by Frank Morin
Dierk grinned. “It opens up so many possibilities.”
Artur the carpenter scrambled up to the catwalk to join them. Jean wished he’d waited a few more minutes. He was interrupting their moment of discovery. But he too looked excited, so she asked, “What is it, Artur?”
He held up an iron-banded, wooden box and a small piece of stone. “I apologize for interrupting, Lady Jean, but these packages just arrived on the latest windrider. Sent from master Connor.”
Jean eagerly took the box and opened it, wondering what Connor would have sent. She hadn’t heard from him since they left for Althing. She’d expected them to be gone for a lot longer. Hopefully that meant Hamish would be returning soon.
She peered in one of the nine carefully tied pouches inside and gasped at the sight of the purplish powder. “Porphyry!”
Dierk looked as excited as he had about the obsidian discovery. “We need to test it.” He stared at the little box eagerly, in a way that made Jean just a little nervous.
Artur held up a note. “The pilot said that’s exactly what Connor directed.”
“In Hamish’s and Verena’s initial testing with porphyry, it proved extremely dangerous. It triggered uncontrollable rage. We need to exercise extra precautions around that stone. I want it secured in our strongest vault.”
Dierk closed the box and tucked it under his arm. “I’ll take care of it.”
Jean scanned the note. “Is that the rock that Connor picked up in Emmerich?”
“I assume so. It’s the only other thing that came with the shipment.”
Jean took the little rock and examined it “I don’t recognize it, but Connor said in his note that Stuart thought it might have some kind of active properties.”
She handed it to Dierk who took it distractedly. He looked eager to begin experimenting with the porphyry.
Dierk suddenly peered closer at the little stone. “This is a power stone, but not one like anything I’ve ever felt before.”
“What is it?” Jean asked.
Dierk did not respond for a moment, eyes half closed, as he examined the little rock with his Builder senses. Sometimes Jean envied him that extra sense, but she chided herself for the thought. She didn’t need all of everyone else’s talents. He’d share what he learned soon enough.
After a moment his eyes widened and he said in a tone of wonder. “I may be mistaken, but I suspect this stone is the anti-obsidian stone we’ve been hunting.”
62
Kids Do the Darndest Things
Verena felt it, felt her consciousness, as if from a great distance. An old friend, now strangely foreign after so much time away.
Verena stirred.
A flick of her fingers, a twitch of one foot, a soft murmur escaping her lips. Those tiny movements felt like momentous victories after her long struggle up from the black depths of her mind.
For a long time, she hadn’t expected to ever make it. She’d been lost in the labyrinth of her own mind, her thoughts muddy and unfocused, unable to reach consciousness. It was like she was sunk in a deep pool with her arms and legs tied, unable to claw toward the surface.
She’d heard distant voices, tried to call out to them, but lacked the ability to do so. Many people she loved had spoken to her. Although she couldn’t retain most of the words, their sorrow, and their fading hope trickled down to her. She had begun to despair.
Mattias’s voice eventually penetrated the drifting haze of her thoughts. His beautiful voice, which she had loved for so long, was like a lifeline to her heart and she clung to it. He spoke of love, of his confidence in her recovery, of the wonderful life they’d enjoy together, of his ambitions, and how their union would help them achieve political greatness.
Then Connor came, his voice like a distant light beyond the next range of hills. He couldn’t match Mattias’s angelic tones, but the sound of his voice made her heart sing. He spoke to her with love and hope so strong, it buoyed her spirits. She shouted at him, strove with all her might to reach him, but the pathway from where her consciousness paced, trapped like a caged animal, to the outside world was broken.
Connor had poured in rivers of healing and they had streamed across her mind like glittering rainbows in a darkling sky. It was beautiful, but untouchable.
When he left, she fell into even deeper despair. She wanted only to see him again, touch his face, feel his arms around her.
Her anger had fizzled out and she felt only sorrow and regret. He’d acted the fool, but perhaps she had too. She needed to return to him, to set things right.
When he returned again, his voice had sounded closer, at times almost like he spoke directly to her mind instead of her distant, numb ears. More healing power had slipped into her mind, and this time when she reached for it with all her strength, all her will to live, she had somehow touched that intangible warmth.
It was real! She’d never felt healing power as an energy that she could manipulate. She didn’t understand how she could now, but she grasped it with all her might. He’d poured so much into her that although most of it eventually drained away, she managed to hold onto a little.
She began to build bridges.
That wondrous healing light spanned the gaps in her mind, mending broken pathways and lifting her slowly toward the surface. Each time he came, she grew stronger, and better utilized the vast quantities of healing that flowed through her mind.
She was nearly there. With a final focused effort, she blinked her eyes open for the first time.
Light dazzled her and she tried to turn her head away. It moved only a little, the muscles stiff from disuse. She managed a soft groan and tried to speak, but not even she could hear the shadow of a whisper that emerged.
She lay prone on a soft bed, covered to her chin in a thick, warm blanket that smelled of rose water. Her clothing was soft, caressing her skin under the comforter. She felt clean, despite her long sleep, and she took a long, slow breath, inhaling the scent of clover and indoor, winter flowers.
A shape bent over her, blocking the light and she blinked a couple of times to bring it into focus. It belonged to a mature woman she did not recognize. She wore a white Healer’s robe, but scowled in a very non-Healer way. Her dark blue eyes were hard, her expression cold.
Hers was the face of a killer.
Verena tried to move, but the woman pressed down, pinning her under the thick blanket.
She spoke quietly, her voice surprisingly gentle. “You should have slipped away into oblivion. My orders were to allow you to die naturally, if possible. Death will hurt more this way, but I appreciate the chance to earn my reward after wasting so much time watching you sleep.”
“Wait,” Verena gasped, trying to get her muddy thoughts working, trying to grab for her satchel, but finding nothing but smooth sheets under her fingers.
The woman leaned harder over her, squeezing the breath from her lungs. Then she calmly placed a hand over Verena’s mouth and nose, blocking her air.
“Good-bye, Builder. Dougal always wins.”
Verena thrashed under the blankets. Her body was healthy, but her muscles responded only fitfully and she was too thoroughly pinned.
She tried to scream, but only a muffled moan escaped. The woman pressed harder, preventing her from twisting her head, even though she tried until the muscles of her neck threatened to tear.
This couldn’t be happening! She’d fought so hard to awaken. She couldn’t die now.
Connor! She shrieked the thought out of pure desperation as black spots began to dance in her eyes and she felt herself fading back to oblivion. Only this time, she would never awaken.
Something blurred past, so fast she couldn’t register it. The false Healer staggered back from the bed with a grunt of pain and an angry curse.
Someone was pushing her.
Connor?
No. It was a boy. She blinked in confusion.
Nicklaus?
He pressed something to the assassin’s chest and wind erup
ted from it. The woman, who was just reaching to grab Nicklaus, rocketed backward, her expression stunned. She flew through the door, arms and legs flailing behind and sailed across the sitting room beyond. She shattered a glass balcony door and whooshed over the railing.
Her legs caught the rail, tumbling her sideways, and she lost the quartzite, which flew away as she tumbled out of sight. A loud cry of pain echoed back up a moment later.
“Where are we?” Verena asked.
Nicklaus was staring after the woman, wide-eyed. “That’s a long fall. I floated it once, and Connor and I made a snow slide, but that bad lady just fell.” He gave her a grim smile. “Bad people get hurt sometimes.”
Tears welled into her eyes and she struggled to push back the constricting blanket. “You saved my life, Nicklaus.”
The outer door of the apartment burst open and Connor rushed in, wild-eyed, fist already raised to strike. “What’s going on?”
Verena just stared, filled with joy. Their eyes met and she easily read his surprise and elation when he realized she was awake.
“Verena!” he shouted, rushing toward her.
Nicklaus stepped in the way and gave Connor a disgusted look. “No smooching until you catch that bad lady who was trying to kill her.”
“What?” Connor exclaimed and a look of feral rage swept across his features.
Nicklaus pointed toward the shattered balcony. “She was only pretending to help.”
With a shout of fury, Connor leaped across the room and plunged over the railing.
Things were moving so fast. Verena closed her eyes to try to ground herself. The air seemed too cold, the lights too bright. Voices still rang too loudly in her ears.
Nicklaus spoke close beside her. “Oh, no, Lady Verena. No sleeping. You’ve been napping for weeks. It’s time to get up.”
She blinked open her eyes in surprise. “That long?”
He nodded gravely. “You crashed your flyer and hit your head.”
“I did, didn’t I?” she said softly, frowning as the jumbled memories slowly oriented themselves properly.
“You probably shouldn’t crash again,” Nicklaus said with absolute sincerity.
She laughed softly, amazed that she felt whole, if a bit fuddled still. “I think that’s an excellent plan.”
Angry shouting echoed up from the courtyard outside, followed by a shriek of pain. It sounded like it came from the the assassin.
Nicklaus said, “I just had a lesson on interrogating prisoners instead of killing them. Sometimes that’s more important, you know.”
“This might be a good time to use that one.”
Nicklaus leaned closer and said in a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m thinking Connor might have failed that lesson. Don’t sleep any more. I want to fly with you.”
Then he zipped away with wingrunner speed and leaped off the balcony shouting, “Connor, catch me!”
More people rushed into the room a moment later. A soft-spoken Healer with gentle, brown eyes that Verena instantly trusted, several soldiers, then Saskia.
“Oh, Verena! You’re awake!” Saskia cried, flinging herself onto the bed beside her, weeping with joy. They shared a long hug, laughing and crying together.
“Wait till Mattias hears. He just returned from a successful mission to Althing,” Saskia exclaimed, moving to get up.
Verena grabbed her hand. “Wait. Deal with that assassin. Once things calm down, I want to speak with Mattias and Connor together.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Saskia’s expression made it clear she thought Verena was insane.
Verena nodded and sat up. The Healer immediately propped her with several pillows. “I couldn’t wake up, but I heard them both. We all know what they want, and we need to settle the question once and for all.”
“Verena, dear, you just woke up. Don’t you think you need some time—”
“No. I had more than enough time trapped in here.” She tapped the side of her head. “Please, Saskia. Do this for me.”
“All right.” She squeezed Verena’s hand one more time, eyes brimming with emotion.
After she left, the Healer shooed everyone out of the bedroom. After checking Verena thoroughly and forcing her to eat a bowl of chicken broth with soft bread, she allowed Verena to rise and dress. The only outfit on hand was a soft, green woolen dress.
“Where’s my satchel?” Verena demanded as she turned to a nearby mirror. Then she exclaimed, “Who dyed my hair?”
It was midnight black, and trimmed shorter than she liked. It barely reached her shoulders and hung in bouncy black waves around her head. The effect was honestly quite striking, but she didn’t like someone making decisions about her hair.
The Healer said, “The color changed on its own while you slept. We haven’t yet determined why.”
Verena frowned, fingering a lock. It felt silkier than before. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“I’ve heard of hair graying or falling out after severe trauma, but never changing color to black. It is very possible it will revert back over time.”
“Well, if that’s the worse scar I have to bear, it’s an easy one to handle,” Verena said.
Other than her hair, she looked well rested and her body felt strong. She remembered most of what happened at Alasdair, but her memory ended abruptly in a collision with the ground. She asked again, “My satchel?”
“That old thing?” the Healer asked with a look of disapproval. “I sent it to be laundered last week.”
“Send someone for it, please.” The woman turned to leave but Verena asked, “And can you tell me . . . where are we?”
63
Life Advice from a Grumpy Old Lady
“Are you ready, my dear? We can’t afford to be late,” High Lord Dougal called.
Shona emerged from her bedroom, dressed in a fine blue-and-gold gown. It didn’t exactly match her wide-brimmed hat and ridiculous purple eoin feather, but then no one’s hat really matched. Her father was resplendent in a rich green jacket over a blue doublet. He beckoned her urgently toward the door.
Shona said, “I’m still amazed she’s holding court again so soon.”
Her father scowled. “I still can’t believe she survived.”
“Why did you save her then?” Shona demanded. That was still easily the stupidest thing her father had ever done. Usually he was the most clever man in the realm, but service to the queen had changed him.
She still barely believed she’d seen Hamish and Aifric in the throne room. Aifric was supposed to be dead, and Hamish was supposed to be in Granadure with Connor. Mysteries multiplied around everyone who associated with Connor faster than linn at a Sogail feast. She didn’t know the other assassins, but they’d struck with such overwhelming, brutal ferocity that she still shuddered at the memory.
Her father sighed. “I thought she was done for. Killing that foul assassin was logical. I’d avenge her death, prove my courage, and could take the throne with little opposition. Even Harley would have to respect my actions. She’s more a follower than a leader. We were so close!”
Shona regarded him with concern. “Father, you can’t allow yourself to think any of that around her. If she reads your ambition, she’ll kill you.”
Dougal shook his head. “No, Shona. She’s read deep enough. She knows my ambition and she counts on it. I’m motivated to serve her because of what she can do for me. She might have survived against all odds, but my actions were still worthy. She’ll reward me for them. Perhaps we can arrange to rule one of the conquered lands under her direction once the continent is again brought back under her control.”
“If there’s anything left.”
He gave her an encouraging smile. “Don’t give in to despair like so many weak-willed fools have done. The queen’s tactics may seem brutal now, but she gets things done. Once opposition is rooted out and peace enforced upon everyone, she’ll need rulers to support her reign. We are perfectly positioned to step into thos
e roles.”
Shona didn’t respond as they walked the wide hallway that led toward the central palace and the throne room stairs. She’d long dreamed of ruling. She’d even shared that dream with Connor. She would be good at it. Now she was starting to wonder if the price required to obtain that power might be so high she wouldn’t recognize herself after paying it.
What choice did she have?
At the moment, none. She schooled her features and her mind the way she had trained herself to do in recent days. The guard at the throne room doors was doubled and they scanned everyone who entered with far more attention than before.
It was laughable, really. The assassins had failed. Who else would attempt something so rash and daring? Word had spread of the queen’s ghastly injuries, as well as her miraculous healing. She’d reattached severed limbs, reconnected her legs to her torso, and stood upon her own feet within minutes of her injuries.
Covered in blood and gore, she’d raged as she inspected the fallen assassins and confirmed they were Mhortair. She’d ordered Turriff to collect their power stones, then she’d incinerated their corpses and dismissed everyone from the throne room.
Now as Shona followed her father back inside, she felt a little nervous about what they’d find.
The throne room looked immaculate, as if nothing had happened. The broken floor was perfectly repaired, the bloodstains gone, and the windows blocking the waterfall restored.
Queen Dreokt sat on her throne in a silver-and-gold gown, her hair intricately braided. She looked regal, and furious. She scowled at the gathering lords and ladies, most of whom looked terrified. Few volunteered to attend the queen, but none dared fail to appear when ordered.
Shona and her father took their regular places to the queen’s right. Ailsa was already there, quietly waiting to serve, to advise, and to provide the power stones the queen insisted on receiving from her hand alone. Dougal bowed low, while Shona curtsied.
“I am delighted and amazed to see you in such good health,” Dougal said in his rich, sonorous voice.
Queen Dreokt waved away the compliment. “Save the platitudes, Dougal. I’m not in the mood.”