’s patrician features, yet rueful consideration gleamed in his eyes. “You must be famished. Eat something, I insist. You’ll need your strength, young sir, for the task I must set before you.”

  Celoren hesitated. Then, acutely aware of his trembling fingers, he steadied his grip on the teapot and filled Enverly’s cup. Pouring took far more concentration than it should have. But he set down the teapot without spilling a drop, determined he wouldn’t be clumsy before the man who held his fate and Kestar’s in his hands. “I want to see my partner,” he said, sitting up tall. “I must know how he fares.”

  Enverly blanched. “No one’s told you? Well then, I suppose I must be the first.” He drew in a long breath, which sent panic jabbing through Celoren’s heart. “He may not live the day. He remains unconscious, and the physician has given strict orders that he’s not to be disturbed.”

  “For gods’ sake, Father, if he’s at death’s door you can’t keep me from him!” Celoren cried. “He’s my partner—has it been so long since you rode for the Order that you’ve forgotten what that means?”

  “Old and long since settled from my riding days I may be, Valleford,” Enverly said coolly, “but I don’t recall that any of my brothers and sisters of the Hawk would have risked the life and reason of an injured comrade by bursting in upon him against a physician’s orders.”

  Prepared to do just that, Celoren began to rise, only to freeze at the priest’s reproving words. “Reason?” he echoed, the needles of panic pricking more strongly now. “Do you mean to imply Kestar isn’t right in the head?”

  “I merely relay what Doctor Lannedes had to say about the state of her patient. Her precise words were, I believe, ‘disturbance may agitate his mind.’ If you wish to run that risk, I’ll pass the word to admit you into his cell.” He left it at that, taking up his cup and sipping its fragrant contents without another word.

  Aware of a sick, sinking feeling in his belly and of his knees giving way, Celoren dropped hard back down into the chair. When he managed a reply, it came out in a horrified whisper. “Of course I don’t. What do you take me for?”

  “An honorable young man whose love for his brother knight may be blinding him to that brother’s folly.” Father Enverly’s voice was almost gentle.

  If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were getting obsessed with this. His own words to Kestar on their way out of Camden echoed in the back of Celoren’s mind. He had the presence of mind to keep that memory unspoken, but he couldn’t keep his consternation from his face, and it didn’t escape the priest.

  “I see that very thought’s come to you.” The older man’s gaze took on a regretful understanding as he gestured at the platter of food upon the table. “Please, I entreat you, fortify yourself.” As Celoren still hesitated, Enverly added, “I haven’t poisoned the sandwiches, if that’s your worry. Would you like to choose one at random for me to consume, to demonstrate my goodwill?”

  Celoren’s cheeks flooded scarlet. “That won’t be necessary.” Hunger gnawed at him along with guilt, and he reached out at last to take one of the sandwiches. It tasted like sawdust, and when he swallowed, it went down like a knife blade in his throat.

  “You do your brother no dishonor by attending to your natural needs.” Enverly set down his tea and took up a morsel of his own. “You must be strong for him in the coming days, and you can’t do that if you neglect yourself.”

  “Why do you care?” The question was more plaintive than Celoren intended, laced with his inner misery. “Yesterday you were all but tying us to our horses to get us to leave, and you’ve already said you intend to turn Kestar over to a tribunal.”

  “So I did. But I’m a man just as you are, vulnerable to rash choices made in the grip of anger.” With a dip of his head, the priest indicated his bandaged shoulder. “Or of pain. Yet one thing is very clear. An assault upon sacred ground transcends whatever differences I may have with you and your partner.”

  Celoren swallowed down the last of his sandwich and stared down at his empty hands. “It does,” he murmured.

  A small smile curved Enverly’s mouth. “I hoped you would agree. We are rational men, you and I.” With that he leaned closer. “And as rational men, we may share our doubts with one another. Share yours, my son. They won’t leave this room.”

  Anguished, the Hawk confessed, “I’d thought Kestar might be...preoccupied with a search that would find us nothing.”

  “But it did find you something. The girl.”

  To hear the other man pointing that out was both reassuring and disconcerting. Surely there was some deception in play that made Father Enverly speak so? The man sounded almost pleased that they’d come after the slave called Faanshi—indeed, as he’d expect a priest and a brother Hawk to sound. Half his mind still argued that Kestar didn’t trust this man, but the rest faltered, troubled by the thought that his partner might have lost his grasp upon his wits.

  “That’s true.” Cel’s thoughts churned back and forth. It can’t be Kes’s fault, it can’t be.

  “I see you fear for your partner. Don’t let that fear consume you. Share it with me, and soar to the aid of your Church and your brother Hawk.”

  Maybe Kestar’s premonitions had unhinged him—one had sent him up the Duke of Shalridan’s mountain in the first place. Celoren had always thought them the Anreulag’s gift, a blessing for Her servant, but one who didn’t know Kes might think of them as magic. What if they were? Dear gods, what if he’d been wrong, what if they’d come from elf blood and Kestar really was a mage just like that healer girl? He couldn’t say the words. The amulets had spoken, but he couldn’t add his voice to their holy light and damn Kestar to a Cleansing’s death.

  But Father Enverly’s gaze, knowing and terrible in its compassionate sorrow, was waiting for an answer. “He’s Dorvid Vaarsen’s son,” Celoren rasped, and he found no comfort in uttering a lesser betrayal. “He was given to the Church to be raised. I’ve sometimes feared what it might have done to him, to know that he was cast aside by his own father—and that he must live up to the name of the Deliverer of Riannach.”

  “You might well have hit upon the heart of it.” The priest poured more tea into his cup. “Tell me more.”

  * * *

  His entire being spun.

  Kestar knew he lay wounded, but he couldn’t remember why or where. Too many sensations intruded on his consciousness, pelting him in an unending barrage of dreams, to allow him to find which among his immediate memories were real. Rolling motion like the gait of a horse bore him along. Sunlight streamed down on the cloth that swathed his head. Trees slid past, indistinct in his sight. Something red and tacky stained his palms, and he dipped his hands in a stream until the flowing water rinsed the blood away from his fingers—

  When had his hands touched blood?

  He saw them again, pressing down with all their might upon a chest that spilled its life’s blood with every gasping breath. They were fragile dams, but they kindled with white-golden fire that closed the hole in that faltering chest and stanched the scarlet flow—

  No. Not his hands. Hers. Then those palms rose to cup his face, and he looked into eyes as green as summer until he could no longer discern them in the bri
lliance. Faanshi. He couldn’t tell if he called her name aloud, or if he was aghast or relieved that she was disappearing from his sight.

  Like dusk following daylight, the light faded. A face returned, lit by a single candle’s glow—an unfamiliar woman, with silver-shot dark braids coiled around her head, and dark eyes set in a square-featured face. Her hands touched his brow. Instead of healing fire they wielded a cool, damp cloth, which she wiped with brisk efficiency across his mouth and jaw. When she pulled it away, he caught a glimpse of red upon its folds.

  Her hands, he remembered. Faanshi’s hands had touched his blood.

  He tried to move, frantic to see his fingers, to make sure they were the ones he knew. But the woman leaning over him intercepted his hand in a grip he couldn’t find the energy to break. “You must remain still, my lord,” she said. “I’ve tended you as best I can, but I won’t be held responsible for what’ll happen if you move too quickly and reopen your wound.”

  The words “my lord” and “wound” were important. He latched on to them, though they tilted and swirled in his hearing. Far beyond a layer of fog across his thoughts was a dull, heavy ache within his chest, right where someone whose face he couldn’t recall had thrust a blade. His body felt strange within the fog, smaller, weaker, its shape wrong. He was—

  Kestar Vaarsen. The woman, though, he didn’t know. “Who are you?” He squinted at his own slack hand, held in hers. “Why can’t I think?”

  “My name is Elessa Lannedes. I’m your doctor.” She laid his hand across his stomach and dabbed another cloth over his brow. It sent his head sinking again, for he couldn’t hold it up even beneath that featherlight touch. “It’ll be the laudanum muddling your wits. I had to dose you stiffly, as you’ve been sorely hurt. Do you remember?”

  “I was...” Memories flashed, brief panicked sparks in the fog. Kestar’s hand groped upward but found only a blanket’s folds and a tight swath of bandages beneath. There was no knife, no blood—but then, she’d taken them both away—