"I don't think she's gone," said Nicolas, remembering the quiet voice only he had heard in Diyasa's chamber. "I heard her speak yesterday."
"You can't have," said Kayne. "The girl hasn't spoken for months."
"She spoke to me," said Nicolas, sounding more sure than he felt.
Layne seemed about to point out the impossibility of Nicolas' claim once again, but instead he merely shook his head in sadness. "So what if she did?" he asked. "Doesn't change what her father did, or the fact that she's dying. And, I'm very sorry to say, I don't think that a healer of any kind can cure her."
"Especially Jorj," said Nicolas, thinking of Jorj's farce of healing the maimed child in Widow's Harbor.
"Poor girl" sighed Kayne. "Poor, unlucky girl." Kayne fell silent, his eyes glazing over as he lost himself in thought. The bard's expression was so forlorn that Nicolas did not dare to ask any more questions, but instead found himself trying to think of a way he might console the man. He could not, however, so he merely stood there, watching as Kayne stared off into the distance.
"You know," the bard whispered, just when Nicolas had decided to leave the man in peace, "part of what haunts me the most is that I never did anything to help Diyasa. I knew she could be little but miserable, yet I just sat there, day after day singing my songs, my purse growing fatter with the Baron's coin. I could have…well, I could have done something."
"You gave her the stories she cherished most," pointed out Nicolas. "That's something."
"Maybe," wondered Kayne, "or maybe it was like waving a roasted chicken in the face of a starving beggar. Maybe it was cruelty."
"I don't think so," said Nicolas. "I don't think she would see it that way. She probably would give anything just to hear another of your songs right now. You should see the room she is kept in, a bleak stone box full of odd smells and bizarre artifacts. Not even a single window!"
Kayne gave a despondent laugh. "Add my sweet voice to the picture, and you've got a perfect bloody nightmare."
"I never heard your voice before…before your wound," said Nicolas, a vague idea forming in his mind. "But, hearing you just now, your story came alive, as strong as any song I've ever heard before. And from what you said, it was your stories Diyasa loved so, not your voice."
"Maybe," the bard shrugged, "but what does it matter now?"
"I think you should sing for her," said Nicolas.
"You what?" asked Kayne, incredulous.
"Listen, you just said you wish you could have done something to help her," said Nicolas, growing excited as the idea began to congeal in his mind. "Well, maybe you can still help her. Sing to her…one of the songs she used to love. She can hear you, I know she can. Perhaps hearing you will help restore her will to live!"
"Lad, you can't believe that," said Kayne.
"I have to. It's my only hope right now. And maybe it won't help her. Maybe she'll still die. But before she goes, she might at least have some respite from the continual torment she must be in."
The bard considered Nicolas for a moment before saying. "Even if I wanted to sing to her, I could never go near her. The Baron made it clear that it'd be my death if I ever set foot within the keep walls again."
"If I find a way to get you in to see her, will you come?" asked Nicolas. He had no notion of how he could sneak the bard past all the guards in the castle, much less the Baron himself who often watched over his daughter for hours at a time, but he had no other ideas.
"I…I would," said Kayne. "But, I…as I said before, I've forgotten all the songs I used to know, and I can't sing her the one you just heard. It'd probably kill her."
"Well, re-learn one of your old ones then!" insisted Nicolas. "The Baron has given us a week, surely you can learn an old song by then."
The bard glanced at the pile of coppers in his hat. "I hadn't planned on practicing tonight. I was just going to buy myself a few nice tankards of ale. It gets hard to remember things after…"
"Skip the ale for the next few nights," said Nicolas.
"Skip the ale? For the next few nights?" asked Kayne, as if the proposition was the most puzzling he'd ever heard.
"For Diyasa," said Nicolas.
"For Diyasa," sighed the bard. "For Diyasa, I will try."
Chapter 43: Bokrham
The sound of clanging metal woke Bokrham, and his hand flew to his belt, searching for the sword that hadn't been there in months. His heart pounding, and his mind still in a daze, it took him a few moments to realize that a man was standing close-by, scraping a ring of keys along the bars of his cell.
"Up with you, then," the man was saying. "Come on now, up on your feet."
"Who are you?" Bokrham asked, confused. This was not the mute who brought him his meals, and he hadn't seen the night warden for weeks. "You can speak?"
The man laughed. "Can I? Why yes, I suppose I can. It's one of the privileges of being head warden, you see, I'm the only one who gets to keep my tongue. Probably because I don't come down here much, don't get the chance to chat with the guests, so there's not much risk of me saying things I shouldn't."
"But the night warden," began Bokrham.
"Night warden!?" scoffed the man. "Been down here only a few months and you're to that point already, eh? Damn, I'm good at what I do. But enough chatter, I can feel the dampness rotting my bones already, let's get on with it."
"What do you want from me?" asked Bokrham, his chest tightening as he considered the possibility that it finally was time for the headsman's axe.
"I don't want a thing from you," replied the warden. "If it were up to me, I'd just let you rot here until the end of your days. That's why I love the jail business, you see. Usually, the less attention I pay to my charges, the better I do my job. Today though, my job is a little more complicated, seeing as there's a visitor here to see you, or I 'spose I should say visitors."
"Visitors?" Bokrham marveled aloud. "Why?"
It was not quite the question Bokrham had meant to ask, but he had grown so unused to speaking with others that he found himself tripping over words.
"How should I know why?" shot back the jailer. "I only know that you were to be up and fed early today. Here," he said, sliding a paper-wrapped package through the bars, "you'd better enjoy this. It's far better fare than I would ever normally serve my guests."
When Bokrham unwrapped the package, a delicious scent filled his nostrils and he felt for a moment as if his stomach would rise up from within him and devour the food before it had even passed his teeth. It was half a loaf of bread, still warm from the oven, a wheel of pale yellow cheese, and a few links of well-cooked sausage, still warm to the touch. A far cry from the decadent feasts Bokrham had become accustomed to as Lord Martial, but at that moment Bokrham could not have wanted anything more.
An animal desperation, a primal need for food unlike any he had ever felt overwhelmed Bokrham, and it was not until he had devoured his meal and felt slightly woozy that he began to think about who was coming to see him, and why they had instructed the jailer to give him special fare. He cursed himself soundly as a strange weakness seemed to flow through him, turning his already weakened legs to jelly and causing him to collapse on the floor. He heard the jailer laugh softly to himself, and the door to his cell clank open. The next thing he knew, large chain shackles were being fastened around his wrists, and he was dragged to the wall of his cell and propped up in a sitting position.
"I think he's ready," the jailer called out. "Shall I close the door again, just in case the tonic hasn't properly stunned him?"
"Yes, yes you had best do that," said a voice Bokrham recognized from somewhere in the darkness nearby. "He's a bull of a man, and who knows if the apothecary's measurements will prove accurate."
"Thilanea!" Bokrham tried to bellow, but found he could only wheeze out the woman's name.
"What was that?" said the voice from the darkness. "Did I hear you call my name, Lord Martial. Ah, that brings me back to such fond memories."
; "Traitor," breathed Bokrham. "Coward. Is it shame that keeps you and your fellow usurpers in the darkness? Show yourselves! I would see all who betrayed my trust."
To Bokrham's surprise, Thilanea giggled.
"It's only me," said Thilanea, her voice oddly playful. "Well, that is unless you count…"
As she stepped into the light, Bokrham could see that she was not the woman he remembered. Her hair, which when lose had once fallen almost to her waist was now neatly cropped just below the shoulders, and as she walked he noticed that she no longer moved with the languid grace she had once possessed. Bokrham did not have to guess why, however, for even in the dim torch light he could see that her belly had grown huge and round.
"…our child," she finished, and Bokrham's world seemed to shatter around him.
Chapter 44: Nicolas
Finding a way to sneak Kayne into Edgmere's Keep had proven a more difficult task than Nicolas imagined. After a careful study, he had determined that there was not a single hour of the day when Diyasa was left alone. Like Jorj, her room was guarded by two of the Baron's personal guard during the day. What was more, the Baron made sure that the guards were rotated regularly, so that no man would have an excuse to doze off while on duty. At night, the Baron himself slept within Diyasa's chamber.
The guards rarely ever entered the girl's chamber, and Nicolas supposed that if he were to somehow gain access to the room, the walls and door were stout enough that the guards might not hear the sound of a quiet song. Yet, while the guards did not enter the chamber frequently, the Baron invariably made a handful of visits during the day to check on his daughter. There seemed to be no set time at which the Baron chose to visit, and the length of such visits varied from mere minutes to several hours or more.
As time was running out, Nicolas figured he had only one option—sneak Kayne into the castle during the day, somehow distract the guards momentarily, and pray that the Baron did not decide to pay a visit to his daughter while the bard sang his song. There were many problems with his plan, not the least of which was that he might find Kayne in a drunken stupor when it came time to act, but Nicolas could come up with nothing better. Once or twice he had thought of confiding in Jorj and enlisting the man's help. After all Jorj had, Nicolas supposed, most likely a long history of hatching subversive schemes. But Jorj was under constant surveillance by the Baron, and Nicolas doubted he would even go along with the plan. Jorj's mood was growing fouler by the day, and the slightest remark could trigger his fury. The last thing Nicolas needed was for Jorj to berate him about his knuckle-headed scheme while the guards listened.
Though chances were slim, Nicolas had had one small spark of inspiration which he hoped might better his chances. While fretting over the likelihood of the Baron visiting his daughter, Nicolas had contrived to come up with a reason that might keep the Baron away for longer than was usual. As he walked down the dim hallway which led to the Baron's study, he tried to keep the story straight in his mind.
A timid knock on the study door produced no answer from within, but after a quick rap of the iron knocker Nicolas could hear the sound of approaching footsteps. The door soon swung open to reveal the figure of the Baron dressed in only a thick wool robe and looking half asleep.
"Few things so powerfully deprive the mind of its certainty as dreams." Jorj's words echoed in Nicolas' head. He hoped Jorj's claims would hold true.
"What is it?" asked the Baron, peering out at Nicolas with red-rimmed eyes.
"I am sorry to disturb you," said Nicolas, doing his best to sound penitent, "but I bring you a message from my master."
"Is he ready to begin his healing then?" demanded Edgmere. "It is about time."
"Almost, my Lord," said Nicolas. "All will be ready for tomorrow, but there is something my master requires for the healing to be successful."
"It had better not be more coin," warned the Baron.
"No, my Lord, it is for the healing itself. Has the girl a mother?" Nicolas asked, though he knew full well that Diyasa's mother was deceased.
"Died during childbirth, why?"
"I am sorry," said Nicolas. "Brothers or sisters?"
"Answer my question you little runt. Why do you ask of her mother?"
"My apologies," said Nicolas. "My master will attempt a transfer of strength tomorrow. Such a transfer can only be successful between two of the same bloodline."
The Baron's face darkened. "Well, you can tell him he better think of another option. I've already had one fool who tried to siphon my blood into her veins. Nearly killed us both in the process."
"No, no, my Lord," said Nicolas, trying quickly to come up with something which sounded less gruesome or dangerous. "It is not a physical strength of which my master speaks. He believes the girl has lost her will to live, that some terrible demon haunts her thoughts. A scarring memory, perhaps, or a tragic event in her life. He believes that she does not have the strength of mind to fight it. There will be no bloodletting, but she will require the spiritual strength of one of her own bloodline."
The mention of a scarring memory struck a chord with the Baron and he slumped perceptibly as if some unseen weight had just been placed on his back. "What must I do?"
"Your spirit must be pure for the transfer to work most effectively. My master instructs you to have your priest bless the river at sunrise tomorrow. You must kneel and wash yourself in the water, purifying your spirit and stimulating your will until the sun has reached its highest point. Only then can my master begin the healing."
"Hmph," grunted the Baron. "Considering some of the things I have done these past few months, that request seems almost reasonable. Very well, tell your master I shall do as he advises."
"Thank you, my Lord," said Nicolas, bowing quickly to hide his smile. With luck, the Baron would not be making any unannounced visits to his daughter the following morning.
The inn was just as Nicolas remembered—cramped, crowded, and full of patrons who seemed uniformly gloomy. There was only one difference; Kayne was nowhere to be seen. Nicolas found one of the serving maids and asked, "Has Kayne been here this evening…Kayne the bard, I mean."
"'tisnt another Kayne in these parts," said the maid. "And I swear on any other night you'd likely find him here, but for the past few days he's not been around. I can't say why. I don't know."
"Thank you," said Nicolas. A faint spark of hope had been kindled within him. If Kayne had stayed away from the inn, perhaps he was avoiding drink.
"Do you know where I might find him?" he asked the maid.
"Haven't the faintest…oh, wait," the maid trailed off, looking at something behind Nicolas. "He's just come in. Now if you'll excuse me, young Sir, I must be back to my duties."
"Of course," murmured Nicolas distractedly as his eyes swept the inn. Sure enough, a hooded figure stood by the doorway, a lute strapped across his back. Nicolas strode over to have a better look.
"Kayne?" he called out.
At the sound of the name, the hooded figure glanced at Nicolas, started, and then bolted for the door.
"Wait!" called Nicolas, and he dashed outside after the figure. As he passed through the doors he spotted the man with the lute, hurriedly shuffling away from the inn. Though rushed, the man's gate was awkward and unsteady and it took Nicolas little time to catch up. Reaching a hand out for the man's shoulder, Nicolas said, "Please Kayne, wait. I need to speak with you."
To his surprise, the figure before him crumpled to the ground at his touch. Kayne's hood fell away and Nicolas could see the bard's face, pale and drenched with sweat.
"I'm sorry," croaked the bard, putting his hands to his face. "I tried to stay away from the inn, truly I tried. I have not touched a drop in three days, I promise you, but tonight I couldn't stop myself. Just one drink, I told myself…just enough to stop the shaking. Just one drink. I…I am ashamed."
"Calm down," said Nicolas, eyeing the bard. The man was in a terrible state. He could see the bard's hands tremble unbidden, and the
profusion of sweat and lack of blood gave his face a decidedly corpse-like pallor. "You have not yet undone your efforts. Can you sing?"
"I could only remember the simplest of my songs. The bells of Tarney Hill. It is little more than a child's song, in truth, but even so my hands can barely pick it out for all their shaking."
"It will have to do," said Nicolas, for tomorrow morning, we must take you to play for Diyasa."
"So soon?" gulped the bard.
"I have no choice," said Nicolas.
"Then perhaps," said the Bard, "perhaps we should share a drink tonight. Just one, for courage."
Nicolas weighed this proposition. Would one drink calm Kayne's nerves, perhaps stop his hands from shaking, or would one drink lead to another, then another, and ultimately the dissolution of the bard's will to leave his comfortable warm tavern for any reason, especially a plan that could cost him his life?
"Just one," Nicolas decided, "for Diyasa."
The drink did not quite stop the tremors in the bard's hands, but it gave Nicolas time to explain his plan to Kayne, and when the bard was done, he did not ask for another. Instead he asked, "But how will we slip by the guards posted at her door while the Baron is out?"
"We will have to distract them somehow," said Nicolas. "Just long enough to slip into Diyasa's chamber, for once inside, they may not hear your song."
"That's all very well, but who will distract the guards while we sneak in?" asked Kayne, who had grown a shade paler as he realized how vague Nicolas' plan really was. "And how do you know they will pay the distraction any heed? I'm sure the Baron's men know him well, and that if he finds they have neglected their duties, he will have them lashed, or worse."
"I will feign an illness, a violent illness," explained Nicolas, "the guards will not ignore me, I promise you. This will give you enough time to slip into the room unnoticed and sing your song to Diyasa."
The Weight of a Crown (The Azhaion Saga Book 1) Page 41