She had already studied many of her examination topics, but some, like anaesthetics, were almost entirely new. Considering what they were, what they did, and how dangerous they could be if improperly used, students were kept away from making them until they were far into their training.
There were several compounds available to a physician ranging in strength from mild pain relief up to various tinctures of dream seed, the strongest of which would cause a patient to remain numb throughout a surgical procedure. It was also highly addictive and widely traded on the black market in its raw seed form. It was only legally available to qualified physicians, but she had heard more than one story of doctors becoming addicted to it from regular exposure in the course of their practice. It was a dangerous substance, and this was not a subject to gloss over.
She had seen Jakob, and more recently Elsa, using various compounds in their treatments, but the clinic only dealt with injuries and minor ailments and referred the more serious and chronic cases to the university’s hospital. There were some compounds that Adalhaid had never even heard mentioned. As she read, she encountered one that would put a patient into a deep, seemingly natural sleep. She smiled as she thought how it would be the perfect way to get the Stone from Rodulf, if only she could administer it. She had read on for several passages before it occurred to her that there might just be a way.
The plan was almost complete when it entered her head. There were some smaller details that she would need to work out at a later time, but all the major pieces were there. She would need to pass her exams and qualify first, but that requirement didn’t bother her. When she set her mind to something she had never yet failed to achieve it, and the delay of a few weeks for the greater certainty this plan brought seemed a reasonable compromise. She sat back, and the first sense of calm that she had experienced in weeks settled over her.
CHAPTER 16
Jagovere, Enderlain, and Varada all followed Wulfric in swearing their oaths to Princess Alys. It was a curious experience, being someone’s liegeman, although he realised that it was not all that different to his time in Dal Rhenning’s Company. The only difference was, instead of sitting around in a camp tent, he was furnished with a suite of apartments within the palace and servants to attend his every need. That all came with a price, however. He was expected to attend court each day, and eat at formal dining with the aristocrats who chose to appear.
With his new clothes and his growing familiarity with protocol, he no longer felt quite as much of an outsider as he had, and Hochmark’s fate meant it was unlikely anyone was going to try insulting him again. Wulfric and the others claimed one section of a table below the high table, and it was not long before everyone else knew it as theirs. Once they settled into a routine, Wulfric realised all that would follow was boredom, and he began to long for the opportunity to get away and pay a visit to the Markgraf of Elzburg and Rodulf, who he had learned was now called Baron Leondorf.
On their third night, Wulfric found a man’s gaze fixed on him at dinner. His impatience with life at court was at a high and he was starting to wonder what he would have to do for the princess to release him from her service. Social niceties were a difficult thing for him even at the best of times. When he was frustrated and irritable, they were beyond him completely.
‘Something I can help you with?’ Wulfric said.
‘I’ve a question for you,’ the man said.
‘And you are?’
‘Banneret Grenville,’ the man said. ‘A simple banneret-errant looking to find favour and a career at court.’
His accent was foreign, not one Wulfric had ever heard before. Although he looked much like a Ruripathian, with fair skin and sandy hair, he definitely didn’t sound like one. His eyes were sharp and alert, and there was something about him that gave Wulfric concern. He looked like trouble to Wulfric—the type of man he would choose to kill first if facing a group. At court, however, killing him was not an option. Not without going through the pantomime of insult to honour, challenge, and duel. It seemed like an unnecessary complication to Wulfric, but he supposed that in a palace full of egos, alcohol, and swords, there had to be some form of order established.
‘What is it?’ Wulfric said.
‘Your sword,’ the man said. ‘All famous Northern heroes have equally famous swords, do they not? Telastrian steel, fierce names… Yours? What’s it called?’
‘It doesn’t have a name,’ Wulfric said. The sabre he had picked up somewhere along the way in Estranza or Darvaros—he couldn’t quite remember which—still hung at his waist.
‘Forgive my ignorance,’ the man said. ‘I’m not from here, but I thought it was as good as a necessity?’
‘They make for a good story,’ Wulfric said, ‘but not much else.’
‘Still, a great man should have a great weapon,’ said a man with a thick black moustache sitting farther down the table. ‘I should like to see what you use.’
‘It’s only a tool,’ Wulfric said, as he thought back to the fine etchings on his father’s sword, and struggled to convince even himself with the argument.
‘Even so, I should like to see the sword that you slew all those Estranzans with.’ There was a chink and clunk as the man with the moustache undid his sword belt and placed it on the table, knocking over a goblet of wine as he did. He waved off an attentive servant as he drew the sabre it contained.
‘Telastrian steel,’ he said, holding it up proudly balanced on his fingertips. ‘My grandfather was rewarded with the steel by the princess’s great-grandfather. I had the hilt rebalanced—chased in silver and gold, magnificent work—and have fought three duels with it. Won ‘em all. The blade feels like part of my arm.’
The work on the elaborate hilt, with its slender bars elegantly sweeping around in smooth curves to protect the hand, was impressive. Far more so than the roughly welded steel rods on the one Wulfric wore. They had served him well thus far, but he could not help but feel shamed by them. He took a deep breath, drew his sword, and placed it on the table.
‘Well, that’s not at all what I expected,’ Grenville said. He looked to the moustached man, who nodded in agreement.
Wulfric did his best not to flush with embarrassment, and cast a glance toward where the princess sat. His discomfort was compounded by the fact that she was watching the exchange. She spoke with a servant who then approached Wulfric.
‘Her Highness would like to see your sword,’ the servant said.
Wulfric gestured to the servant to take it.
‘She’s more than welcome to look at mine, as well,’ the moustached man said. ‘Her great-grandfather—’
‘Captain Ulfyr’s will do for the time being,’ the servant said, taking Wulfric’s workmanlike blade with far more reverence than it warranted. He then brought it to the princess and set it down before her.
She studied it for a moment before looking over to Wulfric.
‘This won’t do at all,’ she said. ‘Even I can see it’s fit to break at any time. I won’t ask a man in my entourage to defend himself with a blade like this. I’ll have Chancellor Merlitz release an ingot of Telastrian steel to you to have a new sword made. The very finest grade.’
‘If I may, Your Highness,’ Grenville said.
She nodded her permission, but narrowed her eyes as she looked at the foreigner.
‘Your proposition is a fine and generous one, Highness, but might I be so bold as to make a suggestion?’ Grenville said.
‘You may.’
‘I’m sure so fine and famed a warrior as Ulfyr would relish the challenge of coming by his sword in a way more in fitting with his reputation,’ Grenville said. ‘I’ve always loved the epic tales of this land, and I wonder how much truth there is to be found in them.’
Wulfric raised his eyebrows, having so recently wondered the very same thing.
‘There are stories of a forge secreted away in the Telastrian Mountains where all the great heroes of antiquity travelled to obtain their weapons.
Herman’s great axe, Jorundyr’s backsword, Konrad’s rapier, to name but a few. It would be a wonderful thing, I think, if a modern hero of Ulfyr’s stature were to do likewise.’
Princess Alys regarded him for a moment before speaking. ‘If the forge—Wolundr’s Forge, I believe it’s called—ever existed, it is folly to think it might still. The tales that mention it are centuries old.’
‘Surely there is every chance a place of such potent magic could survive the ravages of time? Might its rediscovery not be a fitting challenge for the most famous warrior of our times?’
Wulfric blushed. It was amazing what a few unremarkable fights coupled with some embellishment and publication could become. He wondered if they would be the death of him.
‘If it still existed, I’m sure others would have found it long since,’ Princess Alys said.
‘Even in its day, the forge was in a remote location and the journey to it was fraught with danger. It’s why only heroes were able to obtain one of the blades,’ Grenville said. ‘I’ve long been fascinated by the place, and wonder if it might be found. Surely if there is a man capable of such a task, it is none other than your new Champion.’
Princess Alys’s face darkened, and even Wulfric could tell that she was quickly tiring of Grenville’s insistence. She opened her mouth to speak, but as she did Chancellor Merlitz leaned over and whispered in her ear. She nodded several times as he spoke, and the expression on her face changed. Wulfric could see that she was now considering it.
‘It’s only a suggestion, Highness,’ Grenville said, clearly coming to the same conclusion as Wulfric that he was pushing his luck, ‘but just think how it would add to the fame of Ulfyr, and your court. Having an ancient Telastrian blade would be quite a thing. We all know Telastrian steel only gets better with age, as I’m sure Lord Hintermark would agree.’
The moustached nobleman with the fine rapier nodded emphatically in agreement.
Wulfric wondered what Grenville’s motivation for all this was. Wulfric very much doubted it had anything to do with a fascination for old stories. Everyone who drew attention to themselves at court did so for a single reason—there was something to gain from it. He would have to get Jagovere to look into Grenville’s background.
‘But I’m being presumptuous, Highness. Merely the overly enthusiastic suggestion of a man in love with the wonderfully rich culture of this land. I’m sure Captain Ulfyr has far more pressing matters to attend to,’ Grenville said.
Wulfric continued to watch the princess’s face, and knew he had no choice but to go looking for the forge. He had heard of it. Every boy in the Northlands had, but he had always thought of it being far to the north, somewhere in the High Places, rather than here in Ruripathia, where they called their mountains the Telastrians.
‘What say you, Captain Ulfyr?’ Princess Alys said.
He could tell by the tone of her voice that there was only one answer he could give. He was there to increase the prestige of her court, and to decline this challenge would only diminish it.
‘It sounds interesting, Your Highness. I’ve been in the mountains before. I hold no fear of them.’ He thought of Hane, kneeling in the snow, coughing bright red blood all over it. It seemed so long ago, but the memory was as fresh and painful as ever.
‘It’s decided then,’ she said. ‘Make what preparations you will and you shall depart as soon as possible. I will have my court historian and geographer provide you with whatever information and maps that they have.’
‘I’m grateful, Your Highness,’ Wulfric said. He looked over to Grenville, who seemed overly pleased with the attention he had garnered at court. That he would endanger another’s life for a few moments’ conversation with the princess struck Wulfric as being pathetic. There is more to this man than meets the eye, Wulfric thought. The sooner he discovered what it was, the better.
PART II
CHAPTER 17
It seemed like only a short time ago that he had started his story, but already the Maisterspaeker was building toward its climax. The story, like life, went by so quickly it was difficult at times to remember to pause and take a look around before everything had passed you by.
He had been so excited at having found Rodulf—so focussed on getting word to Wulfric, and so hungry to help him finally mete out justice to a man who had lived far longer than he deserved—that he had not thought to stop and consider what it meant. Rodulf was a wealthy man with a number of well-trained and well-armed men. Jagovere and Wulfric were both well past their prime, and he had never even paused to consider the mortal peril they faced. He had spent such a long time telling stories where the hero always prevailed that it seemed he had forgotten that it was not always so in the real world.
And so he sat on his barstool, looking over an audience that waited for his next utterance with bated breath, and realised it might be the last he ever spoke. It was a sobering thought, and one that shamed him. When he was still Banneret of the Grey Jagovere dal Borlitz, such things had never entered his mind. They had seemed impossible. Too fantastic for even his developed imagination to comprehend. Perhaps it was the lot of all men whose best years were behind them, to dwell on mortality, and the fact that something they had thought could never happen to them most certainly would, and far sooner than they would like.
Was all of this nothing more than the last gasp of a silly old man? He wondered what Varada would say. He hadn’t the courage to tell her what he was up to. All she knew was that he was speaking at Graf Sifrid’s for a few nights, and she expected him home the following week. Deep down, he knew she would have told him to help his friend. Her courage had not wavered a bit with old age—if anything, she had become fiercer still, and he loved her all the more for it. She had been there, she had met Rodulf, and she knew as well as any of them that every day he drew breath was an insult to everything that was good.
He looked up at the expectant eyes, and realised he had allowed his mind to wander for too long. He took joy in telling tales, and he refused to allow melancholy to infect his soul any longer. If this was the last tale he told, then it would be the best. He had sat long enough, so took a long gulp of ale, then stood. The audience drew back, and he smiled. He reached down into his belly for air and let his voice free.
‘The plans of men are the comedy of the gods,’ he said. ‘A figure that has disappeared from our story returns now, to make her influence known once again…’
HAVING a note waiting for you on the School of Medicine’s noticeboard was rarely a good sign. Adalhaid had never seen one with her name on it before, and she pulled it down apprehensively. When she broke the wax seal and opened it her concern was proved justified. Professor Kengil wanted to see her, and such a summons always signalled trouble.
She had no intention of allowing it to play on her mind all day, so she headed straight for Kengil’s office on the second floor of the School of Medicine building. She hesitated for a moment before knocking on Kengil’s door, but steeled herself to whatever misery Kengil intended to heap upon her and rapped on it with her knuckle. Having submitted her application to go forward for examination, she at least had a good idea of what it was about.
‘Come.’
Adalhaid opened the door and walked in. ‘I believe you wanted to see me, Professor.’
‘Yes,’ Kengil said. ‘I see your name on the list of examination candidates. I assume that it is a mistake?’
‘No,’ Adalhaid said. ‘I intend to go forward for examination this term.’
‘That’s quite out of the question,’ Kengil said. ‘I’m removing your name from the list. There are no shortcuts here.’
‘You can’t do that,’ Adalhaid said.
‘I can, and I am,’ Kengil said.
Adalhaid felt the blood pulse through her temples. ‘You misunderstand me,’ she said. ‘You can’t do that. I’ve read the university regulations very carefully. You don’t have the authority. No one does.’
Kengil opened her mouth to say s
omething, but closed it. Adalhaid could see the fury brewing behind her eyes. It took the professor a moment to compose herself enough to speak.
‘It surprises me that after all your time here,’ Kengil said, ‘you still don’t know how things work around here.’
‘I’d say the same for you, Professor,’ Adalhaid said, her anger getting the better of her. Kengil knew she had no authority in the matter, and had intended to bully Adalhaid out of sitting the exams. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘Only this,’ Kengil said. ‘If you think for a second this is the end of the matter, you are sorely mistaken. Close the door behind you.’
Kengil sat with a haughty expression of superiority on her face, but Adalhaid could tell it was forced and that she was struggling to contain her fury. She smiled, stood, and for a moment considered leaving the door open on her way out. In the end, she thought better of it. Kengil was petty and bitter. Adalhaid had no intention of being dragged down to her level. She did, however, slam it.
NO ENCOUNTER with Professor Kengil went easily dismissed, and what Kengil meant when she said the matter wasn’t over played on Adalhaid’s mind. She had plenty of distractions, though—there were costs to constant studying that Adalhaid had not taken into consideration. She had a sore lump on her finger where her pen rested, a half-dozen copper pen nibs that were so worn out the ink flowed straight off them into a puddle, a pile of notes that was growing alarmingly high, stiff shoulders from sitting hunched over her desk, and what she suspected was the early hint of eyestrain.
She called at Dieterson’s Stationers on her way to the library to restock. She had bought paper and pens from most of the stationers in the city by that point, but preferred Dieterson’s. The way he ground his pen nibs seemed to suit her hand, and his paper was thick enough that the ink did not bleed through, and just rough enough to give a pleasing tactile response when she wrote on it.
The Blood Debt: Wolf of the North Book 3 Page 12