As the sound of the Baron's shout fled into the surrounding stone, Nicolas saw, for the first time, a hint of life flicker in Jorj's face. He strained his senses, waiting to feel the air shift, to perceive even the barest hint of the sensation that usually accompanied Jorj's compelling, but none came.
"I will only say this," said Jorj, quietly. "You are not a well man."
For a moment, the Baron, who had been working himself up into a rage, was taken aback.
"Well?" he asked, and then again with a flood of emotion, "Well? Of course I am not well! What I am is desperate. So desperate that I am prepared to do anything, even hire the services of a healer with a dubious reputation such as yours. If I cast these bowels for naught, it may only wound my pride, to know that I have been reduced to such irrational measures. But with you, healer, I will allow you to see my daughter, to lay hands upon her—my Diyasa who clings to life by the barest of threads. Mavonin has been gathering stories of you, a miracle worker some say, a murderer, say others. Yet, I am left with no choice but to bring you to my daughter, my only solace the knowledge that if you are not the miracle worker you claim to be, then I…I will…"
Baron Edgmere took a deep breath to steady himself. Then, he raised the dripping entrails over his head and flung them down on a square of white linen on the ground beside him.
"They say that if half the linen escapes the crimson stain, then the omen is a good one," Edgmere said as he quickly drew the cloth from beneath the scattered viscera. "But that if more than half is stained…"
There was no need for him to finish, for as he held the cloth up to the light, it was clear that barely an inch remained unsullied.
"Well then," sighed the Baron. "It is time for you to meet my daughter."
Diyasa Edgmere was sequestered in the very heart of the keep, buried beneath a huge mound of blankets in a stale and windowless room. Her skin was so pale it was almost translucent, and she would have been indistinguishable from a statue of dull white marble, if had not been for the blue veins that ran along her skeletal arms and the dark purple circles which framed her eyes. A litany of strange artifacts hung over her bed, one or two of which Nicolas recognized as common charms meant to ward off evil. Other, stranger things littered the room, the enormous skull of an animal Nicolas had never seen or heard of was mounted atop a wooden staff intricately carved with strange characters, and a pool of clear green water was nestled in a corner, continuously emitting a small column of vapor which hung about the room. Nicolas did not doubt that these were some of the Baron's desperate attempts to save his daughter. Other attempts were visible on the girl as well. Pale thin scars lined her arms where she had been bled, and a portion of her hair had been shorn recently to allow access to her skull.
When Jorj saw the girl, Nicolas heard him give a sharp intake of breath. "Oh, Mercy of Klija," he murmured to himself.
The Baron heard him, and turned to Jorj to say. "I don't care to which god you pray to spare my child, but I would advise you not to waste your time. I've had priests and holy men from every corner of Esmoria brought here, and I doubt there is a god whose name has not been invoked where we are standing. If the gods have heard, then they are none of them prepared to spare any mercy for my poor daughter."
At the sound of her father's voice the girl's eyes opened slowly, and flicked around the strangers standing in the room. When her eyes fell on Nicolas, they seemed to stay there for a while, regarding him curiously.
"This man is a renowned healer, my little one," said the Baron, his voice turning soft and breathy. "I have brought him here for you, just for you, to try and make you whole again. To bring back my sweet Diyasa." The Baron placed a hand gingerly upon the girl's forehead. She gave a small shudder, and closed her eyes once more.
"She has so little energy," said the Baron. "She can barely muster the stamina to eat or speak."
"Will I be able to speak to her?" asked Jorj.
"I doubt it. She has not said a word in months. And I warn you, do not press her too hard. You can see how fragile she has become."
"Yes, I do have eyes," replied Jorj, and he drew in his breath as if he were about to say something important. "I must work with her alone, you understand. No one but my assistant can be anywhere near me while I perform the healing rites."
Edgmere frowned. "I said I was desperate, healer, but I am not careless. Anything you do to my child will be done before my eyes, and I will keep the good Sir Mavonin here with me, and my men, in case you should try anything I deem inappropriate."
"No. Not him!" The words flew out of Jorj's mouth before he could consider them. Edgmere raised an eyebrow suspiciously.
"Especially him," said the Baron, his jaw now set resolutely. "I will be plain and say that I don't trust you healer. You've a weaselly look to you, and I get the feeling that you'd like nothing better than to wriggle your way out of this. There isn't a chance that I would leave you alone with my daughter."
"Then I can't do it, I won't do it," said Jorj.
"Ha!" said the Baron, unconcerned. "You will do it. It is your only chance of getting out of here alive. You will have a week, just like all the others."
"And if she is no better at the end of the week?" asked Jorj.
A terrible glint came into the Baron's eye, "I hope for your sake that you are not giving up on my daughter so quickly, healer. Do not speak to me of failure. You have a week, after which I will deal with you as I see fit."
"That's no consolation," protested Jorj.
"I am not a healer," said Edgmere. "I could care less about consolation."
"That isn't true," said a quiet voice in the distance. Startled, Nicolas looked around to find the owner of the new voice, but saw no one. What was more, none of the others in the room seemed to have noticed it, and the assertion went unchallenged by the Baron.
Chapter 38: Xasho
"What do you mean, you cannot find him?" The words echoed in Xasho's head. Hakh Halor was pacing angrily inside a large tent, his body covered with the gore of battle. A warrior knelt on the rug before him, his head bowed low to the ground.
"Johalid Kessir is not in his palace, nor have we found him among the dead," said the soldier, inclining his head so low that it brushed the threads of carpet before him.
"And what of Tulo Kwelinht, his Champion?" demanded Halor.
"There is no sign of him either, oh my Johalid."
"Cowards," Halor spat. "They must have snuck out of the city, perhaps even before we attacked. What weakness! For a johalid to flee his own city, where man and sand are one, and leave his armies and folk to be slaughtered in battle. The man is a disgrace. That he is not fit to rule is more clear to me now than ever before."
Xasho could not believe what he was hearing. Attacked? Halor was obviously talking about Tuzhira, the eastern-most river city. But for one Johalid to take up arms against another was strictly forbidden by laws so basic and so old that their origins had been forgotten. Warriors of Vraqish were permitted, even encouraged, to face each other in combat when honor dictated, but for a johalid to harm one of his three brethren was considered a crime against the gods. Was this how Halor had come by the zharatas that even now hung around his neck? Had he taken them by force? Conquered the leaders of his own people? Just the thought of it made Xasho's heart heavy.
"Shall I ready the men for a search, my Johalid?" asked the warrior.
"No," replied Halor. "Let him run. Kessir is not worth my time now, and we must make ready for our final advance. Do make it known, however, that the spineless Kessir has fled. I want the whole city to know how he failed them when they needed his courage most. Offer a reward, too, for his capture. Ten thousand in gold to the man or woman who brings him before me. No—twenty thousand. That should stop those with any lingering shreds of loyalty from thinking twice."
"As you command, Johalid." The warrior bowed low once again, turned, and was about to make his way out of the tent when Halor called out, "And send the chieftains to me, we must
finalize the plans for our march on the Heart of Sand."
After the warrior had left, Halor sat down, unsheathed one of his familiar blades, and held it up to the light. Xasho was surprised to see that the stone set in the serpent's eye was a deep crimson, a shade far darker than the pinkish hue of his own weapons.
"Soon," said Halor softly as he ran his fingers slowly along the contours of the blade, "soon enough the division that has weakened us for far too long will be over. Four is such an ugly number. Once unified, we will shrug off the indecision that has been our downfall, and rise to claim what is ours."
A gentle hand shook Xasho awake.
"Wake up," said a female voice. "It's early, I know, but I need to talk to you."
It took a moment for Xasho's sleep-sodden brain to register where he was, and to remember Jeina from the night before.
"What is it?" he asked.
"It's Fezi," said Jeina, her brow furrowing with worry. "He has made it through the night, but he has developed a fever, and I fear his wound is not healing."
"That is unfortunate," said Xasho, "but I am no healer, nor do I have the proper supplies to care for his wound. I can do no more for him than I have already."
"I know," said Jeina, "but you know these parts, right? We need to find a town, someplace with a medic, or at least a priest."
"I'm afraid there are no priests left," said Xasho, "they have been expelled from the region."
"What?" said Jeina, surprised. "That's ridiculous, why would anyone…"
"The Church of Rekon was a poisonous influence on my people. With their schools and prayers they tricked us into false beliefs and caused us to forsake our own traditions, our own gods. Our folly was revealed to us, however, in a vision sent to the Grand Johalid, and we have vowed to once again reclaim the old ways."
"So you cast out all the priests?" Jeina asked, incredulous. "Don't you think that is a little rash?"
Xasho shrugged. It was too early in the day to talk of such things. "It is not my place to think much about it. I know the Johalid Sidhir to be a shrewd man. He has said that the teachings of the Church were no less damaging to our people than the swords of the Marsh armies. He has also said that—"
"Nevermind, nevermind!" said Jeina, waving her hands to stop Xasho's explanation. "We don't need a priest. Just someone who knows how to properly care for a wound."
"Wounds are commonplace among the Warriors of Vraqish," said Xasho. "Any village should have at least a handful of women who are skilled healers."
"Then please," said Jeina. "Can you lead us to the nearest village?"
"I…" started Xasho, unnerved by the imploring look in the girl's eyes. "I had planned on leaving this morning…alone."
"You can't!" burst out Jeina, "I have no idea where we are. All the maps are gone, and Fezi was the only one who could really read them anyway. And I'll never be able to handle him all by myself!"
"Can't?" asked Xasho. "I do not think you are in a position to tell me what I can or cannot do. Your presence on my people's lands is not welcome. Most Curahshar you will come across will seek to capture you on sight, or worse. The only reason I do not do so is because you pose no threat to anyone, and I have more pressing duties which I must see to. You should count yourself lucky that I am helping you at all."
"But what am I supposed to do?" exclaimed Jeina. "I never wanted to come here! I never wanted to be hunted by gröljum or imprisoned by your people. I'm just an unlucky girl who saw something I shouldn't have, why should someone want to kill me for that? And now the only person who I could talk to, who I could trust is dying. I can't do this alone…not now, not here."
To Xasho's profound embarrassment, Jeina had started crying. He did not know what to do. On the one hand, he really wanted nothing to do with this unlucky pair of travelers. One the other hand, there was a small, helpless woman sobbing right in front of him, and he could not bring himself to just turn his back on her and leave.
"Alright, alright," he said begrudgingly. "I'll take you to a nearby village. But if they object to your presence there and demand you be imprisoned, I will not oppose them."
"Thank you," said Jeina relieved, and suddenly she threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly.
"Hey!" said Xasho, surprised. "Let us just put your shaggy friend on the horse and get this done with."
When Xasho went to help carry Fezi out of the shed and place him on the horse, he saw right away that Jeina was right to fear for the man's life. Fezi's skin was ashen, and his breath shallow and ragged. He had bled through the mound of bandages that circled his torso, but Xasho was relieved to feel that they were mostly dry to the touch. Still, years of being a soldier and seeing men die from their wounds told him that to put this man on a horse would kill him.
"We cannot move him," he said gently to Jeina, whom he saw was once again on the verge of tears to see her companion in such a state.
"What? Why? I thought you said you would help!" Jeina stammered.
"He cannot sit a horse. The motion would renew his bleeding, and he has lost far too much blood already."
"But we need to reach a healer!" said Jeina. "Look at him, he won't survive without proper care."
Xasho doubted that even with proper care the man would live, but he held his tongue and took a deep breath. He could not believe what he was about to do, but the he knew he would do it anyway.
"A healer will have to be brought here," he said, wincing at the thought of how much time he would lose in his search for Kazick. "I will ride out immediately and see if I can convince someone from the nearest village to come and tend to your companion."
A scared look flashed in Jeina's eyes.
"I am not abandoning you," he said, sensing her fear. "I will return as soon as I can, katahshil."
"What does that mean?" asked Jeina.
"It is an old Curahshar expression. One every true warrior still knows. It means," explained Xasho, "you have my word, or else my life."
Chapter 39: Bokrham
At first, Bokrham had expected a visit from someone, anyone, who had been connected to his oust from power. He had alternately dreaded and looked forward to that day, sometimes envisioning a summons to the headsman's platform, or alternatively a gloating explanation of the treachery that had undone him. But, as day after day passed and he began to lose all concept of time, his sole source of human interaction came from his conversations with the night warden, who, unlike the other jailers, was only too happy to spend his evenings talking to Bokrham. In fact, he often stopped by for hours on end, and encouraged Bokrham when the Lord felt compelled to share tales of his past.
At first, the warden was often given to bouts of soft laughter at Bokrham's stories. Perhaps he was amused by what he thought were the elaborate delusions of a common prisoner, but Bokrham was past caring whether the man believed him or not. Any pride he had once possessed was long gone, and as the weeks dragged on he found that the only thing that sustained him, that kept his sanity intact, were his conversations with the warden. After all, with no other companions, pastimes, nor windows to the outside world, it was the only thing he could look forward to on any given day.
And so Bokrham poured his life out to the man. He recounted his service under King Vichtor, his campaigns in the North, and his trials as Lord Martial of the realm. On his more whimsical days, Bokrham would reminisce about his time as a woodcutter, of his long-dead wife, and the village on the edge of the woods he once called home. It was odd, but once Bokrham's tales moved away from his time as Lord Martial, or as a commander of the Blood Marsh army, all traces of mirth would disappear from the warden's reactions. Perhaps it was because the stories were often more commonplace and believable, but there was something about the warden's face when Bokrham spoke of his simpler life that made the man appear unsettled. Laughter or not, however, the warden always returned the next day, ready for another conversation.
When Bokrham wasn't busy recounting his life, the Warden would offer bits and
pieces of news from the city. He didn't get about much, he admitted, as his days were spent monitoring the cells, but occasionally he would hear things from acquaintances, or even other prisoners, which were of interest.
However, as time passed the warden seem to become less enthusiastic about talking with Bokrham. He would often sigh heavily for no apparent reason, or click his tongue in what Bokrham took to be frustration. One evening, when the night warden stopped by Bokrham's cell for his usual visit, the man appeared more morose than what was now usual.
"What news?" asked Bokrham, hungry for any word from beyond the walls of his prison.
"It's raining," said the jailer, "has been for a week now."
"I'm sure it will pass," offered Bokrham. He had been hoping for more than a mere weather report, but after several long moments of silence, he could see the warden was in no mood to offer more.
"Too much rain can addle a man's brain," began Bokrham, anxious not to let the conversation die. "In the village where I was born, there was an old woman called Kella who used to gather herbs in the woods. I often saw her when I was out felling trees, and she always had a smile for me. Though her body was bent from years of combing the ground, there was not a week that went by when I did not see Kella hobbling her way through the forest. When I could, I would carry her small bundles of leaves and twigs back to the village for her. It was the least I could do. You see, she used the herbs to make teas and such, and if someone fell ill, she was the first person we would go to for aid. She helped a lot of people, myself included, and she used to say that heavy rains brought with them the malicious spirits which caused fever and chills…"
Bokrham could tell that the night warden had lost interest, for he could hear the man yawn, and begin to tap his foot upon the floor. Desperate for the man to stay, Bokrham tried to think of something more interesting.
"Not many people know this," he continued as a memory came to him, "but Prince Kazick almost died of a fever when he was a lad."
The Weight of a Crown (The Azhaion Saga Book 1) Page 38