by Aaron Bunce
Lucilla worked with her mortar and pestle at his bedside. She ground and mixed for several moments, measuring ingredients out of various bottles and spooning them in a mug. She startled and hopped from her chair and scurried to the door when heavy footsteps sounded in the hall. Roman tried to roll over, but the pain held him in place.
“Oh, you lie still,” Lucilla hissed, bustling back over. She scooped the cup off of the table and filled it with hot water.
“Here, you drink this right down.” She gently propped Roman up and tipped the cup to his lips.
The liquid was hot in his mouth. It's bitter flavor puckered his lips and burned his nose, but Lucilla wouldn’t let him stop until he drank it all. She then eased him back down, the herbal mixture already making his head fuzzy and his insides warm.
The knots in his stomach loosened just a bit and for the first time in a while the pain didn’t seem so horrible. Roman’s head grew heavy and he let it roll over. The walls distorted, flexing and bowing as if they were made of billowing fabric. Even the flickering oil lamp looked odd as it shifted colors. Footsteps sounded in the hallway again, but they were now exaggerated, thunderous noises like booming drums.
“There you go…sleep. Best you don’t speak with those men…no good, sinister one’s, the whole lot of them,” Lucilla’s voice trailed off, but Roman wasn’t listening anymore. He was still cold, but that didn’t seem to matter anymore. His eyelids grew heavy, and he didn’t have the fight left to resist as sleep started to take hold. He heard the door open and felt the vibration in Tusk’s chest as he started to growl.
He opened his eyes again, suddenly alert to the dog’s threatening challenge, but Tusk wasn’t at his feet, and the room looked much darker. Shadow obscured all four corners, and the door loomed farther in the distance than seemed possible.
Roman rubbed his hands up and down his arms. His clothes were dry, and his skin was no longer hot.
Am I free of the fever? Has the illness run its course?
But the pain returned, as if in answer to his question. It rippled through his body in hot waves. Roman doubled over, and in the silence heard a whisper slipping to him. With each surge of agony he could hear a soft, distant voice. He rolled around on the bed trying to locate the source of the voice, but it seemed to come from all around.
A voice, little more than a whisper, echoed out of the shadows. It was a strange tongue, unlike anything he had heard before. It started to grow louder, the darkness in the corners of the room creeping towards him.
Roman struggled under the covers, clinging to the sheets like a child warding off the dark. The voice boomed louder, and with it came a wave of pain that nearly toppled Roman off the bed. His legs flopped off the side and dipped into the darkness. He just managed to pull them back up as the shadows bubbled and surged against the bed.
The voice grew so loud Roman had to press his hands over his ears, but he couldn’t shut it out. It reverberated within him, surging with every heartbeat and vibrating in his bones.
His sheet went taut and a moment later it was torn from his grasp, disappearing into the shadow. The darkness flooded in, falling over him like a crashing wave. It was dark and impossibly cold, a smothering presence that pressed down on him like a mountain of stone. It moved like hundreds of wretched fingers, pulling and prying across his body. No gleaming figure came to his rescue this time.
Roman flailed against the darkness, yet it felt no more substantial than a cloud of smoke. The pain cut back in, binding him into painful knots until he was sure he would be pulled apart.
The voice surged into his mind, but even it felt suppressed by the crowding darkness. It sounded angry, or desperate. The pain in his body turned to heat.
Is it the fever? What is happening to me?
He cried out as the pain increased tenfold. A strange light appeared beneath his skin until he glowed like a human lantern. The darkness repelled from the light, but it pushed back, seeking to envelope him once again.
The heat continued to build until his skin started to blister. Smoke rolled off of him, and then with a loud pop, he was on fire. First his fingers, then his hands, and up his arms as his skin started to burn. He batted at his arms, trying to rub out the flames but they would not go out. They flowed up over his chest and moved down his legs.
A face, pale and haunting, emerged out of the darkness before him. Its eyes were wide and its mouth opened as a gaping void. Roman knew it was the face from the orchard - it had to be.
Two white hands emerged from the darkness and reached for him. Their fingers were like long snakes, winding through the air, curling and surging toward him. They would pull him towards the face, and its gaping, hungry mouth.
Roman heard the voice scream out within him. A warning! It had to be. There was a painful pop within him and the rest of his body erupted in flame. The slithering fingers came at him and were instantly charred from the immense heat.
Roman screamed at the face as it yawned hungrily for him. He cursed its gaping mouth as the black, smoking fingers worked their way ever closer. But as badly as he wanted to, he couldn’t look away from the face’s eyes. Its vivid green eyes.
* * * *
“The fire, it hurts...so hot. Don’t touch me…don’t touch me damn you!” Roman screamed and sat up fully in bed. The cool rag that had been perched upon his brow fell with a plop to the floor. His breathing was fast and labored, like he had been running fast.
Frenin bent low and picked up the rag, talking gently to console him, but he gave no indication he saw him. He stared straight ahead, his eyes wide with terror.
Frenin’s flashed back to many seasons ago. He remembered his helplessness back then and cursed fate that it was no different now. Lucilla bustled over and shooed him back, so he did the only thing he could, he resumed his pacing. He knew that no revelation would come from the painful steps back and forth, but the motion was comforting to him.
Roman had grown so hot with fever that Lucilla was growing warm working over him. Sweat dripped off of her nose and it soaked through the back of her dress.
“Should I fetch the boy a dry shirt?” Frenin asked, taking note of Roman’s shirt, which had been completely soaked through. But before Lucilla could respond Roman groaned and slumped forward with a grunt, clutching pathetically at his stomach.
“Let it out…get it out,” he mumbled, his eyes rolling back in his head before collapsing onto the bed.
Frenin stopped dead in his tracks, his hands reflexively covering his mouth. Lucilla shook her head mixed ground herbs with some warm water before pouring it messily into Roman’s mouth. Frenin limped over behind the healer but she was too engrossed in her work.
“Worn off already, never this fast…maybe stronger this time,” she mumbled, slamming the empty cup down onto the table. “Won’t take him…those brutes!”
Without another word, Lucilla bent over and began digging through the pile of bottles within her bag.
“What did you give him? Is there anything I can fetch for you?” Frenin asked, stepping back and resuming his pacing.
“I…well…tssk.” After sputtering, Lucilla turned around in her chair. “Well, I can’t treat what I don’t know, and what I don’t know is what is eating away at him!” Her voice was rapid and slightly hushed. There was a wild, frantic look in her eye.
“Do you see this? This is witch hazel…a cure-all of sorts. You know cuts, burns, bruises…those are simple. I treated a whole family, sick with red fever when I was but a girl, with only my father’s water skin and some dried herbs I snatched from a bagman. But this, Frenin…my dear Frenin,” Lucilla said, letting her red face drop into her hands. “I worry because for all my seasons of healing, treating all manner of ailments, I have only been flabbergasted once, and you know well enough of what I speak.”
“Yes, well. I mean, yes…but that was so many winter thaws ago. Surely it can’t be the same…” Frenin said, but as badly as he wanted to believe, even he couldn’t deny the
truth.
“He is her son, after all. He told me a time ago his belly was sour, pained he called it. Well I sent him home with fresh mint and told him to steep it into a tea, and didn’t think on it again. I didn’t want to even consider it, not to him too. He’s still so young, just like her.
“Now look at him. I can’t touch his skin, he burns hot, hotter than my drying stove and I’m not making exaggerations about that, flog your arse for saying. I’m afraid we’re watching the poor boy die right before us. And there’s nothing I can do to save him, just like his poor mother,” Lucilla said painfully, lifting her sweaty face from her hands. Her eyes were puffy and dark. She looked fit to collapse.
Frenin wanted to respond, to somehow make Lucilla feel better, but in a rare moment, nothing came to mind. He looked down upon Roman and cleared his throat, fighting off a tear. His chest had also grown irritatingly tight.
“They mean to take him, Frenin. Who knows how long before those brutes come back and kick me out for good? How long do you think he’ll last without me looking after him, hmm? They’ve already been in countless times trying to get him to talk. They want him to admit hurting those people. Of all the trog-brained, swamp-bogged fool mongers. The Goddess flog them, to think that poor boy could hurt Greta like that, I never. I told them that Roman wasn’t a monster. That he would never hurt anyone! Their time would be better spent out there, looking for the ones responsible. If I hadn’t been in here, I just don’t know what they would have done, Frenin. Put a blade to him perhaps…” Lucilla’s voice faded into imperceptible grumbling.
Frenin shook his head helplessly. It bothered him beyond reason that he had no answers. Everything had spun out of control so quickly. He chided himself for not seeing any of it coming.
“I mean, Frenin…look at him, beet red and unless I douse him with a bucket of water I suspect he may just set the sheets on fire. If he lives that long that is!” Lucilla’s rant faded as she turned back to her back.
Frenin knew she was talking to herself more than him. That the eccentric old woman talked her problems out loud, it was a strange sight for someone not used to her unique ways.
“No, no I don’t think that’s it. It can’t be, not after so many thaws. He’s strong and young, and she was weakened by her state, she was with child after all. They had traveled so far, and he is so young and strong. I can’t lose both of them like this, I can’t…I won’t!” Lucilla turned suddenly and took Frenin by surprise.
The healer’s gaze hardened, an expectant look wrinkling her face. Frenin, unfortunately, had no answers, so he turned to pace.
Chapter 27
An obstacle
It was cold when Balin returned to Ban Turin. Just the way he liked it. It helped him fight the fatigue from the road. It didn’t help that Balin decided to leave Laniel directly, scorning the brothels, and sleep for that matter. Plus, he knew better than to make camp on his own. Not with how things ended with the young Earl. Evidently, Balin’s mockery had wounded the young man. This wasn’t anything new.
Balin returned to the capital and was greeted by news as dour as the murky clouds overhead. He learned that Councilman DuChamp had locked himself inside his home. A soldier at the gate confirmed that no one had seen him in a time.
The stink of the ship’s hold still clung to Balin’s clothes, and try as he might, the memories of the grisly scene kept flashing in his mind.
It is handled, Balin reminded himself. He simply needed to relay the welcome news to Councilman, put his nerves at ease, and then he would reward himself with a bath and some much-earned sleep.
But thoughts pressed on him. An Ishmandi blood promise was never made lightly. If it led to war, Balin’s life of comfort could be threatened. He knew that if the worst happened he could slip away and make a new life for himself somewhere else.
That’s what he did. He survived. Starting over would be difficult. It would mean harsh nights, tough fights, and earning respect and favor all over again.
I have come too far to give up so easily, he thought, fighting the notion.
Balin cursed the sailor for his deceit and wondered what had happened to his master in his absence.
What could have affected the Councilman in such a short amount of time? Has Gladeus fallen ill?
Surely, Balin would have heard of such a thing from his usual contacts upon entering the city. Balin had to consider the possibility that someone had swept in and supplanted him. Perhaps someone just like him, graced with a quick hand and a shortage of scruples.
A weasel in the chicken coup, Balin thought angrily. He took a deep breath, trying to master his temper. The exhaustion was eating away at him.
Balin’s hand slid into his robes, where he ran his thumb over his dagger’s cold wire-grip. He had protected Gladeus from himself before. From infatuated playthings that dug in like ticks.
“Whatever it is…it will be dealt with,” Balin said as he stalked towards Gladeus’ home.
Despite his experience and well-earned reputation, Balin’s hands started to shake. He thought back to the man that pulled him out of the gutter as a child, and not only taught him how to kill but more importantly, why.
“Taking a life is no simple thing, even if done in the service of survival. One must never diminish the sacrifice of life because it is the ultimate theft, and with that theft, you sacrifice a piece of your soul,” he whispered, repeating the words of his mentor, Fenoris Feldchild.
Fenoris had been severe, living life on a hard line. He would seem to be the man to slit open your belly in a dark alley and take your purse, all the while unaffected by pathetic sobs for mercy. He had indeed been harsh, cruel at times, and downright brutal at others. Yet as Balin grew, he saw a side of the man he had not expected.
Deep down inside, Fenoris had been a tormented man, haunted by the ghosts of his brutality. In his quiet moments, he had been a philosopher, poet, and a lyric. He troubled over the moral dilemmas of his decisions, yet seemed cruelly unable to break free from the spiraling cycle.
Fenoris died alone, stabbed in the back by a child just like Balin, a victim of his choices. Fenoris’ words echoed through his mind as he climbed a stone staircase, and then another. Balin hadn’t thought about it until now, but he realized that the life he was living was taking him down a similar path. He removed one of his gloves and rubbed his weary eyes, willing away all the wretched thoughts that muddled his mind.
He tried to focus on his routine. He circled the city, bypassing every shortcut in favor of longer routes. It provided him with time to think, more time to come to the proper and right conclusions.
Balin walked until his hands and feet were numb, and by that time, his mind was set. The city passed by around him in a blur, and finally the hill came into view.
The mansion loomed above him, its bleached stone awash in the afternoon sun. He hustled through the courtyard, moving through the gate with almost no discernible noise. The guards were absent, just as he had feared. The large doors weren’t locked or latched, and pushed open. He latched them quietly behind him.
The large house felt strange almost instantly. There was a weighted silence hanging ominously over the empty rooms. Councilman Gladeus’ suite, dining room, and expansive library were all unoccupied. A thin sheen of dust had already started to settle over the tables and books, a common occurrence when the staff went a day or two without dusting.
In the back of the large house, a solitary figure bustled about in the kitchen. She lifted her ruddy face for a moment, blowing a chicken feather from her lip as Balin passed by. Without breaking stride, he turned and headed down a long hallway, towards the south wing. It was a suite Gladeus rarely used, except when entertaining prized guests.
The doors to the south wing were closed. Gold reliefs heralded his approach while large brass door rings hung mockingly just above eye level. A quick tug confirmed his suspicion. The doors were locked. Gladeus trusted no one else with the key, not even Balin.
Balin produ
ced a simple folded leather pouch from deep within his robes. He lovingly unfolded the pouch, producing one of his most prized possessions, a dwarvish skeleton key. He knew nothing about the dwarvish people or their peculiar magic, but he did know that the strange people had knowledge of metal and mechanical things he would never understand.
He held the end of the key up to the door, metal butting against wood. The key refused to fit, but almost instantly started to vibrate.
Piece by piece, the key changed, shifting hundreds and hundreds of individual segments until it slid smoothly into the lock. The key vibrated one last time and then it turned. Balin felt a satisfying click as the counter weight drop inside, allowing the twelve-foot tall door opened into the passage beyond.
Balin climbed the sweeping grand staircase, passing through the massive marble paneled door and into the suite’s entry hall. This place feels like a tomb, he thought as he paused for a moment to listen. The large house remained eerily quiet. A profound sense of unease blossomed in his gut.
Ornately carved tables were set against the walls on either side. This hall, more than any other, was used to display Councilman Gladeus’ finest treasures, his trophies of status.
During his walks with houseguests, Gladeus would always bring them through here, to smile as they gawked, and humbly belittle the grandeur of his collection. Balin also knew that Gladeus prized the trinkets and bobbles on those finely crafted tables more than the house that sheltered them.
The elder Councilman spent a great fortune and many winter thaws finding the treasure seekers and adventurers willing to brave the dark places to collect the treasures.
As a young, fresh-faced man, long before Balin knew him, Gladeus personally sat company with dalan emissaries. The strange people cut off all contact, but before they did, they asked Gladeus and the newly formed Council to sign their entente.