by Anita Valle
“I wasn’t talking about mine.”
Now Heidel turned her head. Eravis’ eyes were tired, not taunting. With a strained smile he lifted the dish in his hand. Heidel gasped. “You took my cake!”
“Well, you took mine. It seemed fair.”
Heidel’s cake looked rather like a muffin, spongy in texture, the top mushrooming larger than the bottom. The lumen fruit had tinted it to a pretty pink color. She hadn’t frosted it, hoping the cake’s flavor would stand alone. It looked simple and plain compared to the fancier cakes, but still good.
Then she noticed the large chunk missing from one side.
“You’re eating it?” she cried. Nearly a quarter of her cake had been nibbled away. The normal Heidel would have exploded over this. But she wasn’t feeling normal just now.
“Sorry, I wanted to taste it. And then I kept on tasting it. Hungry, I guess.”
Heidel nodded. “Very well.” She didn’t like the chilly way they spoke to each other. But she didn’t know how to fix it.
“My father liked it,” said Eravis. “Want to know what he said?”
“No,” Heidel said instantly. Oh hogs, why had she done that? She did want to know. But that’s what Eravis did, he made her argue and contradict. It was hopeless.
From far away, Heidel heard King Erlamon talking to the slouchy fellow, something about density. Shifting the heavy silver dish to one arm, she reached out and pinched a morsel off the side of her cake. It couldn’t be terrible if Eravis was eating it. She’d like to know how it tasted, before the rain turned it to mush.
Heidel popped the morsel in her mouth. Holy Teeth. It was good. Sweet, but not too sweet. Moist, but not too moist. Light and soft and sugary. Finally, she had done it. She’d made a thumping good cake.
But – Heidel licked her thumb – that was odd. There was something she didn’t recognize, a flavor she couldn’t place. Her mind flashed an image of her herb shed but nothing more specific.
“Good, isn’t it?” said Eravis.
Heidel nodded absently. Her mind skipped through the ingredients she had used. Butter, sugar, lumen, cream. What was that flavor?
“I’m going home tomorrow,” said Eravis.
Heidel blinked. “Tomorrow?”
Eravis shrugged. “No further reason to stay. Unless... you need me for something.” His tone carried the barest hint of hope.
Heidel turned her eyes forward again. “No. It’s probably best if you go.”
The slouchy fellow ambled down the stairs and Heidel moved aside to let him pass. Her elbow brushed Eravis but she refused to look again. The air between them felt brittle, strained by the weight of unsaid words. Drawing a deep breath, she started up the first step.
“You’re right,” said Eravis. “It’s time to go.”
Heidel turned. Eravis was walking away, threading through the crowd.
“What...?”
“Come, my dear,” she heard King Erlamon say. “Don’t be afraid now.”
“Wait... I....” No, no, he wasn’t leaving now! Didn’t he want to watch the contest? Didn’t he want to see how his father liked his cake? Maybe, like her, he had stopped caring. But was he really leaving? Now? To go home?
“Eravis,” said Heidel, but it came out thinly. She stood frozen on the stairs, watching his dark head move further across the square.
“Heidel,” said Maelyn. “You mustn’t keep the king waiting.”
Heidel forced herself to the top of the stairs where the canopy held off the dribbling rain. Her dress was drenched, her braid heavy with water. She licked her lips and again that elusive flavor haunted her. But nothing mattered now. Nothing at all.
“Princess Heidel.” King Erlamon waited with a benevolent smile. She utterly hated him. If he even noticed his son had left, he gave no sign of it. He was a pig, a selfish, hateful pig.
“Your Majesty.” Heidel barely bobbed a curtsy. She pushed her soggy fringe to one side of her forehead, where it stuck.
“Enjoying the contest?” King Erlamon asked.
No, Sire, this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. That and falling in love with your son. That might be even dumber.
“It’s fun,” Heidel said blandly.
Erlamon gestured to the silver dish. “Show me your cake.”
My cake, Heidel thought sarcastically. After wiping her hand on her skirt, she gripped the handle and lifted the dome lid.
She just managed not to gasp.
Eravis’ cake was heart-shaped. A perfect heart, covered with bright red frosting as smooth as polished marble. And at the center of the cake, a single letter had been fashioned with lines of glossy sugar pearls:
The letter H.
“Quite pretty,” said King Erlamon. “What does the ‘H’ stand for?”
“H-heart.” Heidel blushed at the feeble lie. She knew very well what it stood for.
King Erlamon chuckled. “Can’t be, we know it’s a heart. Who made this?”
“Your son.” Heidel was trembling. It was too much, all at once. She wasn’t ready for this.
“My son. Yes. Good.” He smiled up at Heidel. “It seems you hold his heart in your hands.” He laughed heartily at this but Heidel could not join him. Her chest heaved; she was dangerously close to crying. This had to end.
“Please!” Heidel thrust the cake forward, her voice unnaturally high. “Please, just taste it! So I can go home.”
King Erlamon smiled. Lifting a small knife – it resembled a jeweled dagger – he carved a thin wedge from the cake. He ate solemnly, nodding but never looking at her. “Good. Good. Quite good. One of the best.”
“Thank you,” said Heidel, though it felt silly when it wasn’t her cake. Could she leave now? Would it seem too abrupt?
“Enjoying the contest?” King Erlamon asked. Perhaps he’d forgotten he’d asked this before.
Heidel nodded quickly. “Thank you for the lumen fruit. Eravis and I could not have entered without it.”
Erlamon nodded. “Yes. The lumen fruit. You should also thank your uncle.”
“My uncle?” said Heidel.
“King Jarrod of Grunwold. I stopped there before reaching your kingdom. I told him of the contest. It was he that suggested using lumen fruit and told me to give those to you. I’d almost forgotten I had them.”
Heidel’s heart began to pound. Something was very wrong. “But... you went to Morganoch before Runa. And the queen there gave you the lumen fruits, that’s what Eravis said.”
“No, the queen gave me a small pot of honey. And told me the story of Fenwick.”
No, Heidel thought. A troubadour had told him the story of Fenwick. From the queen of Morganoch he had heard the story of Fennigan, that kingdom’s hero. Erlamon’s head was like a last-minute stew, everything mixed and mushed together.
“You went to Grunwold after Morganoch, didn’t you?” said Heidel. “And Uncle Jarrod gave you the two pieces of lumen fruit that you gave me and Eravis.”
“Yes.” Erlamon smiled. “He stated specifically that he wanted you to have them.”
The two lumen fruits that she and Eravis had baked into their cakes. They had come from Uncle Jarrod who had wanted her to have them. The lumen fruit with skins slightly darker than they should be.
Heidel pinched a tiny morsel from Eravis’ cake and shoved it in her mouth. There it was, the same odd flavor she’d noticed in her own cake. Now she knew what it was.
Nightshade berries.
Poison.
Heidel threw down her cake dish so it smashed at King Erlamon’s feet. She wheeled around.
“ERAVIS!”
Chapter 38
Heidel’s eyes swept the crowd as her stomach crunched to a hard knot. Eravis. He was nowhere. Her gaze followed the direction he had taken but rain blurred the far end of the square.
She found herself at the bottom of the stairs without remembering coming down them. She turned. Everyone was staring at her.
“Find Eravis, I think he’s been poisoned.�
� She directed her words at Briette, the only person who would accept this without explanation. Briette nodded and hurried away. Heidel ducked under the rope and gripped Maelyn’s arm. “Tell the people to search for Prince Eravis. I need him found, immediately.”
Maelyn looked doubtful. “Heidel....”
“Uncle Jarrod sent us poisoned lumen fruit to bake in our cakes. And Eravis ate it.” Heidel released Maelyn’s arm without waiting for her reaction. Ducking again under the ropes, she cut across the purple carpet and plunged into the square, pushing between the confused and murmuring people. A few had overheard her words but they simply stood there, twisting, questioning their neighbor if they’d heard it right. Idiots.
Heidel reached the shops lining the far edge of the square. She stopped, panting, leaning a hand against the whitewashed wall of Merry Milliners. Think, Heidel, think. He came this way, but where did he go? What was he thinking?
He was going home. But he’d have to return to the castle, her castle, first. To collect his things. Yes, good, the castle. Too far to walk in the rain. He’d want his carriage, parked at the Duke of Merridell’s. Good. He probably took Carver Street, which wound up and back toward the estate. A long walk, but maybe if she ran....
She skirted past a series of shops to the opening of Carver Street. She ran, uphill, maybe a minute, when – bless her! - Briette burst into view, driving their silver-and-white carriage down to her. So fast, the hooves of the dapple-gray horses thundered on the cobblestones.
“Get in!” Briette shouted, yanking the reins to stop.
“You’re soaked, let me drive!” said Heidel.
“Just get in!”
Heidel jumped on the step and grabbed the door as Briette swerved the carriage to turn back up the street. Heidel landed on the white velvet bench inside the cabin and allowed herself a minute to clutch her side and gasp for breath. She was never a good runner.
The tall houses of Merridell passed her window in flicks of color. Heidel clutched her hands, knees bouncing with nervous energy. She squeezed the water from her bedraggled braid; her dress she allowed to leech into the seat, spreading soggy patches beneath her. The damp cotton clinging to her skin should have chilled her, but it didn’t. Not one part of her was cold.
The town fell behind them. Within minutes the carriage was climbing the hill to the castle. The incline slowed the horses, driving Heidel nearly mad. She gripped the window ledge and leaned out, hoping to see Eravis’ carriage ahead. Nothing but road, rain, and hateful Lumen trees.
The ground levelled as they reached the top. As the carriage curled around the meadow that lay before the castle, Heidel’s heart dropped like a stone through water. Eravis’ carriage was not parked before the castle’s main door. It was nowhere in sight.
Heidel sprung of of the carriage, dropping to a run over the muddy turf. She had just reached the door when someone called “My lady! My lady!” She turned to find a young man dashing to her across the green, a man in blue and gold liveries. Eravis’ driver.
“The prince is ill! Very ill, my lady!” The young man cried. He staggered to a halt before her, red-faced and winded.
“Where is he?” Heidel shouted.
“In - in a shed. Behind the castle. Princess Ivy told me-”
Heidel didn’t wait. She shoved against the heavy door and hurtled inside. It would be faster to cut through the castle than run around it as he had.
The man caught up to her in the corridor. “When I opened the carriage, the prince was on the floor! I couldn’t wake him for anything! The princess – Ivy – must have heard me shouting. She told me to drive him round to the shed.”
Heidel nodded once. The herb shed was good. If he wasn’t dead already.
“We carried him inside. I didn’t think the princess could do it, lame as she is, but she did! She told me to find you. And then I heard your carriage coming.”
Heidel turned into the kitchen, crossed, and burst out the back door. The rain, at last, was ebbing; her garden plants drooped, every leaf dripping tears. A bad omen.
She pushed into the dusky herb shed. Eravis sprawled on the narrow table, feet pointed outward, one arm sagging over the side. His damp hair was swept back from a pallid gray face, giving him a statue-like appearance. Ivy huddled over him, patting his cheek frantically.
“What happened?” Ivy cried. “He looks dead!”
Heidel seized Eravis’ wrist. No, he had a pulse; faint, slow, but present. She felt herself changing, hardening, her emotions stepping back to where they couldn’t interfere. He was no longer Eravis. He was her patient.
Heidel rolled back her soggy sleeves. “Thank you, Ivy, you did well. And now if you’ll please excuse me, I have work to do.”
Chapter 39
Heidel pushed back his eyelids. The pupils were dilated, typical of nightshade; his breathing weak and shallow. If she didn’t expel the poison from his stomach, he would die. It might be too late already.
“I’m going to mix an emetic for you, Eravis.” She lifted a jug of white wine from beneath the table and set it by his feet. “A quick one – there’s no time for boiling herbs.” From a shelf by the window she removed a small jar of stonecrop leaves, dried and crumbled. Joc had always kept the emergency herbs clearly marked and close at hand. Bless you, Joc.
“Once” – Heidel tipped the wine into a hand-sized pitcher – “Shulay ate some mushrooms she had found in the forest. Silly of her – they were poison. So Joc made this tonic with wine and stonecrop.” Heidel laugh shakily as she dug a spoon inside the jar. “She threw up so much that that nearly killed her.” She stirred quickly with a wooden spoon, clacking the sides of the pitcher. For good measure she added a little cabbage seed, a little fig tree ash. Eravis was stronger than Shulay; he could take it.
The wine turned brown and grainy with herbs. Heidel forced a fat sack of barley beneath Eravis’ shoulders, raising him to a partial sit-up. With one arm crooked around his neck, she pinched open his mouth and pushed the pitcher spout between his lips. She poured carefully, stroking his throat with her fingers to induce swallowing.
“Take it down. Take it down. Then bring it back up,” Heidel whispered. She repeated the gestures: pinching his mouth, pouring the medicine, stroking his throat, all the while her own heart tumbling, tumbling, tumbling. Choking sounds gurgled from Eravis’ throat; his body twitched hard. Heidel dropped the pitcher and with one strong heave flipped Eravis onto his stomach, his head bobbing off the table.
It came before she was ready. The first torrent gushed from his mouth, splattering the floor, table legs, and hem of Heidel’s skirt with yellowish fluid. Heidel grabbed a bucket and managed to catch the second torrent. She stood firm, one hand resting on on his back, and watched his body jerk and shudder, wrenching up the contents of his stomach.
Look at him, Heidel thought. This man whose perfection she envied. Look at him now. Her hand, clutching the bucket, was sprinkled with his vomit; the harsh, sour smell burnt through her nostrils. But she wasn’t disgusted. She was never disgusted. This was why Joc had chosen her, trained her. Because she was capable. Perhaps Eravis could run and shoot and dance and bake. But this – saving a life – was something he could never do.
She was Heidel, the Healing Princess. And for that she could always be proud.
The torrents gave way to dry heaves, which gradually ebbed. Heidel rolled Eravis back onto the sack of barley and wiped his mouth and chin. She pressed an ear to his chest to check his heartbeat. Much too faint. He needed a stimulant, something to counteract the traces of poison still in his body which would slow his heart until it stopped.
She ducked beneath the table to fetch a large bottle of brandy and her heart constricted when she discovered only a blank patch of floor. Precious minutes were wasted while she pillaged the shelves and cupboards; rattling bottles, tumbling baskets, shoving past hanging bundles of herbs so they sprayed dry leaves like fragrant flakes a snow. The brandy was always under that table! When she finally caugh
t the castle thief she’d strap him to the nearest tree and use him for archery practice.
At last she found a small bottle inside a corner cupboard, probably some old stock of Joc’s. Heidel blew off the dust and forced Eravis to drink it as she had with the emetic, coaxing it down his throat.
“Come now, Eravis. Time to wake up.” Heidel patted his cheek with her free hand. “Wake up, now.” She tipped the bottle again and copper liquid spilled from the corners of his mouth. His eyelids did not even flutter.
“Don’t get me angry now, Eravis. Wake up!” Clenching her teeth, she forced him to a sit-up and shook his shoulders, her stomach pinching now with real fear. He lurched forward and she caught him on her shoulder, his face drooping into her neck.
“Wake up, Eravis!” She wrapped her arms around him and rubbed his back as warm tears slid down to her chin. She felt a simple prayer – the word please – rise out of her. Turning, she planted a kiss on his cheek, cool and lightly prickled with stubble. “Wake up, my love,” Heidel whispered.
Eravis coughed in her neck. He coughed again, suddenly pushing off her. Leaning, he threw up all the brandy over the side of the table. Heidel reached out to stop him from falling, but his hand rose and caught the wall.
“Heidel!” His voice crunched out, rough as gravel. “Heidel, I’m sick!” He coughed harshly, leaning into the wall. Heidel gripped his arms and eased him to the floor, now littered with broken bottles and jars, with putrid puddles seeping into the earth. His limbs shook like saplings in winter. “I’m sick! I’m sick,” he panted. “I feel horrible!”
“I know.” Heidel smiled. She patted his arm, she stroked the hair off his clammy forehead. He was just a boy, a scared little boy. “But you’re better now. I healed you.”
Chapter 40
The nine princesses gathered in the library. Maelyn had ordered a conclave. They pushed aside the small tables and bunched their chairs together in an uneven circle.
“How do we respond to this?” said Heidel.