Healer's Touch

by Amy Raby

  Moonlight streamed in through the windows, casting the sitting room in eerie gray shadow. Here and there, he caught a feature familiar to him—the carved edge of a bookcase, the soft darkness of a damask covering.

  Vitala yawned.

  Lucien gestured to the settee in front of him. “This had better be important.”

  Marius sat. “Your Imperial Majesties, I apologize, but it’s an emergency. Isolda has been abducted by her former husband and carried away by ship.”

  Vitala’s half-lidded eyes opened.

  “When?” demanded Lucien.

  “Only hours ago,” said Marius.

  “Are you certain she was taken by force?” asked Vitala. “For all we know, she might have gone willingly.”

  “She did not go willingly. He had a gun.” Marius told them the story as Rory had related it to him.

  Vitala turned to Lucien. “Not much wind tonight. They can’t have sailed far.”

  “Our ships will have the same poor wind,” said Lucien.

  “Still, they can outrun a merchantman.”

  Lucien nodded. “Marius, I’m going to give you temporary command of the Soldier’s Sweep. She’s a twenty-eight-gun frigate, nimble and fast, and more than a match for any merchant ship. I’ll compose a writ. Once you have it, you can march straight down to the docks, take command of the ship, and send it after—what’s the name of the Sardossian ship?”

  “The Frolic.”

  “May the gods speed you on your way,” said Lucien, signaling the guards to bring his writing implements.

  “No need for a writ,” said Vitala. “I’ll go with him.”

  “Are you sure?” A line appeared in the middle of Lucien’s brow. “You’ve been working hard these past weeks.”

  “One of us should go, and you’ve got that meeting tomorrow,” said Vitala.

  Marius didn’t dare say a word, but he was thrilled and relieved that the empress was coming, especially since he knew nothing about sailing ships. “Thank you, Your Imperial Majesty.”

  “Oh, Soldier’s Hell,” groaned Lucien. “Forget the meeting. I’ll go as well.”

  ∞

  Though it was the middle of the night, Isolda couldn’t sleep. Perhaps it was because she’d been unconscious so long, which had disrupted her body’s rhythms, or maybe her mind was just preoccupied. Was she better off trying to escape with foolish Chari and her small children, or on her own? Was there more than one boat available?

  Since Chari’s gift of the pistol, Isolda was taking the woman more seriously. She turned the weapon over in her hand, trying to figure out how it worked. She’d never fired a pistol before, had never even held one until now. Pulling back the hammer, she felt it catch. Now it was cocked and ready to fire—presumably, if someone had already loaded it. Should she leave it in this state? Perhaps not; it seemed dangerous. She uncaught the mechanism and lowered it gently to its resting place.

  At least Rory had gotten away. She didn’t want to abandon the boy in Riat, but Rory would be better off as an orphan in Kjall than as a stray in Sardos. She hoped he’d run straight to Marius, who would surely take him in once he learned what had happened. She might never see him again, but her boy would have a chance. That was all she asked for him, a chance. But gods, she would miss him.

  Someone knocked at the door.

  Chari? It was a harder knock than before, and it seemed too early for her return.

  Isolda wrestled her way out of the hammock and wrapped the gun back up in its cloth. She dropped it into the hammock, but immediately saw that was a mistake: its weight sank into the netting, making its presence obvious. Quickly, she retrieved the gun and hid it in a dark corner, while the hammock netting bobbed up and down.

  A key scrabbled in the lock. Then the door opened.

  It was Jauld. She retreated a step, wishing she had not put down the gun.

  “Isolda,” he said. “I thought I’d see how you were settling in.”

  “Settling in?” Did he think this was the equivalent of her taking a room at a boarding-house? “This is a prison you’ve put me in.”

  “Not for long. Only until you forget about Kjall and remember your duties to me,” said Jauld.

  Her duties? She felt like throwing up. “I don’t owe you anything.”

  Jauld shook his head. “Our marriage contract says you do.”

  If he succeeded in taking her back to Sardos, she had a feeling the relative freedom of her former life there would end. He’d have her watched all the time. He wouldn’t let her handle money. He’d lock her up at night, worried she’d escape again and run home to Kjall. “We’re divorced—I told you. Our marriage contract is no longer in effect.”

  “There is no such thing as divorce.” He stepped inside and closed the cabin door, sealing them in.

  Perhaps she was wrong to argue with him. Perhaps she should act meek and accepting in hopes that he would go away—so that she might have a chance to escape with Chari. She forced some submission into her voice. “I’m settling in well. Thank you.”

  He nodded, looking about the cabin. His eyes lit on the cloth bundle in the corner. “What’s that on the floor?”

  “It’s...nothing,” she stammered. “A blanket.”

  His brow furrowed, and he stepped toward it. “There was no blanket in here before.”

  Gods help her, she was a terrible liar; she could not think of a plausible explanation. “But there was. Perhaps you did not notice.”

  As he took another step, she moved to place herself between him and the pistol.

  Jauld folded his arms. “Why do you not want me to see it?”

  Unless she could think of a way to divert him within the next few seconds, he was going to discover the pistol, and then he would know she was up to something, and she’d never get away. Diving for the cloth bundle, she scooped it up. “Here,” she said, holding it out. “See? It’s just a blanket.”

  Jauld reached for it, and she pulled it away.

  “You’re hiding something,” he accused, stepping toward her.

  She backed away, shaking her head.

  “What’s under the cloth?”

  Isolda looked and saw that a corner had fallen away, exposing a bit of metal. She searched for a plausible explanation and came up with nothing.

  Jauld reached. “Give it to me.”

  Isolda took the pistol from the fabric. She leveled it at him and pulled back the hammer.

  Wide-eyed, he retreated a step. “Where did you get that?” He hesitated, uncertain. Then he darted forward, reaching for the weapon. He grabbed it by the muzzle.

  Isolda pulled the trigger, and a deafening crack split the air. Acrid smoke stung her eyes. Gods, what had she done?

  Jauld lay on the floor, unmoving. Had she killed him? The weight of the deed trampled over her like a four-in-hand. She threw the spent weapon away as if it were a hot coal, yanked open the cabin door, and ran out. “Chari!” she yelled. If they were going to escape together, it had to be now.

  She was in a narrow corridor lined with alcoves. Within the alcoves were hammocks, some of them occupied. Eyes watched her, uncertain.

  A ladder, there! That should lead up to the ship’s deck, or at least to a higher level within the hold.

  She ran to the ladder and began to ascend.

  “Hey,” cried a male voice behind her. Someone grabbed her around the waist. She kicked frantically and felt her sandal connect with his nose. With a muffled cry, he fell away. Drawing on strength she’d hardly known she had, she scrambled up the ladder and onto the ship’s deck. A square piece of wood lay next to the opening: a trapdoor. She picked it up and slammed it into the gap, hoping to delay anyone who tried to come up after her.

  The deck around her was deserted. A roaring noise filled her ears, but after a moment’s confused panic, she recognized it as the harmless singing of the wind in the sails. Toward the front of the ship, she spotted three sailors slumped against a railing. Two men were at the wheel and another lo
oked out over the prow.

  If this ship was anything like the one on which she’d sailed to Kjall, the boats would be stored near the stern. Ducking down to keep her shadow small, she ran toward the back of the ship, where she found a single jollyboat hanging off the stern, suspended by davits.

  She stared at the tangle of ropes and pulleys that hung over the boat. How in the world was she to get the craft free? It looked like one got into the boat first, and then did something with the ropes—it wasn’t clear what. As she pondered this, with her blood pounding in her ears, she heard a noise behind her. She glanced back and saw the trapdoor she’d come through earlier pop off the deck.

  Soldier’s Hell. She ducked around a trio of barrels, putting them between her and the newcomer. Unfortunately, this also blocked her own vision. She heard footsteps approaching and circled around, staying out of sight.

  “Isolda?” called a soft voice.

  She sighed. It was Chari. Isolda popped her head over the barrels and said, “Here.”

  Chari came around, and Isolda saw that she was carrying both her children: a four-year-old boy and an infant.

  “Are you crazy?” Isolda hissed. “They’ll make noise.”

  “I can’t leave without them,” said Chari. “Anyway, they’re drugged.”

  Isolda looked again. Both boys were soundly asleep. A trail of drool leaked from the four-year-old’s mouth. She shook her head. “How do we get the boat down to the water?”

  “We have to get into it first,” said Chari. “You go, and I’ll hand the children down.”

  Isolda climbed over the railing, aware of how close she was to the churning sea below. One wrong move, and she’d be in the water. A lee-lurch tossed her sideways, and she clung to the burnished wood as if sticking to the saddle of a cantankerous horse. Her hands shook as she lowered herself into the swinging boat. “We may have company. A sailor tried to grab me as I came on deck.”

  “I took care of him,” said Chari.

  Well, that was unexpected. Isolda would not ask how. “Hand down the children.”

  Chari gave her the four-year-old first. He was heavy, but soft and unresisting—thoroughly unconscious. She lowered him like a sack of meal into the stern of the jollyboat and reached up to take the infant.

  Once Isolda had the second boy, Chari swung herself over the railing and began to climb down.

  “Ho—avast there!” came a sailor’s voice.

  “Hurry,” Isolda hissed.

  Chari’s weight dropped into the jollyboat, and it swung.

  “How do we lower it?” said Isolda.

  Chari went to the pulley on the stern to examine it, and Isolda went to the one at the prow. It was clear the two would have to be raised or lowered together. While Isolda was tempted to simply cut the rope—surely there was a knife on board the jollyboat somewhere—that would leave one side still attached. They’d be dumped into the ocean.

  The jollyboat gave a lurch, and the stern side dropped by several feet. “I’ve got it,” said Chari excitedly. “Pull that rope.” She pointed.

  Isolda pulled, and the prow side dropped.

  Sailors’ heads appeared over the railing. “There they are!”

  Chari raised her pistol and pointed it at them. The heads disappeared.

  Isolda pulled her rope again, sending the prow downward a little more, and then Chari lowered the stern. Zigzagging back and forth, they dropped the boat until it just touched the swirling sea. But it was still attached to the pulleys. Isolda was trying to figure out how to detach it when the prow end of the ship suddenly rose several feet.

  “No, don’t bring us back up,” said Chari.

  “That wasn’t me.” The stern side rose, and Isolda realized what was happening. The sailors above them had hold of ropes somewhere and were raising the jollyboat.

  “We have to cut ourselves loose!” Chari cried.

  Isolda dived to the bottom of the jollyboat, searching. Ropes, oars, waterskins—no, none of that was useful. There it was, a knife! Seizing it, she went to the prow-side pulley and sheared through the rope. The boat’s prow dropped into the water.

  The stern side rose by several more feet. The jollyboat was now dangerously tilted, and the unconscious children began to slide.

  “Cut the rope! Cut it!” cried Chari.

  Isolda climbed up the boat from prow to stern. The stern jerked upward still more. Chari grabbed her children and clung to the side of the jollyboat. Isolda reached the pulley and sawed at the rope. It frayed, its fibers parting one by one. On the next jerk upward, the fibers yielded, and the jollyboat fell into the water with a splash.

  Isolda grabbed a pair of oars and flung them at Chari. “Start rowing.”

  Chapter 33

  Marius stood at the prow of the Soldier’s Sweep, scanning the dark horizon for a sail. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the almost-total darkness, he could just discern the demarcating line between the black sea and the star-studded sky. A brown sail was less visible than a white one, but he should be able to spot it, even if it appeared only as an occlusion of stars.

  The Soldier’s Sweep had the Frolic outclassed, so the problem they faced wasn’t defeating her in battle, but finding her in open ocean. The Frolic had several hours’ head start, and no one knew exactly where she had gone.

  The triarchus who commanded the ship had suggested to Marius that they sail up the Neruna Strait. That route, regularly swept for pirates, was the fastest and safest way to Sardos and the most likely one the Frolic would take. The strait ran northeast along the coastline and was of critical importance to Kjallan shipping. Since the fall of Dori, Kjall had controlled the strait without challenge and built new shore batteries to fortify it. They stood sentinel along the coastline, lit up with glows. Marius could judge the Sweep’s progress by counting the batteries as they passed.

  The land on the far side of the strait was haunted, gods-cursed Dori. That might scare away the Sardossians, since sailors were often superstitious. But time was money when it came to shipping, and it was unlikely a merchantman, no matter how afraid of ghosts and curses he might be, would go the long way around.

  But what if the Frolic’s destination wasn’t Sardos? The merchantman could be headed to Mosar or Inya first for southern trade goods. Then she certainly would not be in the strait.

  Vitala, dark and shadowy in a boat-cloak, slipped up beside him on the rail. “The wind’s picking up,” she said. “That’s good for us, since we’re faster than a merchantman.”

  “If the Frolic is in the strait at all,” said Marius.

  “I’m sure she is,” said Vitala. “The triarchus likes this south wind. When we catch the Frolic, we’ll be windward of her.”

  “What’s the advantage of that?”

  “It’s better for maneuverability and putting pressure on another ship.”

  Marius frowned. Watching and waiting was hard.

  “Would you like to rest in the imperial cabin? They’ve a head start on us; we won’t catch them for a while yet.”

  “I’d rather stay here and keep a lookout,” said Marius.

  “As you wish.”

  Vitala stayed with him, looking out over the empty ocean. Marius took comfort from her presence. So many people were on Isolda’s side, not only Marius and Drusus but Vora, Caz, and Rory, and now the imperial couple as well. The woman he loved was neither forgotten nor abandoned. He hoped she knew that and did not despair.

  Vitala caught his eye. “I understand Lucien talked to you about Maxian.”

  “Yes.” Tension hardened Marius’s shoulders as he leaned over the rail. He had been trying not to think about Jamien and Maxian lately, focusing his energy instead on Isolda. The problem between the imperial heirs was not his to solve, but if it were not solved, it would ultimately affect everyone in Kjall.

  “Lucien and I have made a decision,” said Vitala.

  “What decision?”

  “To start Jamien in the palaestra.”

  Mar
ius blinked. “He’ll train to be a war mage?”

  “That was always the intent—it’s traditional, you know, for imperial sons. We normally start them at age ten, but given how precocious he’s been, and...well, for other reasons, we think he should start now.”

  “Children training at the palaestra live at the palaestra, don’t they?”

  “Yes,” said Vitala. “That factored into our decision. With Jamien away from the palace, I think we may see a change in Maxian.”

  “I believe you will.” So they were sending Jamien off to the school of war. Marius’s feelings were mixed. If Jamien was dangerous now, he’d be even more so armed with war magic. But as Vitala had pointed out, war magic had always been the destiny of imperial princes. Maxian would receive the same training when he came of age—and when that happened, the boys would be on even footing, more or less.

  At a military school, Jamien would be far away from the palace servants and sycophants who feared to challenge him. He would, presumably, learn some old-fashioned discipline, which might be just what he needed. Meanwhile, little Maxian needed time away from Jamien, and he would get it. “I think it’s a good decision.”

  “Thank you for saying so,” said Vitala. “It’s been hard.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” His impression was that Vitala and Lucien were capable parents, loving but strict, holding their children to high standards. Yet it was a rare individual who, bowed and scraped to constantly by those currying imperial favor, didn’t let the unearned power go to his head. For this reason, Marius was eternally grateful that his mother had raised him far from the imperial seat. Had he been raised here, he might have grown into an entirely different person. Jamien’s ill treatment of his younger brother might be a childhood phase; he hoped that was all it was. But if the problem persisted, the stakes were high, not just for the family but for the empire as a whole. This boy would someday inherit the throne.

  “I’ll tell you something I’ve told no one yet except Lucien,” said Vitala. “I think I’ve got another one on the way.”