by Fran Jacobs
But tonight my friends were an intrusion that I resented, and my family were an irritating presence I could have done without. It didn't help that I was so damn tired. My sleep had been restless, broken, for the last few nights. I didn't think I had slept more than a couple of hours at a time and I hadn't had one full night's sleep for weeks, perhaps longer. I'd lost track of exactly how long it had been. I hadn't told anyone about my insomnia, because I didn't want to worry anyone, but now I was beginning to realise that might have been a mistake. My parents were more likely to be concerned about my lack of appetite and unusual quietness than they were about a few nights of poor sleep, but it couldn't be helped. I couldn't fake an interest in the bland conversations going on around me, and just looking at the food on my plate made my stomach churn. Unfortunately, I couldn't look away either. To look up would be to see all the courtiers, eating, drinking and laughing, with their eyes, as always, on the High Table, looking my way.
I squirmed irritably in my seat, rubbing my aching shoulders with one hand. Too many hours spent studying, or in meetings, meant that my shoulders and back ached, but that wasn't the only thing that was bothering me. There was something else; I just couldn't put my finger on it. A nagging thought in the back of my head, like an itch I couldn't scratch, was the only real sign that I had that something was wrong, but it was enough. I knew that I had to get out of the hall.
I pushed back my chair and got up and the world suddenly tilted dangerously. I had to ground my feet firmly into the floor or I would have fallen over. The candles seemed to be awash with bright dancing spots that stung my eyes and I had to blink, hard, to clear my vision. "Excuse me, Grandfather," I whispered.
"What's wrong?" Sorron asked, catching my arm. His hand was heavy with wrinkles and lines, the blue eyes that studied me were concerned. "Dale?"
"I have to be excused." My stomach heaved and I swallowed, pushing bile back down my throat into my stomach.
"Sit down, Candale," my father said in a firm voice, but when I lifted my head to meet his eyes, I saw that he was worried too, and a little annoyed. My mother laid a hand on his arm and leaned into whisper something, but Sorron spoke first.
"Let the boy go, Gerian," my grandfather said. "You don't want him to have a fit here at the table do you?"
Gerian's eyes widened and he shook his head. "Candale, are you all right?"
"I-I'll be fine," I said. "Father, honestly, I will. I just need to go. Now." Sorron released my arm and I stepped away, heading towards the door of the hall and freedom.
"I will come and see you later, son," Gerian said, a little louder than I would have liked. If people hadn't noticed me get to my feet, they had certainly heard my father and had noticed me now.
"Yes, Father," I said. "Thank you."
As I reached the door, the world started to spin and I knew what was coming. Bile rose up in my throat again and my ears started to ring, as though there was a bell going off inside my head. I couldn't hear anything else above its irritating dulcet tones.
I stumbled out into the hall, my guards close behind me, small dots and star shapes dancing before my eyes. The world was rushing up to greet me. My stomach heaved again, as though I were at sea, and I reached out to grab the wall, digging my nails into the stone to try and keep myself on my feet.
Only I fell, and my hand scraped down the wall. The rough stone ripped my fingertips and tore my nails, but I was only vaguely aware of the pain. There was a sudden jolt, as my knees hit the ground, fire lanced up through my thighs, and the world stopped spinning as everything collapsed into darkness.
***
I was hit by a wave of heat and the strong, acrid stench of burning flesh and hair. My vision cleared and all I could see was fire. Orange-red dancing flames, licking around five wooden stakes set firmly into the ground. The grass beneath those stakes was burnt and shrivelled, warped in the heat, and tied to the stakes was what remained of five people, charred and melted beyond recognition. Their flesh was black and red, and crusty, their eyes were lifeless and empty and they stared ahead, right through me. Skin hung in charred tatters, fluttering in the breeze that blew the stench of the burnt flesh straight into my nostrils, making my stomach heave and twist. I wanted to turn my head away and be sick, but my limbs wouldn't obey me. I had no choice but to keep staring ahead at the burnt twisted figures.
And the wind blew gold flakes of ash around. It danced on the grass, gently touched my face and landed on my hair like soft and gentle butterflies.
***
I found myself kneeling on the floor in the cold corridor. My fingertips were bleeding, there was blood under the nails, bile stung my throat, tears burned my eyes and I could feel tremors flooding my body, but I was staring at Silver's feet. The vision was over.
"Dale?" he whispered.
"I had a vision," I said, lifting my head slowly. "Another one, only it was very short and ... and-"
"You felt it coming?" Trellany said.
I nodded and curled back up again, pressing my forehead to the cold floor. "Give me a moment or two," I said in a muffled voice, "to get my head together and then we can go back to my room." I tried to take a deep breath, which wasn't easy with my knees pressed against to my chest. I still had the taste and scent of burnt flesh in my nose and in my mouth and I could still feel the strong wave of heat against my skin. Lying like this, curled up in the dark, with my head to the cold stone, helped to numb my head and relax me more than any amount of fresh air could have, I think.
"Are you in any pain?" Silver asked, his voice coming down to me as he still stood over me.
"No," I replied.
"Cold?" Silver asked.
"No. No. Just a bit achy, tired and nauseous." I swallowed hard. "Very nauseous. But, no, it doesn't feel like last time. I'm not cold, not in pain ... just a bit shaken."
"I sent Milan to fetch the healer, told him you were about to have a fit, and Breskarn to make sure that your room is prepared and set up." This came from Trellany, sounding at my side. Still from above. I didn't like the idea that they were just standing over me, looking at me as I knelt curled up on the floor, but I wasn't ready to uncurl yet.
"I don't need a healer, Trellany," I said. "I feel fine."
"You might need a healer for your hands, Candale," Trellany replied. "You've left a nice trail of blood and torn nails down the wall, so I imagine that it will need seeing to. Besides, I sent Milan to get a healer to get him away from you. I think he'd have been able to tell that you weren't having a seizure if he'd stayed."
I lifted my head to look at her through my curly black hair. "What does it look like when I have a vision?" I asked her. "I'm ..."
"Curious?" Silver said, with a strained laugh.
"You just collapsed, Candale," Trellany told me. "It looked as though you were fainting. If it wasn't for the way that you grabbed the wall and stumbled out of the hall, we could have passed it off as just that, but no one is warned before they faint, most people just fall."
"I wouldn't want people to think that I have fainting fits," I said. "They'll just add that to my seizures and, before anyone knows it, rumours will start that I'm too sick to rule." I uncurled slowly and took Silver's offered hand to get to my feet. "As long as I can keep out of everyone's way, we can pass it off as a fit and no one will ever have to know the truth."
Breskarn was waiting for me back in my suite. "Are you all right?" he asked me softly, in that deep timbre voice of his.
"Fine," I replied, sinking into a chair beside the fire, dangling my sore hand over the arm. It stung mercilessly and I didn't want it anywhere near the rest of me in case I banged, prodded or poked it by accident. "Could you go and find your brother and tell him I have no need of a healer? And then you can both retire."
"Of course, Prince Candale," Breskarn replied, with no arguments and no further questions. Trellany, for all her protestations that she knew her duty and would never ask questions of me, had never obeyed me so quickly.
When the door had closed behind my bodyguard, Silver and Trellany finally relaxed. "Do you want to talk about it?" Silver asked, perching in a chair across from me.
"No," I replied.
"Do you want a drink?" Trellany offered instead.
"Yes." I closed my eyes and sighed deeply. "I saw five people burnt alive at the stake."
"I thought you didn't want to talk about it," Silver said. I didn't bother to reply, just pulled a face at him.
A shadow fell over me and I opened my eyes to take the glass of brandy from Trellany. "Thanks," I told her. I sipped the peach brandy. "I'm not sure I can cope with this. It's like a nightmare, only one that can come on at any time, not just when I'm asleep, and it feels more real than any nightmare I've ever had."
"You can handle it," Trellany told me, sitting down beside me. "Because you have to."
"That wasn't really what I wanted to hear," I told her. She just smiled and I smiled back, wearily. I felt tired, all over, but I couldn't be sure if that was a result of the vision or my insomnia. "I would like to go to bed," I said. "But I guess I should wait for my father to come and see me."
"Do you think he will?" Silver asked.
"He said he would," I replied. "So I imagine that he will, even if it's only for a few minutes." I looked at Silver. "Can you fix my hand?" I asked.
"Of course."
"I don't want to have to wear a bandage for Aylara's betrothal," I said, looking down at him as he took my hand in his.
"Princess Aylara is taking this very seriously," Silver agreed. "I think she wants everything to be as perfect as possible."
"I think she will just be glad that you're there at all, Candale," Trellany said. "Because you very nearly weren't."
"I know," I said. "I know."
I was on my second glass of brandy when Gerian finally came to see me. I was more asleep than awake by then, curled up with my legs against my chest, supported by the arm of the chair. He'd changed out of the finery he had worn for dinner in the hall and was now dressed more simply, in breeches and a loose tunic. He sat down opposite me, took the glass of brandy Trellany offered him with a slight nod of thanks, and then turned to look at me.
"Was it very bad?" he asked.
"My fit?" That was what he had thought was happening to me, after all. Gerian nodded and I shook my head. "No, sir, it wasn't."
"Good. Good." He relaxed, sinking back in the chair. "I was worried, you went so pale."
"It was only mild," I assured him. "Although I'm a little tired now."
"I won't keep you long then," Gerian said. "I just wanted to see how you were and to tell you that your grandfather and I have decided to relieve you of your duties tomorrow. You can spend the day however you wish."
"Why?" I asked him.
"Because you had a fit," he told me gently. "And I thought you could use a day to recover."
"There's no need," I said. "It wasn't bad and I feel fine now."
"That as may be," Gerian said. "But we both know that a mild fit can be a warning sign, that if you continue you could have one that's much worse. I'd rather avoid that, Candale, so please, take tomorrow off. You can do whatever you want, go hunting, riding --"
"But I don't want to," I said. "I want to attend the meeting. I know myself well enough to know what I can and can't handle, Father. I really don't know why you can't just trust my own judgement on this."
"It's not that I don't trust you, Candale. I just don't want you to overwork yourself."
"That's nearly impossible," I said, a little more harshly than I meant, "with you always around, trying to protect me from every little thing. What sort of king am I going to make when my own father thinks I'm incapable of making even the smallest decision about myself?"
"What sort of king will you be," my father replied, "if you cannot listen to advice?"
"I wasn't aware that you gave advice," I retorted. "I thought you only gave orders."
"That's unfair, Candale. I only want what's best for you --"
"No," I snapped. "What is unfair is the way you treat me. I find it laughable that you tell me I should try and act like a man, and take responsibility for myself, while you continue to treat me like a child and keep making decisions for me."
"Perhaps I treat you like a child because that's how you insist on behaving," Gerian replied. "Like now, for instance? And perhaps I should deal with you the way I would deal with any child throwing a temper-tantrum like this and tan your hide!"
"'Temper-tantrum?'" I was almost shouting now and my fingers had tightened around the stem of my brandy glass tight enough to make it crack. "You're trying to punish me, humiliate me, by showing my weaknesses to everyone and you think that my anger at this is just a childish spat and threaten to beat me for it!"
"I have no reason to think of it being any other way, Candale," Gerian said. "You're being totally ridiculous, getting angry over something that you know is just commonsense." His eyes narrowed. "It's really unlike you."
His words seemed to cut a clear path through my mind and I stopped and stared at him. He was right. Why was I so angry over this? My body was shaking, I'd broken my brandy glass and I'd been tempted to throw it at him, and for what? Because he'd suggested I take a day off, something I actually would love to do? It made no sense and it was totally unlike me.
I took a deep breath and then another, forcing myself to calm down, and to release the broken glass from my clenched fist. I saw my father's eyes widen with concern when the pieces dropped onto the floor, but he didn't say anything.
"I'm sorry," I said at last. "Father, I'm sorry."
"Yes," Gerian said. "Well, this is just more proof that you need the day off, that everything is getting to you."
"Yes," I said, uncomfortably. "I think you're right."
"Is your hand all right?" I nodded. "Good." He studied me quietly. "There's no shame in needing a day to yourself, Dale. Sometimes we all have to do things that we don't like, for the good of the kingdom." I didn't say anything and he sighed, swirling the brandy around in his glass. "When you were ill I spent a lot of time sitting by your bedside, watching you sleep. I didn't want to attend meetings, I didn't want to sleep. I wanted to sit beside you. But, as your grandfather pointed out to me, I couldn't do that. It wasn't going to help you if I got ill watching you. I had to rest and I had to carry on with my life because people needed me. He was right, of course, so I rejoined him at meetings, even though they passed over my head most of the time, and I tried my best to carry on as normal because I didn't have the liberty of staying here in your room, waiting for you to recover, or to die. And I wasn't the only one who had to work hard to keep up appearances. We all did. Your mother and I argued constantly, neither of us slept, or ate properly, yet we had to go on, for appearances sake, for the sake of the kingdom, for those who relied on us and for those who would exploit any weakness that they could see. It wasn't a choice, Candale. We had to do it, just as you have to rest. You aren't strong. You know that, I know that and the Court knows that. Just as I would have been no use to you, or anyone else, tired out and weary from sitting beside your bed, you will be of no use to the kingdom if you're so tired that you have a bad fit that puts you in bed for a week."
"I know," I said. "I'm sorry."
Gerian nodded. "All right, son. Let's forget it." He took a sip of brandy. "Now, tomorrow, whatever you plan to do, I think you should include Kal. Your mother needs to talk to your sister and I think it will be a good idea if Kal was out the way."
"Why does she want to do that?" I asked.
Gerian raised an eyebrow at me and when he saw that I really didn't know, his gaze lowered and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, crossing one leg over the other and needlessly smoothed down the fabric of his breeches. "Women's things, Candale," he said, a faint touch of blush flooding his cheeks.
"A betrothal isn't a wedding," I said. "Aylara and Kal, they aren't, I mean ..." I trailed off, not really sure what I did mean, and certainly not wanting my
mind to go where it wanted to.
"A betrothal isn't a wedding," Gerian agreed, "but it is a ceremony that promises intent. Some couples don't wait for the wedding night and your mother just wants to talk to your sister about some things."
"Oh," I said softly, and nodded as if I understood, when really I didn't.
"And Kal needs a break," my father continued, "and I think it would be good for you two to spend time together. He is your friend, too."
"As well as Teveriel, you mean," I said. "You still don't like him."
My father drank down the last of his brandy calmly and leaned out to set the empty glass down onto the nearby table. He wasn't flustered that I had asked this of him, but then he was rarely bothered by anything asked of him. I envied that about him, that he could voice his opinion so freely and not care what anyone else thought about it. "It's not a question of not liking him, Candale. He's a bard, Court Bard, now I suppose, but you're a prince. You need friends of your status, or at least, close to it." He got to his feet. "You'll need to be back for the betrothal ceremony rehearsal," my father added. "But other than that, Candale, you can take your time and enjoy your day."
"Thank you," I muttered.
When my father had left I turned to Trellany. "What things?" I asked her.
"Excuse me?" Trellany asked, coming to sit down in the chair my father had just left. She crossed her legs and started to unbraid her hair with her slim fingers. Since coming back from White Oaks I'd found many of her red hairs and leather hair bands lying around the sitting room from where she had undressed her hair in the evening. My suite really was her suite now. It didn't bother me as much as it once had.
"What things does my mother need to tell my sister?" I asked, as though she should have known.
"Oh, you think because I'm a woman I would know these things?" Trellany said.
"Yes," I said. "I do."
"Despite the fact I'm not married?"
"Yes."