by Wendy Wang
“What difference will a day make?” Sorrel had asked, her voice a ragged whisper. It broke Cilla’s heart to hear Sorrel speak. She and her mother had conferred, determining there may have to be blood healing to connect the girl’s vocal cords and heal the scar tissue. It was dangerous work especially so close to the arteries in the neck. When they tried to explain it to Sorrel, she had said she didn’t care. “I will do whatever it takes. All I ask is that you do the same.”
“Of course, we will.” Her mother had given the girl a grim nod.
They decided to take her downstairs to the kitchen. Where she could lie down on the kitchen table and they could easily clean up any blood.
Sorrel had gotten to her feet, a little wobbly and walked down the steps without aid.
“I’m staying with you,” the queen said, walking beside her. Sorrel opened her mouth to protest and the queen raised her hand. “It’s not up for discussion you may as well save your voice.”
“Fine,” Sorrel whispered. “Have it your way.”
The queen smiled and helped Sorrel hop up on the table. Sorrel lay down on her back and stared up at the ceiling. The queen grabbed hold of one of her hands holding it tightly to her torso with both of hers. Cilla wasn’t sure who needed the support more, Sorrel or the queen.
Her mother brought in a thin linen blanket and covered Sorrel up to her shoulders. She laid a small fabric kit on the table next to Sorrel and untied it and unrolled it, revealing several sharp, shiny tools with intricately carved bone handles, fitted specifically to her mother’s hand. Her mother traced her finger past the lance, hovering over four different bladed tools — one curving inward, one curving outward, one with a sharp triangular shaped blade, and one with a rectangular shaped blade. Her mother selected the triangular shaped tool with the sharp tip for puncturing through skin. Her mother took it from the kit and it glinted in the bright light of the kitchen, reminding them all how deadly it could be if used improperly. She and her mother exchanged a quick glance and Cilla couldn’t remember the last time they’d had to use the tools.
Cilla took the mortar and pestle sprinkled in a few more leaves of Valerian and ground them with some other herbs she had put together. She bound them up in a piece of kitchen linen, tied them with twine, and threw them into a pot of boiling water on the stove. After a minute or two she removed the pot from the flame and let it sit for another five minutes to steep. Then she poured the Amber liquid into a teacup and dosed it with a generous teaspoon of honey.
“All right, Sorrel, I need you to drink every drop of this,” Cilla said. The queen helped Sorrel sit up and the girl sipped the hot liquid. By the time she finished the cup though she needed help to lie down again.
“I feel like I’m floating,” Sorrel whispered.
“You are, my dear.” Tahlulah patted her shoulder and chuckled. “Now close your eyes and count backwards for me Sorrel starting at a hundred.”
“One hundred,” Sorrel said. “Ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven—”
“If I can help, please let me know. I’m at your disposal,” the queen said.
Her mother looked the queen squarely in the eyes. “This may get a little bloody, Your Majesty, are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait in the library. Or maybe you’d like to take a walk on the beach. I know Birgit took the children down there a little while ago.”
“I’m not afraid of a little blood,” the queen said. “And I’m staying unless you kick me out.”
“No, you’re welcome to stay,” Tahlulah said giving the queen a reassuring smile. “And if you’d really like to help, you can hold her head. We need to expose her neck as much is possible.”
The queen nodded and moved around to the head of the table.
“Ninety-two—” Sorrel’s numbers were drawn out more. It wouldn’t be long now until she fell asleep completely.
The queen stroked Sorrel’s hair away from her face and slipped her hands underneath her head, tilting until her neck stretched up. “Like this?”
“Yes, that’s good,” Cilla said, giving the queen a smile. “Let me know though if you get tired and we can switch places.”
The queen nodded. Sorrel let out a little snore and her mother took a thin needle from the toolkit. She ran the shiny metal over the flame of a candle on the sideboard, picked up Sorrel’s hand and pricked the girl’s palm. Cilla watched for any reaction in the girl but none came, other than slow measured breathing.
“All right, she’s ready,” Cilla said.
Tahlulah nodded and ran her fingers across the thin scar stopping when it hit the middle of Sorrel’s neck she pressed her fingertip on either side of the knot in Sorrel’s throat. Tahlulah selected her tool — a thin triangular scalpel. She glided the edge of the blade through the flame before slicing an inch long cut into Sorrel’s neck. Cilla pressed a clean square of gauze, capturing the stream of blood.
“Cilla, I need you to hold this open for me,” her mother said.
Cilla nodded and placed her hands on either side of the open wound.
Her mother pressed her finger inside the opening, stretching the skin wider. The folds of the two bands of muscle making up the girl’s vocal chords came into view. They were swollen with inflammation and knotty scar tissue had formed where the chords had joined together when the queen had healed her.
“I’m going to check her pulse,” Cilla said. Her mother nodded and held the wound open while Cilla pressed her fingers against Sorrel’s wrist. The steady thrum of the girl’s pulse encouraged her. Cilla took another square of gauze and cleaned up some of the blood trailing down Sorrel’s neck. Her mother inserted her finger into the opening and grazed the soft tissue of the left vocal cord. It appeared to be the most damaged. Her mother chanted quiet words of healing. The thick bands of scar tissue began to unwind.
Flashes of memory flooded Cilla’s mind — memories that were not her own. She rubbed her fingertips together, feeling Sorrel’s warm, sticky blood. The images of Egan grabbing Sorrel by the collar and yanking her back, fixed Cilla to the spot and her body wouldn’t move. Cilla couldn’t stop from experiencing what Sorrel experienced — the metal blade against her skin. Egan’s hot breath against her ear as he whispered, “Tell my mother-in-law that trying to heal you will only kill you.” Cilla’s eyes flew open.
“Mama, stop!” Cilla cried.
Tahlulah jumped with a start, quickly having the sense of mind to remove her hands from Sorrel’s throat. “What is it?”
“You must stop. Now!”
Both her mother and the queen stared at her. “Why?” The two women said simultaneously.
“Because Egan cursed her.”
“What?” The queen muttered, her face morphing into a mask of horror.
“Her blood was speaking to me. Showing me things. Egan told her right before he cut her throat that you trying to heal her will only kill her.”
“What?” Her mother said. “It makes no sense why would he say such a thing?”
“Because he knew she would come here.” Cilla’s voice trembled. “He wanted you to kill her.”
“That evil son of—” Tahlulah took a step back from the table.
“So she’s lost her voice permanently?” the queen asked.
“Yes,” Tahlulah sighed. Gently, she placed her hand across the open wound, and closed her eyes. The air around her and Sorrel began to crackle and the bleeding stopped. When she was done, she gently guided the girl’s head into a normal position and stepped back. “I should’ve killed him when I had a chance.” She grabbed a towel as she left the room, and the door leading to the back yard slammed, rattling the dishes on the shelves nearby.
Cilla dipped a gauze square into a bowl of witch hazel and began to clean Sorrel’s neck. The queen stroked Sorrel’s hair away from her face. The girl looked so peaceful with her eyes closed.
“Maybe you should go talk to your mother,” the queen said softly.
“No.” Cilla frowned. “She’s very sensitive about thing
s. People don’t think she is because she can be so abrupt and to the point, but she feels things very deeply. Especially when she can’t fix something. She just needs some time.”
“All right. I guess that’s understandable.”
Cilla felt the queen’s heavy gaze on her and she wished for a split second she could hear the queen’s thoughts. Was the queen judging her for ever getting involved with Egan? He had been decent once. A different man. Or so she’d thought.
“So.” The queen cleared her throat. “Your mother tried to kill Egan?”
“Yes, she did.” Cilla said flatly. She finished cleaning up Sorrel’s throat and gathered all the gauze into a ball. “She was trying to protect me.”
“Why isn’t he dead then?”
“Because—” Cilla paused, still unable to bring herself to look up. “Because I stopped her. Stupidly, I stopped her. I didn’t want my boys to be fatherless.”
The queen nodded but didn’t say anything.
“It doesn’t matter anyway.” Cilla shrugged and faced her. “They’re going to end up without him.”
The queen’s face blanched and she stared at Cilla, as if she didn’t know how to respond. What could she say after all? There was no comfort to be had when it came to Egan Crane and his fate. Cilla fidgeted with the used gauze, folding it up before throwing it into the trash bin. The air around them grew heavy with awkward silence.
“I need some air.” The queen said, glancing down at Sorrel’s tranquil face. “Do you think you can take care of Sorrel for a little while?”
“Of course. I’ll get a pillow and make her more comfortable.” Cilla pressed her fingers against Sorrel’s wrist again, checking her pulse. “It will be a while before she wakes.”
“Thank you,” the queen said. She leaned over and gave Sorrel’s forehead a gentle kiss. “I’ll be back in a little bit.” The queen turned and disappeared through the same door Tahlulah had.
Fourteen
No one seemed to shed a tear over Mozelle's death. The twenty-five men who were in the back at the time were all questioned including Egan and Hargett. But the lazy dolts leading the inquest were more interested in being done by lunch time than in finding the truth. By dinner the next day it was finished and Mozelle was quickly forgotten.
Egan carried his bowl to the table full of long-timers.
“You're in my seat,” Egan said to the back of one of the long-timer’s heads. Codskl turned around with the lethal look on his face but as soon as he saw it was Egan he pushed against the two men next to him forcing them to leave the table and scooted over making room for Egan and Hargett. Egan sat down next to Codskl. He scanned the table and any man he caught looking at him quickly cast their gaze down beneath Egan's withering look. When he was satisfied Egan circled his bowl with his spoon and took the first bite of the lamb stew.
“So who are you working for now Egan?” Codskl.
“Who says I'm working for anyone?” Egan asked.
“No one,” Codskl said. He shrugged his slim shoulders. “I was just making a little friendly conversation.”
“I see,” Egan said. “Well don't. If I want to talk to you I'll talk to you. Until then don't talk to me.”
“You think you're something now that you've taken out Mozelle?”
“I don't know what you're talking about. That’s a serious accusation cod school. Are you calling me a murderer?”
Codskl's eyes narrowed and his cheeks sunk in making his cheekbones even sharper in his long narrow face. “I'm not accusing you of anything.”
“Good,” Egan said.
“Why are you sitting here Crane? At my table?”
Egan took another bite of stew and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He glanced up cutting his eyes towards the corner of the room where D’Raq stood talking to two of his cronies. Egan slid his gaze towards cod school. “I understand you and Toby Wyn are friends.”
Codskl stared at him with his dead fish eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.
“Oh I think you do,” Egan said, continuing to eat his stew. “I need you to tell Toby that I don’t appreciate being left hanging in the breeze. Do you understand me?”
“Yeah I understand you.”
“Good,” Egan said. “Tell him I expect to hear from him by tomorrow morning.”
“I don’t think you’re in any position —”
Egan fixed his gaze on Codskl. “I don’t think you are in any position to argue. Now take care of it.” He took the last bite of his stew and pushed his bowl towards Codskl. “Clean that up for me will you? Come on Hargett.”
Hargett tipped his bowl, his head back, drinking down the last contents of his bowl before tossing it down onto the table. The two of them rose from their seats and walked away before Codskl could argue.
******
Neala descended the steps of the back porch. When she reached the bottom she sat down on the last step next to the older woman. Tahlulah jutted her chin out and swiped the wetness from her cheeks before glancing in Neala’s direction.
Neala leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. She breathed in the sharp scent of the salty air and it coated her tongue.
“You know I had a chance to kill Peter.” She refused to call him Emperor, doing so felt blasphemous. And besides, she knew him too well. “In fact I thought I had killed him. But he got away and now he’s crowned himself Emperor.”
“We all have our regrets.”
“Indeed we do,” Neala said nodding. “So what are we to do?”
“I really don’t know, Your Majesty. Sometimes I think I should just pack up what’s left of my family and head to Nescien.”
“How would you get there?” Neala asked, pivoting her body. It was the most interesting thing anyone had said to her in weeks.
Tahlulah laughed. “You don’t know?”
“No, I — I don’t know. I found a painting once, actually Peter showed it to me, in an old castle ruins in Tamarik. We always imagined that it lead to Nescien. It was a passageway. Unfortunately, Peter destroyed it before I could learn anything about it.”
“A passageway through a painting? Really?” Tahlulah asked, giving her a dubious glance. “I’ve seen many things but never heard of such a thing before.”
“It’s a technique I discovered — called the breath of life.”
“Hmmm, wonders of the world are everywhere I suppose.”
“Indeed they are,” Neala said.
“The original painter must not have been an Earth Kael.”
“Why would that matter?”
“You really don’t know?” Tahlulah shook her head. “No disrespect, but I’m not sure about your education, Your Majesty.”
Neala chuckled. “Well, I wasn’t exactly a stellar student. I’ll be honest, I paid attention to what I cared about, which was mainly painting and drawing. It’s only been recently that I’ve become interested in history.”
“I see,” Tahlulah nodded and wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the chilliness of the constant sea breeze. “Well, I suppose you first must understand that the Kaels have been going back and forth between Nescien for a millennium.”
“We have? I thought that was just stories.”
“No, it’s not just stories, Your Majesty.” Tahlulah shook her head. “In fact we’re very similar.”
“Similar? I thought the Nesciens were barbarians.” Neala said intrigued. “At least that’s what I’ve always heard.”
Tahlulah threw her head back and laughed. “They’re no more barbaric than we are I’m afraid, even though they are somewhat out of sync with our world.”
“What does that mean exactly? Out of sync?”
“The energy of Nescien is very different than the energy of the realms. Things don’t come as easily to them as they do to us.”
“How do you know all of this?”
Tahlulah shifted and fidgeted with one of the shells lining the step. “You know I should go check on Sorrel.”
“Cilla’s with Sorrel. Please. Tell me how you know this?”
“Because I’ve been there.”
“You’ve been there?”
“Yes, I have a great aunt that lived there. She’s dead now. I went with my parents.”
“I had no idea Kaels were still living there—” Neala put her head in her hands. She closed her eyes and tried to remember the painting, the way it smelled like the sea the warmth of the breeze, and the strange black path.
“Earth Kaels have lived in and out of Nescien for centuries. We’re drawn to it. And the people there are not barbarians. Not any more so than we are anyway. They’re actually technologically advanced in ways we aren’t. Making up for something they’ve lost over time I think. An ability to believe and see.” Tahlulah’s gaze drifted outward and her voice became dreamy with remembrance. “Everyone I’ve ever met from Nescien was kind but there are stories. Most revolve around their misunderstanding of our affinities and their own religious beliefs which in some ways are stronger than ours.”
“And you would go there if you could?”
“Those are just the ramblings of a tired old woman. My life is here in the realms — my farm, my daughter, my grandsons.”
Neala nodded. “Are there any books on Nescien?”
“None that I’m aware of.”
“I see,” Neala nodded. The sky thundered in the distance sending fresh anxiety through her chest. “Sometimes the sky thunders just before Peter’s men punch a hole into Tamarik.”
“Oh my dear, Casilladin is the most shrouded of the realms, even more so than Iberebeth. Defenses given by the gods I suppose.” Tahlulah placed her hand on Neala’s shoulder, giving it a gentle pat. “The Emperor’s men will not find their way here. I promise.”
“I’d never thought of it that way,” Neala said.
“I really should go check on Sorrel now.”
Neala put her hand on top of the old woman’s. “We’ll find a way to repair her voice.”
“Perhaps, but we should at least ask Sorrel what she wants.”
“Yes,” Neala said. “You’re right, we should ask Sorrel.”