by A. R. Peters
“Mungro hasn’t been careful enough.” The man’s voice filled with impatience. “I can’t just hand out medication to you, boy. Scars don’t ache and burn like she claims. They might feel tight, but not painful on their own. And I’m not giving her more of that medicine unless I see wounds. It’s too expensive. And too strong of medicine can make her condition worse, I might add.”
Daireth glared at him, glancing briefly to the man’s eyes. “You think she’s making it up?”
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen examined her,” Uldair replied, narrowing his eyes.
“Maybe you’ve missed the glowing red one on her neck. It’s only been there six months.”
Uldair flushed. “If that’s what her whole body’s like, I’ll need to see it! I need to know if it’s some sort of plague we’ll need to remove her for.”
“Well, that’s incentive for her to see you! To strip her down and embarrass her only to ship her off to who knows where!” Daireth snapped. “She hasn’t infected anyone—if she did, it would’ve been me years ago. She doesn’t need to be removed anywhere. She needs medicine, and the one you won’t give her is the only one that works—and only barely!”
Uldair opened the door wider and jabbed his finger down the hall. “Get out of here!”
“Are you going to be open late enough for her to see you?”
“That’s no concern of yours! Now go. And if you keep bothering me, I’m not so scared of your uncle that I won’t tell him of it!”
Daireth looked up and glared into his eyes a moment. They were an ugly, hazy shade of blue, like low-quality paint. Then he turned away, hobbling down the hallway. He heard the door slam behind him, and he cursed Uldair’s name under his breath.
He sat for a while on the stone bench again, thinking of what he should do. He was still within sight of the door. Usually Mungro worked in the mornings, and Uldair in the evenings. Mungro’s shift usually lasted from dawn until noon, and Uldair’s from noon until an hour before curfew. But sometimes they switched. He sighed. He’d probably have to wait until noon, then. But it wasn’t that far away—he would have time to get an early lunch and come back.
Daireth turned and glared at the stone stairs again. So be it.
It took him a half hour to safely make it to the kitchens from the third story. It took another half hour for him to get something to eat, managing to avoid the usually red-faced, shouting main cook but still looking down to avoid the glare of the other servants in the kitchens and pantries. He caught a glimpse of Airaine’s scarf and her dull, ragged hair as she was washing dishes, and briefly his heart lightened. But she had her back to him and was separated from him by too many others. Disgruntled, he took the meal they thrust at him and hobbled away, wishing there was some sort of salve to help his legs, and to help Airaine grow her hair out thick and silky. Thicker and silkier than the girls they went to school with, who didn’t deserve to be so pretty.
After he ate alone in the dining hall in a corner, he made his way back to his favorite spiral staircase. It was rarely used. This time, it took a half hour to make it up the stairs. On a good day, he could make it up one flight in five or ten minutes. But the more frustrated, angry, or miserable he felt, the longer he seemed to take, as if he needed to be kicked while he felt down.
But as he hobbled along, he felt a little better. His stomach was full, he’d seen some of his favorite paintings along the way, and he hadn’t run into anyone. And on top of that, he was pleased to know that he had timed everything right. He’d made it up to the healer’s room with about ten minutes to spare. It only took ten minutes of catching his breath, watching the door from his bench, and avoiding the eyes of servants walking past. He glanced over just as Uldair was walking out of the door and down the other side of the hall. Grinning, he pushed himself shakily to his feet and hobbled to the healer’s door. Once he was there, he knocked, trying to think of something sarcastically funny to say to Mungro, to soften him up a bit before asking for the medicines.
But when the door opened, Daireth froze. A new healer stood there, younger than either Mungro or Uldair, but with no friendlier of a face. He looked to be forty or so, and something like the drawings Daireth had seen of moose. A moose with mop-like graying hair and a suspicious scowl. But he was wearing the healer’s tan robes, and had their symbol on his chest: a square silver pendant on a chain, with a mortar, pestle, and plant sprigs beneath them engraved on it. “Yes?”
“Hello,” Daireth said, offering his best attempt at a smile. But the man just scowled still, and he knew his smile was weak and ineffective. “I’m not feeling well. May I come in?”
The man scowled deeper. “How so?”
“I’m having trouble breathing. It took me half an hour to get up the stairs from the first story,” he said, softening his tone. “I had to rest before I came by for some medicine, and maybe a strengthening tea. My legs are…shaky.”
The man stared at him a moment. Daireth looked down awkwardly, knowing his answers were feeble. But to his surprise, the man opened the door and gestured him inside. “Your name?”
“Daireth Telathar,” he answered, quickly hobbling inside.
The man turned back and frowned again. “Do you come here much?”
Daireth just barely managed to resist clenching his jaw. “Only when I’m sick,” he stated. Then, reminding himself he had to be pleasant, he looked up. “I don’t remember meeting you before.” He smiled again, hoping it didn’t look forced. “What is your name, sir?”
“Orwald.” He kept frowning for a moment, then shut the door and gestured for Daireth to follow. Daireth hobbled after him, pleased to have finally had a chance to get in the room. He made his way to the counter to wait, and stood waiting as the man rummaged through some tools. He glanced down as the healer dropped a cloth bag of tea sachets on the counter. He caught a glimpse of something silver under them. Was it part of a quill? He leaned closer, almost reached out to pick it up, but was distracted by one of the questions he hated most. “How long have you experienced this shortness of breath? Is that why you have a cane?”
Daireth sighed, resigned. Orwald listened as he explained, frowning the whole time, that as a child, he remembered running everywhere. But he’d contracted some sort of sickness, something no one else had been able to explain to him, that made him grow progressively weaker. Slowly, he’d changed from a child who ran everywhere to a fifteen-year old that could barely walk. Even with his cane. His weak legs, sore back, and lungs that felt as if they were constantly drowning in fire. “The strengthening teas help a little. But for my lungs, what Mungro gave me last time was a salve. I rub it on my chest. It’s kind of thick, and greasy. He got it from that cabinet.”
The man glanced back, then turned with a fresh scowl. “Take your teas. But I’m not going to start off there. That cabinet contains some of our strongest and most expensive medicines.”
“I’ve tried every other medicine in here,” Daireth replied, frowning back. “Everything else worked at first, but then it stopped being effective.”
“I thought you were only here when you were sick.”
“I am sick,” he snapped, allowing the bitterness to seep into his voice. “I only come here when I’m desperate. I use as little medicine as possible.”
“I knew your name was familiar,” Orwald replied coldly. “Uldair warned me about you just this morning. Mungro may have had a soft spot for you, giving you those expensive medicines whenever you feel a bit off normal, but he’s dismissed for retirement now.” Daireth stared, his heart sinking into his stomach. “And we’re not going to keep playing your game.”
“What game?” he demanded, feeling his cheeks heating up.
“Your little attention-seeking games. You and that girl you run around with. The one who says her scars hurt. And even if you were really sick, there’s nothing stronger than what you have already used. We’re not going to waste our time or our resources on lost causes anymore. We’ve already got the Pr
inces breathing down our necks—”
But the rest of his words were lost on Daireth’s ears. He blinked rapidly as he turned, snatched a small sack off the counter, and shoved his teas off the counter into the bag. He slung it over his shoulder, snatched his cane back in hand, and turned to hobble out of the doors. As he approached, the door opened up, and Uldair came striding in with a triumphant grin. But when his eyes landed on Daireth, his grin fell instantly into a scowl. “What are you doing here?”
“Leaving,” Daireth snarled, giving him a filthy look as he hobbled past.
“Good!” he heard behind him. “And don’t come back! I already warned you—”
“So he came earlier, too?” Orwald demanded. “You manipulative little—”
Daireth slammed the door as hard as he could. It wasn’t much, but at least it gave a louder than normal clap! As he turned around, he caught the stares of two servants walking past, scowling at him. He gave them the same filthy look, then staggered down the hall, found a broom closet, went inside, and locked the door behind him.
He lay in the dark for well over an hour. He kept his hands clasped around his scrawny knees, shaking. He wanted to stay. He wanted to sleep off everything that had just happened. But he knew he couldn’t. Ideas ran through his mind, growing more foolhardy and impractical as they passed. He could see Graedin’s face growing stern in his memory, reminding him to lay low, reminding him to stay out of trouble and watch his mouth. Warning him, because the old man couldn’t get him medicine for seven months. He could see Graedin in his mind, tall and strong despite his age, other men saluting him. Other men doing what he ordered either because they respected him, or feared him, while glancing at Daireth with confusion, wondering why Captain Graedin Kairathed even allowed him to stand in his shadow.
He grit his teeth as he rummaged through the sack in the dark, trying to undo the knot he’d hastily tied earlier, so he could grab one of the tea sachets. He doubted that the so-called “strengthening tea” actually worked. But he knew he needed something—he felt sore and tired from more than the stairs. If only there were a salve for that. Something he could share with Airaine. Some sort of miraculous healing that could reach deeper than their skin, to give them strength, to heal all their wounds and scars, to stop the aching in Daireth’s chest and the burning, prickling of his eyes from tears he could barely keep hidden. That could keep their bodies and all the ruined places within from crashing down.
His jaw ached too now as he finally untied the knot and reached into the bag, fighting the burning and prickling in his eyes. As he separated a single tea sachet from the others, his hand brushed against something small and cold. He felt around for it in the dark. After a moment, his hand closed around the small, cold, oddly-shaped thing. And then, his heart skipped a beat. Slowly, he managed to get to his knees, then stand, opening the broom closet door, blinking in the light falling over his open palm. In it lay a silver key.
He stared at it a moment, stunned. Was this the key to the healer’s room?
He looked up and around, his heart beginning to hammer. Suddenly nervous, he stuffed it into his trousers’ pocket. The ideas came more quickly now, a flurry of thoughts, all the impracticality suddenly seeming possible. He had the key, after all. He just had to get them out of there. But he knew he had to make it work the first time. If they figured out that he was going to try to steal the medicines…
Daireth gripped his cane and began to hobble down the hall. He tried to look purposeful, to not look toward the room that held so much of his hatred and hope. He hobbled past, determined to find one of the nearby, smaller kitchens on this floor for some hot water. He was going to need to move quickly if he were to fulfill any of his ideas for getting that medicine. It had to be late afternoon. Would both of them go down to dinner together, or would one of them remain behind? Perhaps he could get to the room and steal inside then? But what would he do if one of them stayed? Maybe he could lie to a guard, and warn them that one of the Prince’s wives was about to have her baby. What was his name? His wife was just about to burst…
“Hiding in the broom closet, were you?”
Ice and fire erupted into war in his chest. Daireth stumbled to a stop, leaning more heavily than ever on the cane. The world blurred as the sound of the man’s voice took over everything.
“Turn around.”
For a brief moment, as long as the shiver slipping down his back, he held his breath. But he didn’t dare pause long. Slowly, he swiveled around, his cane clunking softly on the stone floor, keeping his eyes low. The first thing he saw was a belt with a long sword and a couple of long daggers. They looked as if they’d once been handsome, but were old and stained with black spatters. The man wore a fine tunic and cloth trousers, with a long, dark blue cloak around his shoulders. It had thick gray fur inside. The hides of several wolves, from rumors he’d heard. He didn’t question it—nor that the wolves had been hunted by the man himself.
“The healers told me you’ve been bothering them. How long have you been up here?”
Again, Daireth hesitated, staring at the stains on the sword sheath. “An hour,” he lied in a whisper. Then, pleading, “I’ve been struggling with stairs. I’m so tired—”
“Get out,” the man’s voice hissed. “Now. And if hear one more complaint about you skulking around, trying to sneak in and steal something, you will regret your decisions.”
Daireth flitted a look up, then down. The man stood about six feet tall, with broad shoulders. The thick cloak gave him a craggy silhouette. He had brown hair and a beard that were flecked with gray. Daireth couldn’t remember ever seeing any other expression than his still, firm, cold glare—except the wild wrath that haunted his dreams. “My friend needs medicine.” He spoke the words quickly. When the man didn’t respond, he added, “Airaine—she’s a servant—she gets off too late to pick them up. I tried to get them for her, some salves, but the healers won’t—”
“She can request a day off to see them.”
“But Uncle Bairen—”
“But nothing!” Daireth instantly braced himself, squeezing his eyes shut. He stayed still for a moment, waiting. When he opened his eyes, he flit a look back into his uncle’s face, not daring to see if his uncle’s eyes were truly black fire, as he’d always imagined them to be, and then away again. It was enough to see his uncle’s hand lowering. “Get out of here.”
Gritting his teeth and blinking rapidly, Daireth slowly hobbled past his uncle, giving the man a wide berth. He went straight for the stairs, though it took a while, and took a few steps down, far enough that he knew he wouldn’t be seen. Then he stopped to listen. He could hear a pair of boots rapping hard on the stone floor above the landing. He waited until he couldn’t hear them anymore. Then he hobbled back up the stairs just until he could see. Bairen was gone.
He looked around, still nervous. He hobbled to some curtains near the window and snuck behind them. They hung far enough from the window that they didn’t touch his body. He wouldn’t be seen by anyone not looking. But it was cold, and several minutes passed as he waited, chilled against the icy window. His teeth began to chatter, and his legs ached.
But finally, just when he was sure his legs would give out, he heard the door open. “Make sure to lock the door,” he heard someone saying. “So that boy doesn’t sneak in.”
“You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was faking his limp, too.”
“Yeah. I get that he doesn’t get a lot of attention from Prince Bairen and all, but faking a limp isn’t the way to…” The voices trailed off with the sound of their boots on the stone. And finally, he was alone again.
Daireth hobbled as fast as he could to the door, pulling the key from his pocket. He glanced around nervously, inwardly begging his uncle to stay away, as he withdrew the key and reached the door. He pulled it out and went to fit it into the door. But when he looked at its size, and the size of the keyhole, his heart burst into furious pounding again.
The k
ey was too small.
Daireth turned around, heaving in breaths, running his free hand across his brow. What now? He stuffed the key back in his pocket, his fist shaking. If he was lucky, he would have a half hour. He thought of his uncle’s angry face, blinked rapidly, and searched the faces of the occasional servants who passed. Most avoided his gaze. He saw only one manservant of a Prince. The Princes held spare keys to important rooms, such as the healer’s room. And sometimes, if they were lazy, they sent a trusted servant out to do their bidding. When Daireth asked for help, the manservant said his master’s keys were in his room, shrugging. And giving him a suspicious look.
And then, he saw him. One of the Princes—what was his name again? The one with the pregnant wife—walking down the hall. Daireth stood as straight as he could, and bowed as the man drew near. “Good evening, sire,” he murmured, looking down. The Prince’s boots were polished leather. His pants and cloak were fine. The fur on the inside of the cloak was white, maybe ermine, and a rich forest green. But Daireth shoved down his disgust and pride, thinking of the medicine, thinking of the sore on Airaine’s neck and the notch in her ear. “May I have your help, my lord?” he groveled. “Do you have a key to the healer’s room?”
The Prince chuckled. “I do! Are they at dinner?” Daireth glanced up. The Prince had red hair and pale skin. He was young enough to keep some muscle on his body, and wore a fine gold chain and jeweled rings. “I’m picking up some teas and lotions for my wife. Follow me in.”
Daireth’s heart leapt, and he bowed again. “Thank you, sire. You are most gracious.”
The man smiled, looking a little haughty at this. “Oh, of course. You’re welcome.” He pulled out a large key, opened the door, and walked in. Daireth hobbled after quickly. “You can call me Prince Essair,” he added, as if this were some kind of gift.
Daireth forced a smile, but didn’t look at him. “You are too kind, sire. I’m not worthy.”
“But aren’t you Prince Bairen’s nephew?” The Prince eyed him, confusion and a hint of disgust on his face, moving his eyes between Daireth’s cane and baggy, shabby tunic and trousers. “Why didn’t you ask him for help, or borrow his key?”