by M C Dwyer
“I’ve also been learning the sword,” Nepenthe said with a tiny smile of his own.
Eli chuckled. “I will definitely warn him, then. He should at least know what he’s getting into.”
Still slightly pink, though this time from pleasure, Nepenthe ducked his head and returned to grooming the horse.
That night after supper, Nepenthe stood outside the kitchen in indecision. The Ailerons would be gathering in the great hall; he could join them, but he didn’t necessarily feel the need for company on this particular evening. By the same token, he didn’t necessarily want to be alone, either. He sighed. Of the two, he decided that it was better to be alone and discontent than in a crowd and discontent. He wandered off to his favorite balcony.
This, at least, had remained free during the influx of visiting nobles. It was the one spot he was almost always guaranteed to find empty in the evenings, especially now that the cold had driven everyone inside.
Well, nearly everyone. Nepenthe paused in the doorway, one foot on the threshold. There was someone sitting on one of the curved stone benches, a figure hidden underneath the folds of a heavy cloak. Nepenthe looked at this rather enviously and dug his fists deeper into his pockets.
“Is that you, Shadow?” a deep voice asked as the shape turned.
“Tad,” Nepenthe said, breathing out and stepping through the door. “I didn’t think anyone else knew about this place.
“They know,” Tad said, and Nepenthe could hear the amusement in his voice. “They just don’t dare to come here.” His arm emerged from the cloak and made a sweeping gesture. “These are the queen’s quarters, and for some reason it’s considered bad luck to be in here when there’s no queen.”
Nepenthe froze. “I shouldn’t be here, then.”
Tad pushed back his hood and turned. The sliver of moon gave just enough light to show his smile. “I’m here, too. Never fear.” He patted the bench beside him, and Nepenthe cautiously approached.
Rearranging his cloak, he lifted free a fold and held it up. “Sit down before you freeze,” he admonished.
Unable to resist the promise of warmth, Nepenthe sat down on the bench and let Tad tuck the edge of cloak around him. It brought their faces awkwardly close, but since Tad immediately turned to face out again, Nepenthe didn’t try to pull away.
They sat in silence for some time, and Nepenthe enjoyed the warmth of the cloak, burying his nose in the folds of fabric that smelled of cedar with a hint of wood smoke and wondering that silence could feel so comfortable.
“I come here to think,” Nepenthe finally said, feeling that some explanation of his presence was necessary.
“It is an excellent place for that,” Tad agreed. “The view is different than the one I’m used to, which makes a nice change.”
Nepenthe looked at him curiously. “Did you come here to think, too?”
A corner of his mouth twitched. “I think I came out here to not think.”
Nodding, Nepenthe said, “I can understand that.”
They lapsed into silence for a while, until Nepenthe said slowly, “Can I ask what you’re not thinking about?”
Tad chuckled. “If I talk about it, I’ll think about it, which would defeat the purpose. But I’ll tell you anyway. I’m thinking about the envoy that just arrived from Iona.”
Nepenthe thought for a moment, “You mean the marriage talks?”
Shaking his head, Tad said, “I’m not even surprised that you know that. It must have flown through the usual channels even faster than usual.”
“I don’t think so,” Nepenthe said. “I heard it from Aidan. No one else has mentioned it.”
“Small mercies,” Tad murmured.
“Pardon?”
Tad sighed, then said, “Can I trust you not to wag your tongue?”
Nepenthe blinked. “Yes?”
His mouth quirked up in half a smile. “It would relieve me to discuss it out loud, but if what you say is true, then there are still very few people who know about this, and it would be better if it stayed that way.”
“I won’t talk about it.” It was his turn to give half a smile. “No one would listen other than the horses, anyway.”
Tad patted Nepenthe’s knee through the cloak. “You’ll make friends in time.”
Nepenthe twitched and Tad removed his hand.
“Iona is not a brilliant match,” he continued, “either militarily or economically, but Iona has access to ports on the Sea of Haeron that Talus won’t let us touch, and a union of Alain and Iona would make any of the other neighboring countries think twice before starting anything.”
Thinking back to maps he’d seen in the record room, Nepenthe tried to picture what Tad meant. Away to the west, on the far side of the Talusian Mountains, was the Sea of Haeron. Up north was the Forest of Night, then Breccia, Talus, and Iona on the finger of land that jutted into the sea. The land curved back around for Alain, and to the east were a number of smaller, clannish countries whose names changed with every new leader. North were the Farlan Plains and a stretch of unclaimed land that was good for neither farming nor grazing, being too rocky and irregular.
“Are any of the eastern clans threatening us?” Nepenthe said.
Tad sighed. “You’ve guessed it in one. There are rumors of the clans uniting. If they truly did, they could be a match for us—or at least weaken us to the point where we’d be easy pickings for someone else.”
“What’s the problem, then?” Nepenthe asked, genuinely confused. “Wouldn’t an Ionan alliance be a good thing?”
“The princess is twelve,” Tad said grimly.
Something in the pit of Nepenthe’s stomach lurched. “No,” he blurted. “He can’t.”
“Not with a twelve-year-old,” Tad agreed. “They’re pushing for a betrothal and a marriage in four years.”
Nepenthe’s heart was thumping uneasily. “Isn’t there another princess? Couldn’t the king marry one of the clansmen’s daughters?”
Tad sighed. “Without knowing the internal politics of the clans, we couldn’t know which one would be an advantageous match. They could very well throw away the daughter of one of the weaker clans and attack anyway.”
Pushing back the fold of cloak that suddenly felt too warm, Nepenthe breathed in the cold winter air and waited for his heart rate to return to normal.
“Talus would be a better match, financially speaking,” Tad continued. “But the queen is in her fifties and has just the one son. There are no other close relatives that would suit, even if they were willing.” He sighed again. “Breccia would have been an option—though again, not a brilliant match as far as military goes. But that’s obviously no longer a choice since the royal family disappeared.” He looked down at Nepenthe in sudden concern. “Are you alright?”
Nepenthe sat with his hand clutching his chest and sweat beading on his forehead as he panted.
“What is it?” Tad asked. He reached out a hand, hesitated, then placed it on Nepenthe’s shoulder.
Nepenthe flinched and looked up with wide, fearful eyes.
“Breathe,” Tad said and took a deep breath to demonstrate.
As Nepenthe managed first one, and then another deep breath, his heart slowed and the fear left his eyes. He ran a quick hand across each eye and breathed another deep breath when it came away dry. “Thank you,” he whispered. “That happens sometimes.”
“You’re sure you’re okay?”
Nepenthe answered with a wry smile. “I’m pretty sure I’m not, as you just saw. But I’ll survive, I think.”
Tad reluctantly released him and straightened up. “You should go inside before that sweat freezes and you catch a chill.”
“I’m alright,” he said, pulling the cloak back up around his shoulders. He scrubbed his face dry on his sleeve, then finger-combed his hair back over his brow. He was strangely reluctant to leave despite how uncomfortable the conversation had made him. Maybe it was how relaxed he felt in Tad’s presence, or maybe he was in greate
r need of human contact than he realized.
“Are you sure?” Tad said, pulling the cloak more snugly around Nepenthe’s shoulders.
“I’m sure.”
Despite Nepenthe’s reassurances, Tad did not keep him much longer.
“Even if you’re not tired, I am,” he said, smothering a yawn. “I have things I have to do tomorrow, as do you.” He stood up, which let a cold draft in around the cloak.
Nepenthe shivered and climbed to his feet, then followed Tad inside.
Once inside, Tad paused, then moved to a tall, carved wardrobe. It was too dark to see the carvings at the moment, but Nepenthe remembered it from his earlier explorations. Tad pulled the right-hand door open.
“Here,” he said, catching Nepenthe’s hand and guiding it to something that was hanging inside. Nepenthe felt silky fur and fine wool. “Use this next time you come sit outside.”
Snatching his hand back as though burned, Nepenthe said, “I couldn’t. You said these were the queen’s quarters. I wouldn’t dare.”
“No one will know,” Tad said, “and it will do no one any harm. By the time someone is here to use these quarters, it will probably be thrown out with the rest of the furniture that doesn’t meet the queen’s standards. You may as well get some use from it.”
Nepenthe gazed at his shadowed face, unconvinced.
“It’s not as if you’re even taking it from the room. So long as you don’t toss it over the balcony, it will never have left these quarters.”
Nepenthe gave a soft snort of laughter. “Fine,” he said, though he didn’t think he’d ever dare to use it.
Satisfied, Tad left, turning the opposite direction from Nepenthe in the hall, heading back towards the king’s chambers.
“Good night,” Nepenthe called softly after him.
“Sleep well, Shadow,” he returned, and was gone.
Chapter 11
Nepenthe awoke the next morning with the faintest of tickles in the back of his throat, but told himself it was merely from staying up too late the night before. He felt slightly better after his morning workout, but by mid-afternoon it had developed into a scratchiness that did not bode well.
A visit to the apothecary supplied him with camphor that he applied to a handkerchief. Tying this over his nose, he went back to work.
After supper, his feet led him unwittingly back to the queen’s balcony, but he did not stay long. After talking the cook into brewing him some hot lemon with ginger and honey, he retreated to his room and curled up in front of the fire.
He overslept the next morning, something he’d never done before, and skipped breakfast in order to make it to the stables. He hacked and coughed his way through his morning chores until Cora chased him off.
“Go get some rest. I’ll tell the stablemaster you’re sick.”
Nepenthe would have argued, but by this time it hurt to talk, a sensation that was all too familiar. He simply put a hand on his aching throat and weakly waved goodbye.
Back in bed, he fell into a restless sleep.
Stablemaster Wyatt must have passed on the word, because Drinian came to visit him that afternoon.
“Well, boy,” he said, putting a hand on Nepenthe’s forehead, “if you wanted to get out of the stable there are easier ways.”
Nepenthe felt too ill to protest the hand, but he managed, “I would rather be shoveling manure than lying here.” His voice was scratchy and faint, and his eyes itched as he sniffled.
Drinian chuckled. “No doubt. It’s likely just a cold. Several of the Ailerons are sick, too, and I’m sure I heard Aidan sneeze last night at supper.” He pulled a small bottle from a pocket and set it on the bedside table. “Take a swallow of this every couple hours; it will make you feel less like dying. You should be feeling better in a few days.” As Nepenthe reached out a hand for the bottle, Drinian added, “I’ll tell the stablemaster you’ll be out for a while.”
Nepenthe nodded and whispered, “Thanks.” Taking a swig from the bottle, he immediately coughed and wheezed, making Drinian laugh.
“It’s strong, I know. But it should help you sleep.”
From the strong burn Nepenthe was feeling in the back of his throat, he was willing to bet that alcohol played no small part in the cough syrup, but since he was already feeling drowsy, he wasn’t going to argue about it and simply let it carry him away.
Nepenthe fought his way clear of fevered dreams and sat up with a gasp, certain that someone was in the room. His head swam and he swayed dizzily, but a warm hand under his elbow steadied him.
“Easy, Penthe,” Aidan said, his face thrown into shadow by the candlelight. “It was just a bad dream.”
“I always have bad dreams,” Nepenthe said, his voice still hoarse. “I’ve forgotten what the other kind are like.”
Aidan reached out to feel Nepenthe’s forehead, but he pushed the hand away.
“I still have a fever,” he sighed. “I think it’s time for more medicine.” He reached for the bottle, but Aidan moved it out of his reach.
“You need to eat, first,” he said, picking up a tray and setting it on Nepenthe’s legs.
He looked down at the bowl of porridge with distaste and did not reach for the spoon. “I’m not hungry.”
Aidan picked up the spoon and pointed it Nepenthe. “Eat, or I’ll feed you.”
Nepenthe groaned and reached for the spoon. He took a bite, whimpering as he swallowed, but Aidan was looking particularly stern, so he didn’t dare stop until the bowl was more than half empty. Dropping the spoon, he flopped backwards.
“Please go away,” he said faintly.
Aidan laughed at him. “Take your medicine, silly boy, and I will.”
Nepenthe held out a hand, and Aidan pressed the bottle into it. Managing a swallow that made him gasp, he passed the bottle back and fell back on the pillows once more. “Good bye,” he said, eyes already closed.
Aidan left, and Nepenthe was alone again.
He swam in feverish dreams for some time, jolting awake whenever someone entered his room, but then quickly sinking back into sleep when they left. Aidan brought him food several times, but sometimes it was Drinian, and once, Mae.
It was to Mae that Nepenthe said, “I’m not getting better.”
“You poor thing,” she said, patting his hand. “It always feels like that when you’re sick.”
Nepenthe shook his head against his pillow. “What day is it?”
“Tuesday, child; why?”
“I’ve been sick for”—he managed the monumental task of ticking off the days on his fingers, but couldn’t manage the math and simply held up his hands—“this many days.”
Mae’s forehead creased. “You’ll get better,” she promised. “You’re young and healthy. You’ll get over it eventually.”
His only response was a sleepy, “Good night.”
Awakening at some point in the dark watches of the night, Nepenthe finally managed to finish his math problem. Nine days. He’d been sick nine days. He’d gone through three of Drinian’s bottles of cold medicine, choked down innumerable bowls of porridge, and slept more than he could ever remember sleeping before, and he felt no better than he had a week ago. He didn’t feel worse, either, but he wasn’t improving at all.
His hand stole up and fingered the amber ring in his ear. Hadn’t Jahan’s mother warned him that it would interfere with his healing? Was it doing it again? He frowned in the darkness. The only reason it had stopped last time was because someone had touched it, briefly removing Nepenthe from its influence. He shivered. The only way he could fix it would be to remove it himself, something he wasn’t prepared to do. The alternative was to trust someone with its secret and ask them to touch it, resetting it. He whimpered at the thought. That was almost as bad as removing it completely, though it would certainly hurt less. The flesh of his ear had healed around the earring; the only way to remove it was to break the earring or cut through the flesh of the lobe.
No, letting someone i
n on his secret was preferable to that, at least. Nepenthe lay half asleep, running through the various denizens of the palace and discarding each one almost as soon as he thought of them. He narrowed it down to Aidan, Drinian, and Mae, then reluctantly removed each one from consideration. Who had he forgotten? Orin. Orin was a possibility, though he was old and Nepenthe hesitated to expose him to whatever illness he currently had. He banished the problem from his mind as he hovered on the edge of sleep, then suddenly bolted upright.
Tad. Tad would do it, and he would most likely be willing to promise anything Nepenthe asked. Nepenthe’s secrets would be preserved, and he would get better. It was perfect. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, swaying dizzily.
Clothes, he decided. Clothes first. He carried shirt and trousers over to where the fire smoldered and shivered as he drew them on over his nightshirt. He forced his bare feet into his boots, then had to stop and pant for a few minutes. He pulled his coat on and made it to the door.
Halfway down the hall, he rethought his plan. He did not know where Tad slept, and it was obvious he would not make it much further. Leaning against the wall for support, he leaned over to the nearest door and traced the numbers with his fingers. He was close to Aidan’s room; two more doors should do it.
He traced the numbers on this door, too, not wanting to waken anyone else, then drew a deep breath and rapped on the door with his knuckles. While he waited, he let the wall hold him up, his cheek pressed against the cool stone that comprised the walls in this section of the palace. It felt especially chill against his fevered brow.
Aidan did not appear, so he rapped again, harder. He would have called, too, but his scratchy voice would barely have penetrated the thick wooden door.
As he raised his hand to knock a third time, the door opened to reveal Aidan with a candle and a look of concern on his face. This look deepened as he took in Nepenthe’s presence.
“Penthe! What is it?”
“I need to see Tad,” Nepenthe whispered.
Aidan’s look of concern softened into something like humor. “You’re sleepwalking. Go back to bed.”