by David Pauly
Answers slowly spooled across the forefront of her mind. Yes, Zarthir and another person she did not know had known of the assassination plot against his brother, but she had not known herself until after the fact. Nor did she know anything of the messenger who had come to him in the baths at Nen Brynn. Having satisfied himself that he now knew all of value that was known to her, Daerahil released his mental hold.
Larissa slumped back into her chair. But in the next instant she sprang to her feet, a knife in her hand, surprising Daerahil with the speed of her recovery.
'I wouldn't do that if I were you,' he said softly, motioning meanwhile for Hardacil to stand down. 'I can leave you a helpless idiot in the blink of an eye with another mental probe before you can signal, move, or call for help.'
Larissa hesitated, anger and fear visible in her expression. Then resolve gained the upper hand, and she slid back into her seat, tucking the knife back up her sleeve.
'I'm glad to see you are as intelligent as ever,' Daerahil said. 'I will leave your mind intact this time, but do not ever try to hide anything again from me, Larissa, no matter who tells you to keep it secret. And speaking of secrets, you will tell no one what has just passed between us, is that understood?'
'Yes, Lord,' she said.
'Good. I am afraid that your makeup has run down your face; you are showing your thirty-one years today. Now wipe your brow and go take a bath. The reek of your fear offends me.'
Larissa stood. Her hands were trembling, but her voice was strong, and she met Daerahil's gaze unblinking. 'Be wary, Daerahil, lest the son become worse than the father.'
He flushed at that, stung by the justice of it. 'Get out,' he said. 'And when we meet again, remember what will happen if you try to lie to me or manipulate me. I will take no pleasure in breaking a fine mind like yours, but do not doubt that I will do it if you give me cause.'
She seemed about to reply, then, as if thinking better of it, simply gave a terse nod and hurried out of the tavern.
A moment later, the barkeep returned to the room and brought Daerahil a mug of good Eldoran beer. But though Daerahil did not sense any danger from the man, neither did he trust him. After all, this tavern had been selected by Larissa and Zarthir . . . and the mysterious 'he,' no doubt.
'No thank you, good Barkeep,' he said, getting to his feet. 'Here is some silver for your trouble.'
'I thank your lordship,' said the man with a bow.
Outside, Daerahil continued on his way, with Hardacil riding beside him. 'Well, Hardacil,' he said. 'I can see you wish to ask me something. Go on.'
'What did you learn from Larissa's mind, Lord?'
'Little enough, I'm afraid.' Daerahil filled him in. 'What think you?'
'She is caught between two fires, Lord—Zarthir and yourself. She will have to dissemble well and take that bath you recommended before she can see her master again! But now you have an avenue into Zarthir's camp. I would suggest that, if possible, you put him to the question as you did Larissa. Clearly he is involved in the events against your brother, and turning him over to your father and Mergin may do much to allay their unfounded suspicions of you.'
'Yes, but then I shall have no allies at all on the Council, and none of Zarthir's resources, financial and otherwise, would be at my disposal. Even if I could expose the entire plot, Mergin and my father would become suspicious that this information became available only after I had been indirectly accused of involvement. No, not until I can present them with the ringleader and proof that I had no prior knowledge of the attempts on my brother's life shall I be able to clear my name and petition a grateful father to return to my Shardan command. I must bide my time and gather more evidence before I betray my most powerful ally.'
Daerahil and Hardacil rode toward their apartments in the Third District. The City had begun to recover some of its emotional balance, and Daerahil sensed the stirrings of normalcy as the citizens went about their business. Still, he knew it would take weeks for them to recover their peace of mind and return to being the bored sheep that most of them were. Reaching the Third District gate, Daerahil and Hardacil dismounted, turning their horses over to the guards. Hardacil accompanied Daerahil to the entrance of Daerahil's apartment before departing for his own modest abode.
Entering his apartments, Daerahil was greeted by his servants and the matronly older woman, Marda, who ran his household. Daerahil caught a familiar, enticing odor. 'Is that roast duck I smell?'
'I know you had a troublesome day, Lord,' said Marda. 'I thought you might appreciate your favorite meal.'
Thanking her, Daerahil quickly washed the dust and dirt away, and then went to his dining room, where the food had already been set out. The room contained an antique table carved from one block of marble with straight upright chairs of dark northern hardwoods. Richly embroidered cushions of soft, thick silk covered the chairs. Antique silver graced the table, and delicate crystal held the wine.
Seating himself, Daerahil took a moment to savor the wonderful odors of duck with orange sauce. A servant appeared and silently, expertly, carved the bird. It was cooked to perfection, crackling brown skin outside, pink flesh within. Another servant poured him a glass of a particularly rare Frostfields vintage from his extensive wine cellars, the dark garnet color testifying to its depth and subtlety.
As he ate and drank, Daerahil felt his customary confidence return.
'Judgment, what judgment? What have I done to deserve this level of suspicion from my own father?' he thought petulantly. Feeling his anger begin to rise again, Daerahil forced such thoughts from his mind. Instead, his thoughts turned to Hala and how he wished that she were here now.
Rising from the table, he wiped his hands and mouth and, thanking Marda again for the wonderful meal, strode into his bath chamber, where he soaked himself and enjoyed another couple of glasses of wine before bed.
His bed had been turned down, and he slipped between the sheets, so overwhelmed with fatigue that he barely had the strength to douse the candle at his bedside. Yet he did not fall asleep at once. A familiar fragrance reached him in the dark, and he sat up in surprise. 'Hala?' he whispered, for he had smelled her distinctive perfume. 'Are you here?'
There was no answer. He lit the candle, but its illumination revealed only an empty room. Daerahil sniffed again. The smell was coming from the bed. He reached beneath one of his pillows and drew forth a small envelope, bearing a note and a lace handkerchief. He recognized it as one of Hala's. He brought it to his nose and breathed deeply. There it was; her particular musky, spicy perfume. The effect on him was so profound that tears came to his eyes. The note said 'My lord, a red-haired woman wrote this for me, but the words are mine. I love you and have a wonderful secret to tell you when I see you again.' Daerahil could see the secret mark he had taught Hala to use instead of her name; the note was genuine.
Suddenly he recalled his parting words to Larissa and regretted them now. In smuggling this letter and handkerchief into his bedchamber, Larissa had clearly shown her loyalty. He reclined, the handkerchief still pressed to his nose, and with all the concentration of which he was capable, conjured up in his mind the source of that intoxicating perfume.
CHAPTER EIGHT: AFTER THE ORDEAL
The previous night, Alfrahil had left the guardsmen in the common room of the astrologer's tower, where they continued drinking the wine his father had provided. He climbed one flight of tight spiral stairs and entered the room prepared for him. The space was cramped, with two small oil lamps and several candles on a small end table near a rustic cot adjacent upon a round dining table with two chairs. A short wardrobe with a small rude mirror on its surface lay on the far wall, next to a large cabinet bursting with parchments stuffed into a small corner. Heavy curtains screened off a small window, the air stale with candle smoke. Alfrahil was about to remove his armor when he heard a knock at the door.
'Enter.'
The door opened and a servant of the Healer hall entered, wearing the traditiona
l white over tunic with a bunch of medicinal herbs embroidered on the upper left corner. This man was followed by a very comely woman, along with two of his household servants, Jayliss and Rafel.
The two servants bowed low to their lord. Replying to Alfrahil's inquiries as to their presence, Jayliss replied, 'Lord Mergin sent us, my lord, but we were blindfolded and do not know where we are.’
'That is of little importance. Be at ease, simply tend to your duties as usual, and I am sure that we will all be back where we belong soon enough,' said Alfrahil, turning his gaze to the stranger in the room. The woman's youthful face, illuminated by a dozen candles burning alongside four bright oil lamps, looked up at him expectantly. She was appealing to him: her thick, tawny hair, lightly tanned skin, and pretty, symmetrical face, with high cheekbones and large gray eyes, lit a spark of passion in him, and her slender yet curvaceous frame, combined with her height of just over five feet, made him want to possess her and protect her at the same time.
'I am Findalas, my lord, Senior Healer, here to tend your wounds,' the woman said.
'So you are Findalas, I have heard of you. But you look no more than a lass of twenty!' said Alfrahil, quite taken aback.
'Twenty-three, actually, Lord,' she replied with a smile. 'I had an early talent for healing, and I began tending the beasts of my father when I was five. The local healer recognized my gifts, and I was summoned to the Healers' School here in Titania when I was seven. I became their youngest graduate, and at twenty, I was a master healer.'
Findalas' professional demeanor hid romantic feelings toward Alfrahil that she had nurtured from childhood. 'All little girls want to grow up and marry a prince,' her mother used to gently tease her. 'But there aren't enough princes to go around. Don't be heartbroken if your dreams don't come true.' Findalas had banked the embers of her heart under medical studies, enjoying a few of her fellow students along the way. But she still nurtured her romantic, unrealistic dream.
Alfrahil's reputation was common knowledge: kind, loyal in word and deed, disliking conflict and believing the spoken word could solve nearly any problem. Abhorring violence, yet loyal to his ruthless father, Alfrahil was quite complex, next in line for the throne, but gentle compared to the reputation of his reckless brother. Alfrahil would rather compromise than dominate, respecting the positions of others, even commoners like herself; he was a man she could truly admire. Inwardly excited, her pulse racing, she might only have him now as a patient rather than a lover or husband, but even this encounter was more than she had ever believed possible.
Alfrahil protested that her personal care was not necessary but received such a stern glance in reply that he extended his arms with a sigh and motioned for his servants to undress him to the waist. Findalas approached and gently helped him pull his soft cotton undershirt over his head, her fingers making slight but definite contact. Was it his imagination, or was there more than the expert touch of a professional healer in the way her fingers seemed to caress his skin?
After guiding him to a wooden chair, Findalas examined his stitched wounds and applied some soothing unguents, her skilled, nimble hands helping Alfrahil's exhausted body to relax. Once again Alfrahil found himself wondering if her interest in him went beyond that of a professional healer. But he did not wish to shame himself or her by leaping to any conclusions. Here was a young woman who was justifiably proud of her professional accomplishments.
Last of all, Findalas took some phials from her bag and poured them into a cup of water, which she then held out for him to drink.
Alfrahil took the cup and sniffed, recoiling at the bitter smell. 'Are you trying to poison me?' he joked.
'Merely ensuring that you have a restful night's sleep,' she answered without missing a beat. Smiling slightly trying to keep her desire in check, Findalas said, 'The potion is bitter to the taste, I admit, but it is a sweet salve to mind and body, as you shall see, provided you follow the directions of your healer and drink it down.'
'I can see that you are a stern mistress,' he said, only half joking now, then drained the bitter brew in a single long swallow. 'Wine,' he gasped when he had finished. One of the servants quickly poured him a glass and handed it to him. He drank greedily, washing away the taste of the herbs.
'That was not so bad, was it?' Findalas asked with a sly smile.
'Compared to what?' he asked in turn.
'The draught will act quickly, Lord,' she said. 'You had best get to bed.'
Even as she spoke, Alfrahil felt the drugs begin to wash over him. Standing with difficulty, he let Findalas and the servants lead him into the bedchamber that had been prepared for him. There he was helped into soft nightclothes and, as though he were a child again, assisted into the firm, clean bed. Glancing up at Findalas, he thought again how attractive she was: not just her looks, though of course she was beautiful, but for her other attributes: she was highly intelligent, compassionate, precociously confident, and possessed apparently unprecedented healing skill. Alfrahil sincerely hoped that she would see him soon as a man rather than just a patient.
'Have a good night's rest, Lord,' said Findalas, smiling down at him in a way that struck him as both maternal and somehow wanton. 'I will have an apprentice from the Healer Hall on duty outside your door all night. If you have need of anything, they will summon me, and I shall tend to you.'
Alfrahil would have replied, but he was already deep in the coils of sleep.
#
With a start, Alfrahil awoke to see morning light streaming in a slender beam between the two heavy curtains draping the window of the room. Momentarily, he was captivated by the slow dance of dust motes in that slant of the morning light. There was something peaceful about it, something soothing and harmonious, as if he were watching a dance that governed not merely particles of dust but Men and Dwarves and Elves as well.
Suddenly fractured remnants of yesterday's terror broke upon him, and he bolted up in bed, shaking like a child awakened from a nightmare. Alfrahil tried to banish these dark memories, knowing that today would be long and stressful, and he would need his wits about him. Still, it was some time before he was able to fully master himself, and even then he was filled with a lingering sense of loss. Swinging his legs gingerly out of bed, he put his weight upon them with care, expecting that his bruises and wounds would pain him, but he felt surprisingly little discomfort. It seemed that Findalas' reputation was well deserved.
Alfrahil strode to the window and peeked out between the curtains, wondering how late he had slept. The sun had just lifted itself above the edge of the city—had he not been in one of the tallest towers in all Titania, no light would have pierced the curtains to wake him. He considered returning to bed, but then a smell that had been lurking at the back of his awareness finally penetrated into consciousness.
His servant Jayliss entered, carrying a tray on which were plates of fried eggs, bacon and fresh toast with a pitcher of cold water, a ceramic mug along with a carafe of coffee, a small jug of cream and a bowl of sugar. Jayliss set the tray down on the small dining table and left, knowing Alfrahil's preference to eat alone and adjust his own coffee.
As he ate and sipped his sweet rich coffee—as piping hot as he could have wished—Alfrahil contemplated all that Mergin had told him of Daerahil's possible involvement in yesterday's events. He simply could not believe that his brother would willingly be a part of any treason, either against himself or against their father. Yet he knew Daerahil well enough to realize that there was a chance that his brother might be an unwitting accomplice to treason. He was a man who followed his heart and did not second-guess his first impressions, whether of people or situations. A strength upon the battlefield, but dangerous in politics, it was vulnerable to manipulation. He hoped that when he had a chance to confront Daerahil later today, his brother would have a plausible explanation for all that Mergin had reported.
Rising to his feet, he quickly began dressing, but feeling a stabbing pain in his shoulder, as well as the pai
n from the cuts on his face and body, he was forced to call for the apprentice healer and Jayliss. Briefly examining Alfrahil, the healer in training said, 'There is no serious structural damage, but all of the tissues in your shoulder have been pulled and it will be some time before they will knit and you will be pain free.' Grimacing at this news, Alfrahil had Jayliss help him dress. Glancing into the small mirror that was set upon the dresser, Alfrahil noted his haggard appearance, his face lined with care and with sorrow.
Alfrahil insisted upon wearing his armor and sword, though their weight, never easy to bear, was rendered a greater burden by his injuries. Still, he did not dare leave himself vulnerable to another attack. He had escaped yesterday by pure luck. He would not make it easy for his enemies—whoever they were—to finish the job.
Escorted to the meeting room by a Shadow, he found Mergin and his father in the inner chamber waiting along with a plain-faced man; his tanned face recognizable to Alfrahil as Gray Water, chief of the Shadows. The man glanced at him, and Alfrahil was shocked, not by the intensity of the look, but by the complete absence of emotion. Once as a young child, Alfrahil had found himself staring into the eyes of a small harmless garden snake as it hunted in his mother's flowers. That same inhuman predatory gaze flicked up and down his tall frame, dismissing him as non-threatening to the King.
Creon bade him be seated around a small table with only four places. Fresh fruits and sweetmeats were offered to him, which he declined, while two servants remained against the far walls to attend to their needs.
Creon asked Gray Water to begin the meeting.
The man nodded and began. 'The fires are out all across the city, but it will take several days to clear the main road through the Second District. The Bridge over the quarry has been totally destroyed, and the small group of peasants who dwelt in the ravine in the escarpment will have to find new places to live; we will have to ride around it for months, if not years. The ambush near the Great Gate was small and did only minor damage. Regarding the attackers, there were at least forty to sixty men present as archers, with an unknown number who destroyed the bridge. The bodies of the slain archers are being searched along with their belongings, but so far all we know is that they appear to be veterans of the Shardan campaign.'