The Wayward Prince

by Lee H. Haywood

  “Why wasn’t I notified?” demanded Leta.

  Noting the irate look on Leta’s face, Sister Beli stopped what she was doing and rushed to Leta’s side. “I’m sorry if you are displeased,” said Sister Beli, as she placed a reassuring hand on Leta’s elbow and guided her into the room. “The patient arrived in the dead of the night. You’ve been sleeping so poorly lately; I didn’t want to bother you until it was necessary. I was going to notify you once all of the preparations were made. You’re not angry, are you?”

  “I’ll answer that question in a moment,” said Leta, doing her best to stay calm. “Let’s have a look at the patient.”

  As they approached the patient’s bed, Leta recalled the attributes of the man she had followed to Admiral Ferrus’s dock. Although she had never gotten within a hundred feet of the man, she was certain she would recognize him. A picture quickly formed in her mind’s eye.

  The man was a head taller than Leta. His nose was stubby with flaring nostrils. His eyes were slightly too far apart. She had not seen their color. His hair was bushy, the color of sand, with a slight wave that parted to the right. Or was his hair blond? He had a thin narrow jaw with a dimpled chin. His left leg was bowed, and his foot would drag ever so slightly behind his body when he walked.

  Leta apprehensively approached the head of the bed, certain that the patient’s face would conjure up a hint of familiarity. The face that met her eyes was unrecognizable. She couldn’t help but gasp.

  The man’s face was a mask of purple bruises. His brow had swollen over the lids of his eyes, leaving him mere slits through which to see. Most of his hair had been pulled clean from his scalp, leaving behind only a few mats of dark blood-clotted hair. His left ear was little more than a stump. She had seen the afflicted pick off parts of their own body, but she had never seen anything this clean. Her gut told her that someone had done this with a knife.

  This looks a lot like torture, thought Leta, her stomach roiling with disgust. This looks a lot like a message.

  Leta took a deep breath and stiffened her back. “I need everyone but Ionni and Sister Beli to go outside.”

  There was a small chattering of surprise amongst the Vacian Sisters, but no one questioned the command. They filed outside, and Leta shut the door in their wake.

  Once the room had cleared, Leta reevaluated the man. She wanted to believe that this was Lady Miren’s doing, but doubts immediately filled her head. The man was very thin. That was how it always was with the afflicted. Family members would rather see their loved ones starve than send them to the headsman for a quick end.

  “Damn them for doing this to me,” said Leta in frustration. They were making her question every one of her choices. This should be an act of compassion, thought Leta, and the gods know this man looks sick. She rubbed her palms into her eyes until she was seeing stars. “Do you recognize this man, Ionni?”

  The girl stood on the tips of her toes to gain a better vantage. She showed no signs of being squeamish, and got within a hand’s breadth of the man’s battered face. She examined all of his features and finally shrugged. “He looks a great deal like many men I’ve seen,” began Ionni, reporting her findings with a voice that lacked any hint of sympathy. Nor did her eyes show any sadness over the pitiful sight before her. The girl saw too much death at Estri, thought Leta.

  Ionni lifted the man’s shirt, exposing his belly. “He’s got the skin complexion and features of a southlander,” continued Ionni, her voice emotionless. “His skin is a bit like leather. Too many days in the sun I’d wager. There’s dirt under his nails — maybe a bit of blood; it’s hard to say, really. He’s likely a farmer, priestess.”

  Leta had come to the same conclusion. The exposed flesh of the man’s neck and chest were mottled with freckles and sun damage. What is a farmer doing in Mayal? That, in and of itself, set alarm bells off in Leta’s head.

  “Does my lady not like what she sees?” asked Sister Beli.

  It was an innocent question, still Leta’s first impulse was to yell at her assistant. How can Sister Beli not see what is going on? Leta took a deep breath. “I am torn, that’s all. What does the report from the court say his name is?”

  Beli skimmed over the parchment and pointed to the name. “Aiger.”

  “No surname?”

  “That’s correct, priestess.”

  Leta whispered into the man’s ear. “Aiger. Is that your true name?”

  The patient groaned in mild recognition. His head moved ever so slightly in what might have been a nod.

  Leta turned to Ionni. “Is Aiger a name Lady Miren ever mentioned?”

  “No.”

  “No, priestess,” corrected Sister Beli, not realizing that Leta couldn’t give three damns if Ionni used the proper honorific right now.

  “No, priestess,” echoed Ionni.

  Sister Beli read over the report. “It says here that he stabbed his wife in the arm with a knife. She would have bled to death had the neighbors not intervened. It seems he has been sick for sometime, priestess. It’s just his time. I know this has been troubling you of late, but be comforted, this is an act of mercy. Look at his hands, he has been living his life in shackles.” Each of the man’s wrists were riddled with open sores and galled flesh from where he had pulled against his bindings. “He’s dangerous. His wife should have brought him to the monastery a long time ago, but you know how love is.”

  Beli was right, she did know how love was. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, Leta still wanted to believe that her brother rebelled for a noble cause. She was so desperate for this to be the truth, she was willing to believe the words of Admiral Ferrus, an admitted rebel. It was somehow easier to believe that General Saterius and Lady Miren were the enemy than to accept the truth that Meriatis was actually a monster. Maybe we’re all wrong, Leta thought glumly. All of us wrong and damned to repeat our mistakes.

  “Gods forgive me for what I’m about to do,” said Leta, crossing herself in the gesture of the faithful. “I have to be certain.” She dropped to one knee and put her lips near the patient’s ear. She felt a chill come over her body as she spoke the first verse. “He is not your maker, but your master all the same,” began Leta, resisting the urge to recoil. “You will face him in time, and all will be brought to shame. He will smother the land with brimstone and spoil, and all who remain will bend their backs in toil.”

  Sister Beli’s eyes flared wide with horror. “Priestess Leta, no! You cannot say such things.” Her voice was hardly a squeal.

  Beside her, Ionni actually looked interested for once. A devilish smirk crossed the girl’s face, and she leaned forward, eager to see what would happen next.

  Sister Beli frantically crossed her hands across her neck and face. Her lips curled with disgust, and then she went about crossing herself four more times.

  Leta ignored her dramatic assistant. Instead she kept her face level with the patient and watched his mouth. His lips parted; his tongue worked against the roof of his mouth.

  “I...”

  “He is not your maker, but your master all the same,” repeated Leta, hoping that it would coax the evil words from the man’s throat like a snake charmer cuing a serpent with his flute.

  “I... I...” His voice rattled in his throat, his breath struggling to pass through mucus and phlegm.

  Leta’s eyes flared with hope. Say it, Leta wanted to scream. Say the cursed incantation so I can send you to the headsman with a clean conscience.

  The man complied.

  “I-I lived by the sea... in a b-b-boat made of reeds...”

  Leta’s heart jumped into her throat. “No, no, no. He is not your maker, but your master all the same!”

  The drunken chantey spilled from the man’s lips with no regard to what Leta said.

  “The sail was all white, and it shone like a gleed.

  Upon its pointed prow, stood a mermaid of gold

  barnacle encrusted, she was battered and old...”

  “
No, no, no,” muttered Leta, feeling the despair rising in her chest.

  “It’s just a song, priestess,” said Sister Beli, not understanding the implication.

  Leta scowled. “It’s not from the Requiem of Cataclysms.”

  “That means nothing. He’s ill, just like every other patient who is brought through those doors. Just because he doesn’t repeat that dreadful poem doesn’t mean...”

  Leta waved her hand for silence. She had heard enough dissenting opinions in the last month. She had to decide on her own. She bent over and smelled the man’s breath. It had a strong musky odor.

  The man continued to sing.

  “Within the ship’s hull I built three chairs,

  A throne for I, and a seat for each of my loves,

  But the fair maiden I wed just paces the deck

  And wonders aloud who I awaited for instead.

  I wait for the sea, she’s my lover of old

  she’ll take me one day, and swallow me whole... hrrr...”

  Leta stuck a finger in his mouth, causing him to spit and gurgle. She pulled his lips from side to side, trying to get a better look at his gums. They were stained green. Engroot. The drug was outlawed in Merridia, but that didn’t stop sailors from sucking on it while their ships were at port, and it was a favorite of the Dwarves of Tremel. It was a mild sedative when consumed in a responsible manner, but when taken in high doses it could cause agitation, madness, even hallucinations.

  This is how they are slipping people into my monastery, realized Leta. Engroot was being used to cloud the minds of these men. She pulled her finger free of the man’s mouth and wiped her hand on her dress.

  The man continued with his song undeterred.

  “One morning I will sail west, and never come home

  The water will run gray as it swallows my bones.

  Don’t mourn me, my dear, please don’t shed a tear

  I’ve returned to the sea, from whence I was reared.”

  Leta pulled the swollen flesh of the man’s face this way and that trying to see if she could discern any semblance of the man she had followed to Admiral Ferrus’s ship. Leta hiked up the man’s gown, checking his legs, knees, and ankles. The man she had followed had a noticeable bow to his left leg. All seemed sound. Still, he might walk with a halt. She ran her fingertips over his arm, checking the fresh wounds about his wrists. If the patient had lived the last several months of his life bound by shackles he should have scar tissue on his wrists. All of his wounds seemed fresh and superficial. She turned over the palm of his left hand, checked his fingertips, and then shifted to his right side. Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest.

  Leta looked up at Sister Beli, who was eyeing her queerly. “Priestess, maybe I should grant this poor soul his final sacrament. You’re obviously tired. You should go home.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” said Leta. “Sister Beli, lock the door to the monastery’s inner courtyard.”

  “But Sir Rupert’s out there,” objected Sister Beli.

  “I’m fully aware of that fact,” said Leta. “We won’t be needing his services today.” Sister Beli huffed with disapproval, but complied with the order. “Ionni, please lock the front door as well.”

  Leta’s voice was such that Ionni followed her instruction without question. The girl hustled over to the door and turned the lock. There was a racket outside in response. Several sisters pressed their faces against the stained glass windows hoping to see what was happening inside. Leta looked at the dozen or so silhouettes trying to peer through the opaque glass. Which one of you betrayed me? Which one of you poisoned this man?

  “I was mistaken,” said Ionni, as she and Sister Beli returned to Leta’s side. “The patient isn’t a farmer, he’s a sailor. What’s more, he’s not sick, he’s been drugged. Engroot, I’d wager.”

  “Engroot,” Leta agreed.

  Sister Beli puffed out her cheeks in annoyance. “Would the priestess be so kind as to tell me what is going on?”

  Leta held up the man’s hand, revealing a web of red welts. This meant nothing to Sister Beli and Ionni, but it meant everything to Leta. “Jellyfish stings. This man was stung by a jellyfish. See, look at the pattern.” She followed the swirling red lines with her finger.

  “A jellyfish? I don’t understand.”

  There wasn’t time to explain. Half of the silhouettes had already vanished from the window pane. Doubtlessly several of the sisters had run off to report Leta’s odd behavior.

  “Help me get him standing.”

  Ionni didn’t hesitate. She hooked an arm around the man’s waist while Leta supported his other side. Sister Beli hovered on the periphery for a moment, but finally her sense of duty got the better of her, and she rushed forward to provide a helping hand.

  They stood the man upright, and while his knees buckled a few times, he eventually woke up enough to support himself. He blinked, and stared about the temple in utter confusion.

  Someone banged on the door. “Priestess Leta, open up this instant!” It was Herald Cenna. Almost simultaneously there was a knock on the door leading to the monastery’s inner courtyard. “Priestess, is everything all right?” called Sir Rupert.

  I need to get this man out of here, Leta realized. She grabbed the patient’s hand. The sensation of being touched seemed to rouse the man a bit. His eyes flashed with sudden recognition, and he lifted his swollen brow in surprise. “Priestess Leta,” he muttered drunkenly. “I had a dream you were on my ship. We were drinking and feasting and having a merry time.”

  “It is a splendid ship, and I would love to visit it with you,” said Leta, taking pity on the man. “But we need to hurry. Your admiral’s waiting, and he’s a very impatient man.”

  The mention of Admiral Ferrus caused the patient to stiffen. “Yes, I must return before the bell chimes three times. The ship is supposed to set out at dawn.”

  That bell has already rung, thought Leta ruefully. Ferrus’s fleet had set sail for Elyim days ago. For now she needed to find a safe house, a place where this man could sleep off the drugging effects of the Engroot. She could send him south on a trading vessel once he felt better.

  Proof, reminded a nagging voice in Leta’s head. I need proof that innocent people are being sent to the headsman. If she sent him away on a ship, she would be casting aside the evidence of Lady Miren’s maleficence. I have to sober him up and bring him to my father.

  “Sister Beli, I need you to stall Herald Cenna. I’ve got to sneak him out of here. Ionni, you’re coming with me.” Together, Leta and Ionni dragged the man down a nearby nave. Leta threw open a steel portcullis in the floor, revealing a stairwell that plunged into the earth. Hot air wafted up to greet them.

  Beli huffed after them. “What do you mean by sneak him out of here? Where do you intend to go?”

  “It’s best you don’t know. Stall anyone who tries to come through that door. Understand?”

  “Of course, priestess,” said Beli, although the disapproving look never left her face. She rushed off toward the door, hollering as she went. “One minute Herald Cenna. Priestess Leta needs her privacy.”

  “Open the door, you daft woman!” commanded Herald Cenna.

  Sir Rupert was tapping on one of the windows, perhaps considering whether he should break the glass.

  Leta grabbed a pair of incense burners. The light they put off was meager, but it would be better than nothing in the depths of the catacombs. She shoved a burner into Ionni’s free hand. “You take his left side, I’ll take his right. We need to hurry.” They guided the poisoned sailor down the stairs. His legs threatened to buckle with each successive step, yet somehow they managed to keep him upright.

  “What’s your name?” asked Leta, deciding that the court paperwork was a forgery.

  “Hern?” The statement was more a question than a declaration.

  Leta nodded. She recalled hearing his name when the other sailors were congratulating him for drawing the gold coins from the washing bas
in.

  “Do you remember how you got here, Hern?”

  The man thumbed at his chin as he struggled to draw the information out of his clouded mind. “We went ashore to have... er... some fun, if you reckon my meaning. I was at a brothel — forgive me, priestess, but it’s the truth — and, well, I don’t quite remember what happened. Someone grabbed me. I know that for certain. Some woman they called Lady Gray was asking me all these funny questions about the rebellion, and Herald Carrick, and if I knew of Prince Meriatis’s whereabouts, and all the while they were shoving more Engroot into my jaw. Eventually it all became a haze.”

  Leta’s ears perked at the mention of the inquisitor’s title. “You say the person asking questions was named Lady Gray?”

  “Yeah, funny name. Ain’t never heard of no House Gray.”

  Neither had Leta. But she had heard of the Gray Prophet. Suddenly Admiral Ferrus didn’t sound so paranoid. “What did this woman look like?” asked Leta, envisioning Lady Miren in her head.

  “Tall woman. I think. Plain features. Something about the hair. It was missing. Or maybe it was there, and then it wasn’t. I’m sorry. Its all rather cloudy, to be honest.” He rubbed his hand over his missing ear and scowled. “Maybe it’s better that I don’t remember everything.”

  Leta let the matter rest for now. She would have more time for questions once they got Hern somewhere safe and his mind was a bit less cloudy.

  She hurriedly led Ionni and Hern into the depths of the catacombs. The glowing red lights of the two incense burners did little to ward off the gloom. By the gods, we could easily get lost down here.

  As a child, Leta played in these catacombs all the time, using the network of tunnels to sneak from one part of the palace compound to another. How no one ever disappeared down here was a wonder. The network of tunnels had a hundred different branches, some with pitfalls that dropped into pools of boiling water.

  “Which way, priestess?” Ionni lifted her incense burner, revealing a fork in the path.