by Tia Reed
“I expect more of you, despite the hour,” the older physic said.
“The Hill Tribe people are not citizens. They are not entitled to our care,” the young physic replied.
“Your profession demands a more compassionate nature to every fellow human being.”
“The state does not.”
“It does in this case.” Deq Pitran’s voice. “You were assigned by a captain in the Royal Army to tend to them.”
“They have little need for a physic,” Chas said, his voice querulous.
“That I cannot agree with,” the other physic said. “Please attend to the patients upstairs.”
“Addicts who brought their misfortune upon themselves.”
Footsteps thumped up the stairs.
The elder physic came back into the room. “Ilyam, run to the kitchens and tell Cook we have four guests in need of a nourishing meal. You may get your own dinner while you’re about it.” The boy, who was swishing the broom over a spotless flagstone, stole one final glance at them, set the broom against the wall, and ran to do his master’s bidding. The physic turned to her. “I’m Physic Hamid deq Lamont. Who do I have the honour of treating?”
“This is Erok, Sian and Timak,” Kordahla said.
“And you?” he asked when she paused.
“You may call me Samille,” she said.
“Am I right in assuming you have yet to eat?”
Kordahla nodded, and deq Lamont, soft spoken and measured in his movements, led them to a dining room adjacent the steamy kitchen. Ilyam bounded out of the steam amid the clang of spoons and bang of lids, onto one of the long benches, and picked up his knife before the cook had served hunks of tender venison. Hamid joined them as they ate, describing the hospice and city with meticulous detail, happy to answer Ilyam’s disbelieving queries, but demanding nothing of them. By the time the plump, pink-cheeked cook presented them with a platter of fruit, Timak was listening and Sian had almost met his eye as he handed her a choice plum. Digging into a pocket, deq Lamont extracted a coin and gave it to Ilyam, saying it was a little extra for the long day.
“Does he not have a family to return to?” she asked when the boy went to ready the treatment room.
“He has a mother and siblings, but the lodging here is better than she can provide for him. His father succumbed to porrin addiction, and the allowance of an apprentice is too low for them all to survive on.”
“Then the drug is a problem here?”
“Porrin is the bane of the continent, dare I say the world.”
Why she had imagined otherwise of this utopia, she could not say. It was after all, despite its strangeness, not so very different from home.
“Now,” Hamid said as they returned to the treatment room. “I hope I may examine you.” He started with Erok in full view of them all, cleaning and dressing the wound on the hunter’s arm. Ilyam buzzed about, fetching what his master needed, anticipating his requests so when Hamid seemed about to speak, he only hummed and picked up the salve or bandage Ilyam had placed to hand. When the physic turned to Sian, she flinched. Opening his hand, Hamid gave her a soft smile, and waited for her to place her arm in it.
“How old is this injury?” he asked, examining the scarred muscle and blistering skin.
“About three eight-days,” Kordahla said.
“And it has not become infected?”
Sian had gritted her teeth and turned away.
“It pains her. She has only just started using it,” Kordahla said.
“It is a miracle it has healed at all. You have travelled across hills and plain, I take it? You should offer thanks to Vae’oenka. I would expect a person with a burn of this severity to lose their arm if not their life, and quickly at that, but she is on the mend.”
Hamid went to the shelves above the implement table, selected a salve and handed it to Sian. Erok took it. “Rub this on. It will help numb the pain. With long sleeves, no one will notice the disfigurement.” He indicated what he wanted with actions. Erok nodded. Satisfied, Hamid dismissed yawning Ilyam, and then sat back and looked at the child. She bowed her head. “There is more, I think, than this injury.” His tone had not changed, and although the question was directed at Kordahla, he still faced Sian.
“She is afflicted by seizures.” Kordahla clamped her mouth shut. She had to force herself to say it all. “And she was violated.” Sian might guess what they said, but it would not be from a change of tone.
“I see,” the gentle doctor said in a manner that very much suggested he did. “And the boy? He too has the look of one traumatised about him.”
Timak was curled up under the implement table, his back against the wall. He was talking to himself again. Or the genie.
“Him too. Repeatedly,” she whispered.
Drawing a deep breath in through his nose, Hamid rose and faced her. Looking at her through eyes raised in a lowered head, the most non-threatening person she had ever encountered, he asked the same of her.
She found she had to look away. The filthy, despicable memory burned too strong. “He was not able to carry his intent to completion.” And it was her turn to look at the floor.
“My dear, the shame is not yours.”
She swallowed and had to concentrate to keep the tears from her eyes. “Where I come from, it is.”
The physic patted his hips and became more animated. “If you choose to stay in Myklaan a while, you might find your perceptions change. I hope you will. I would like to become better acquainted with all of you. It is not so often I find myself among such diverse company.” He handed her an ointment. “This will ease the itch of those insect bites, and help reduce scarring.”
She stepped aside as an emaciated man wandered into the room, his unseeing eyes glazed. Ilyam ran in after him. Tucking his small body alongside the man, he used his hip to turn the addict around and herd him out.
“That is all for tonight, Ilyam,” deq Lamont said. “You will let Chas finish with the patients.”
Kordahla stared after them. This meaningless waste of life held an unparalleled sadness.
“They are harmless enough,” Hamid said, misunderstanding.
“Will he recover?”
“His body is wasted beyond repair. There are others who might find the will to fight the curse with the right support. Too many fall victim again once they leave. But this is not something you need concern yourself about. Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?” The physic looked at each of them in turn.
Erok stepped forward and held out the pouch that contained the last of the herbs Sian took. Hamid shook the contents and sniffed. “Ah yes. For the seizures, I take it. If this mix doesn’t work, we may need to try other combinations.” He bustled about collecting dried herbs to fill the pouch and handed it to Sian. The girl lifted her eyes to his as she took it.
Chapter Forty-one
Ordosteen exhaled a lengthy breath. Across the bedchamber, Katrine’s incessant prattling as she lifted one jewelled ring after the other was wearing on his nerves. While his latest young mistress delighted between the sheets, her penchant for inane gossip left him empty. The girl, as he thought of the sensual slip before him, though she was four years past her majority, had the body of a goddess but the brains of a spoiled child. The night was young, but they would need to retire soon if his sanity was to be preserved. He went to her and pulled her into a kiss. As her supple flesh responded, his irritation began to die.
She pushed him away. “Aren’t you going to answer my question?” she said, petulant lips pouting as she turned her back on him. She picked up a sapphire and set it in her belly button.
Not aware she had asked one, Ordosteen put his hands on her shoulders and buried his face in her neck. The scent of her, roses and a hint of exotic spice, stirred his desire.
“I asked you a question,” she said, stiffening.
“Enthral me now and ask me later.” An argument about whether or not he had been listening would dampen his mood.
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“I would think you are only interested in me for the pleasures of the flesh,” she said with a toss of her golden hair.
Ordosteen let her go. Did the girl really think she was anything more to him? He had to remind himself how young she was, how naïve. His sense of honour did not allow him to deny it. Nor was he callow enough to confirm it. She set the sapphire back in the silver filigree jewel box on his oak dressing table. Its clawed feet moved, ruffling the delicate fabric of the green veil he had left to trail over the golden acorn mounts.
“Come to bed,” he said, avoiding the delicate issue as best he could.
Her back still to him, she lifted her chin, as though considering, as though he had made a request.
Thank Vae’oenka three sharp knocks at the door interrupted.
“Enter,” Ordosteen called.
Katrine spun, eyes wide. He caught the fleeting worry she had lost his interest before he turned to the presumptuous intruder.
“Your Majesty,” Farsil said with apologetic deference. It was testament to the late hour that the sash on his comfortable house coat was crooked. “Captain deq Lungo insists on seeing you.”
“Your Majesty.” Captain deq Lungo barged straight past the chamberlain and bowed.
Ordosteen swept his eyes over the travel-stained soldier. The man had not even bothered to wash his face. “Were you aware I had retired?” he asked. For Katrine’s sake, really. For this man to have returned from his northern post, for him to disregard protocol, there had to be excellent reason, at least in his estimation.
“Chamberlain Farsil did advise me, Majesty, but I have news I believe you should hear.”
“And it cannot wait until morning?”
“That is not a decision I can presume to make. But I believe it best I deliver my report in private,” deq Lungo said with a meaningful glance at Katrine. He must have ridden hard, to be leaning from the waist.
“Yes, my dear,” Ordosteen said, taking her hands to guide her to the door. “You had best go. I would not think to bore you with matters of state.”
She slipped her hands out of his, picked up the green veil and flipped it over her hair. Ordosteen had lingered an hour over the embroidered fabric before summoning her to his room to drown his loneliness in the pleasures of the flesh. He had determined to weigh the djinn’s offer against the exquisite if temporary sating his mistress provided as she slept in his arms. He clenched his teeth. To see her treat the object of his salvation in so cavalier a manner was to rouse a modicum of resentment in his heart.
She came to stand beside him. It was presumptuous of her to assume the position of a queen. “I shall stay. You might have need of some feminine advice.”
“You will go,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. The court gossip was the last person he wanted around when there was serious news.
“Then I shall take this, as a token of your affection,” she said turning this way and that to show off the veil.
“Leave it. That does not belong to you,” he said, the Vae forgive him for sounding harsher than he had intended.
She let it drop to the floor and ran from the room. Ordosteen sighed. There would be tears in her eyes when she returned. He must have a word with Jordayne. His niece must sort the girl out or find him a more suitable mistress.
“Well?” Ordosteen said to deq Lungo when the guards outside had closed the doors.
“Majesty, I brought four prisoners with me from the border. A Terlaani woman, a Verdaani boy, and two of the Hill Tribe. The boy communicates with a djinn. The Hill Tribe girl the others believe is a soothsayer and the woman–” Deq Lungo took a deep breath. “The Terlaani woman claims to be Princess Kordahla, daughter to Shah Wilshem of Terlaan. She requests an audience.”
For a long moment, Ordosteen took the captain’s measure. “Do you believe she is who she says?”
“Her words are cultured, her manner refined. She claims to have proof but refuses to offer it to anyone other than Your Majesty. Beyond that, it is not my place to presume.”
“Yes, yes,” Ordosteen said, brushing aside the man’s humility. He frowned. The implications were staggering. “Is there more?”
“Yes, Majesty.”
Ordosteen found his ire mounting as he listened to a report on the conduct of his soldiers. There would be a price to pay, if this girl was who she said she was.
“Bring the woman to the Throne Room. And find Jordayne and Matisse. I want them both there.”
“Tonight, Majesty?”
“Yes, tonight,” Ordosteen snapped. International relations rested on a precarious ledge if the Terlaani Princess had absconded from her protectors.
Long after the captain had left, Ordosteen was still standing. His eyes drifted to the veil. “I wonder,” he murmured, not sure exactly what. Nothing as yet made sense.
* * *
Even were she not clothed in the oversized kurta and churidar of a soldier, Kordahla would have felt presumptuous imagining she belonged in Kaijoor Palace. The vaulted ceilings, covered in detailed arabesques and supported by columns with elaborate corbels, the huge arched windows, and the marble floors of white, green, pink and black made the dusky decadence of Father’s palace seem almost provincial. She made a point to lift her chin as Captain deq Lungo opened the side doors to a great hall and announced her presence.
The Terlaani Lady we intercepted at the border was less than she had hoped for. Still, elegance did not depend on fancy clothes. She paced her walk past the tiered balconies, and imbued her curtsy to Shah Ordosteen with the regal air of one bred to the ways of the court.
“Your Majesty,” she said to the man on the golden throne. He sat solid as the carving of the massive oak tree springing from its back. “My Lord. My Lady,” she continued to Matisse, who slouched in his chair, and Lady Jordayne, who reclined with sophistication. Shah Ordosteen might have accorded them the supporting standing-bear thrones, but they were her equals. To them, she would not dip her knee.
Behind her, the doors clanged closed.
Moments passed as Ordosteen regarded her. White-haired and with dark circles under his eyes, he was not aging well, but he had the air of one used to peaceful times; one who had never needed to struggle for authority; one who had indulged rather than one who had let himself go.
“Captain deq Lungo has advised me of your claim. Are you certain you wish to repeat it in this court?” he said at last.
She was aware of the sword at Matisse’s side, and his hand on the pommel. Of his rumpled appearance, as though he had been dragged from bed despite the early hour. His lazy gaze fixed upon her. It held the regard of a well-fed cat that might stretch a clawed paw to bat at a mouse that dared to approach. And behind all that she was aware of a rugged appeal. She had heard he was a lady’s man. Seeing him here, blonde and blue-eyed, she could believe it. Could believe also he would smite her down in an instant as Father had the meatball sellers.
She swallowed down the ghoulish image, willed her erratic heart to slow.
“I am Princess Kordahla, daughter to Shah Wilshem of Terlaan. I have come to Myklaan to request asylum.” She fixed her eyes on Shah Ordosteen. Considering Lady Jordayne’s sharp gaze, it seemed the safest place. The woman was slight of figure, with dull ash-blonde hair, but her presence matched the devastating image of the Vae gazing down from the dome. For all the immodesty of her flesh-baring dress, no one would ever dare dismiss her.
“You make a monumental claim.” Ordosteen rose and descended the dais until he was level with her. “It is many seasons since I saw Princess Kordahla. She was but a child then.” For all the caution in his slate-blue eyes, for all the kindness beneath it, his scrutiny set her heart racing. “How can I be sure you are she?” he asked, walking around her.
“I am she.”
“I am afraid I will need more than your say so, child. You can hardly expect me to take the word of the bedraggled woman before me.”
“I have proof. And something more. A gift if you will
grant me refuge.” Her hands were trembling, she realised, as she retrieved the crystal from a pocket and the quartz from around her neck. The nerves tickling her stomach weakened her. She had to steel herself to speak. “I offer you the crystal of a mahktashaan in return for your protection.”
The silence was total. Ordosteen reached a hand to her gift, retracted it, reached again, but did not touch. Both Lord Matisse and Lady Jordayne sat up straight on their wooden thrones.
“They are harmless, I can assure you. I have carried them with me from home. I cannot attest to how they might work, but perhaps your mages can unlock the secret.” She stopped, aware she was prattling.
Ordosteen took the crystal and quartz and held them up.
It was Lady Jordayne who, rising, broke the royal silence. “I rather think we need the mages, Uncle.” She glided to the double doors amid the tinkle of bangles and anklets, opened them just wide enough to issue the summons, then closed them again, not in the least embarrassed pages and guards could ogle her bare midriff.
Ordosteen dropped his hand and focused his bewildered curiosity upon her. “Your presence here cannot remain a secret. Shah Wilshem is almost certain to wage war to avenge his honour, and if the rumour you are betrothed to Ahkdul deq Hudassan is true, Verdaan may join the fight. You place Myklaan in a precarious position. I am not sure this realm is prepared to go to war over you, no matter how renowned your beauty.
“The question, Uncle,” Jordayne said from the back of the room, “is whether you are prepared to go to war over those crystals.”
“Ah,” Ordosteen said, scrutinising the crystal in his palm. “I suppose it is.” He looked at her again. “It is not a question I am inclined to answer on the spur of the moment. Wilshem or his emissary are likely to come calling. I do not know how I shall respond. You have risked a great deal to come here, and not all of it yours to gamble. If I am to jeopardise my realm by extending you the hospitality of this court, I must know why.”
In this expansive room, with these level rulers, she could hardly speak of a djinn. Her reasons seemed petty at best. “The rumours you heard are true, Majesty. My father betrothed me to Ahkdul, and he has already intimated he will make my life a misery. I am tired of being chattel.”