“Don’t worry, I’m a practiced alcoholic,” I joked.
He got a good chuckle out of that one.
I took another drink and tried to relax, tried to ignore the throbbing pain. I had never had a bone magickally mended – it was awful.
After what seemed like an eternity the agony stopped. The healer sat back from my arm.
“That’s all done, for now at least,” he said, wiping his brow with the back of his arm. “Be careful with that arm, though; keep it wrapped up and don’t use it for another week or two. Else it might snap like a dry twig and you’ll have to spend six weeks an invalid.”
I flexed my hand. The arm still hurt, but far less than before. Maybe the alcohol was helping. I was just glad the suffering was over.
“Now for your leg,” the healer said, shifting his seat down.
I stifled a groan. Here we go again…
The son set up a bowl beneath my knee, propping my leg up over it. Another bowl was set up on a short stool. Both were filled with water.
The healer cleaned the bruised gash with surprising gentleness. He cleared away the crusted blood with water and a cloth, careful not to tear the healing flesh.
Once that was done he gave the incision the same treatment as my arm. It hurt far less. More like someone punching a bruise – unpleasant but bearable.
“So, how’d ye get this would? It’s mighty clean. Deep, too,” the healer muttered.
I wasn’t sure how to respond. It was a duel, in a sense – it was also a fight for my life.
“Lover’s quarrel,” I replied.
The healer laughed heartily.
“Well you’re lucky she has no aim. She’s about three handspans too low,” he joked.
“More like two and a half,” I said.
The healer burst into laughter once again.
“Good sense of humour… where you from, anyhow? The lady faun said you were a prince.”
“I’m from over the mountains. Céin Urthia,” I replied.
“Oh, really? I didn’t think they had any princes left. I thought they were all under a high king now.”
“Mm. Not quite. There are lots of princes still, lots of princesses. They just owe allegiance to the… well, high king. He died in battle a few months ago, actually.”
“You don’t say? Maker guide his spirit. Not much news comes floating down the river. So who’s got the throne?”
“Queen Boralia is the regent. They’ll be coronating the princess soon. She’ll be high queen,” I explained.
“And does the princess have a name?”
“Of course. You met her today, actually,” I replied.
The healer laughed, likely thinking I was telling a joke. But I didn’t join in his mirth; he realized I was being sincere.
“No, that couldn’t be true! That’s the princess? She’s going to be high queen?” he asked incredulously.
I really shouldn’t have revealed that, but I was a little drunk by that point. The jug was half empty.
“It’s true,” I insisted. “But you can’t tell a soul. Not a single one.”
“You hear that, boy?” the healer said, slapping his son’s thigh. “Not a single soul!”
The healer turned back to his work.
“Don’t you worry, your lordship. The secret’s safe with us. Wouldn’t be much of a healer if I went about telling stories of my customers,” he said.
We finished up as the sun was setting. The jovial elf gave me a proper sling, a real one made of sewn linen. I paid him what he asked, which seemed awfully low, and when I offered more he kindly refused.
“I won’t charge anything for that leg wound. I refuse to profit from a lover’s quarrel,” he laughed. “Anyway, consider it a gift from me to the court of the future high queen.”
I thanked him and his son. They cleaned up and left me in the room alone.
After a moment of sulking I sat up on the bed, looking out the window to the sunset vista. My wounds ached still.
And so did something else – something in my chest.
I reached over and grabbed the clay jug. I pressed it to my lips and took a swig. The sky was so beautiful… I wanted to appreciate it, wanted to be able to sit in perfect contentedness like Ortham always did.
But I couldn’t. I felt hollow and strange.
I knew what it was but I could not face it. I would not face it.
I shook my head like a dog with fleas and took another drink of the scorching liquor.
I didn’t mind losing the fight. It was fair; maybe I was a little disappointed that I had won it in the end. Not only had I prevailed due to outside intervention, but I also missed my chance at a glorious, fitful end…
But no. That wasn’t it, and I knew it.
None of that was why my insides were so hollow.
I had seen something there, beneath the Blighted Tree; something that I couldn’t get out of my head.
Even as I lay exhausted last night, lying beneath the stars, willing sleep to take me, I could not rest. For every time I closed my eyes a vision came to me; a gilded vision, heaven-sent, and utterly inescapable – utterly impossible.
I took another swig of the clay jug and rose from the bed. I hobbled over to the window and leaned upon its ledge.
That warrior-maiden haunted my every waking thought; her beauty invaded my every dream. There was nothing I could do to drive her out of my mind.
It was ridiculous, it was insane; it was the result of a brain injury or something.
But I could not get the thought of her out of my head.
Her gilded-ivory skin; her azure-blue eyes; her lithe, femine figure; her imperious height, her graceful movement; she was a goddess!
And I was a fool. I was a fool!
She would have killed me. She should have killed me.
But she didn’t; she held back. She held back just as I had. I couldn’t do it. She couldn’t do it.
I drank again. I looked out over the river, watched the particularly sombre sunset burn behind the mountains. The river snaked along, dispassionate, the world soft and bathed in orange. Dusk reigned over all.
I wanted to smash this damn clay jug. Not even the alcohol could relieve my fevered brain; not even floating in a sea of liquor could soothe my anguish, nor the release of drunkenness alleviate my agony.
Yet what could I do more? The Unnic goddess was somewhere else, left behind in those bramble-choked hills. Would we ever meet again? Would I ever behold her stunning beauty upon this cruel, uncaring earth? Or was I doomed, consigned to a life dreaming, dreaming of that celestial image, like a magickal vision as impossible as it was irresistible…
I pushed myself off the window ledge and stumbled to the door. Jug in hand I limped down the steps and out into the street. My head swam.
The horses were gone… where were the horses? I tipped my head back and took another drink. My vision was blurring. The alcohol was finally catching up.
Yet still I could not drown out her memory!
I limped down the street. I did not know where to go. I wanted to run, but I could not. I wanted to ride away, but I could not. I staggered through the alleys between the buildings, no destination, no plan, no hope.
I found myself wandering by the river. I drank the last of the jug. Then I hurled the empty vessel into the water, watched it splash in the darkening current.
I didn’t even know her name… I would never find her again.
If only she had killed me then and there! That would have been preferable to this. Anything would have been preferable to this… to finally realizing there was an empty space, gaping and awful, and seeing the one thing that might fill it – only to lose it completely. Only to never have a chance at filling it in the first place.
I tried to sit down on the riverbank but my injured leg buckled beneath me. I couldn’t catch my fall thanks to my broken arm, so I just collapsed gracelessly into the grass.
&n
bsp; I closed my eyes and waited for the spinning to stop.
I groaned.
If only I had the strength… if only I had the strength to rise up off the ground, to drag myself over to the river, to crawl in and drown myself.
Not even in Naraya’s dungeon had I been pitched into such a black depression.
I closed my eyes... I closed my eyes for a long time.
Someone shook me awake. I looked up, my vision out of focus. I squinted. Ortham and Dawn were standing over me. Dawn had her hands on her hips, looking very unimpressed. Ortham was laughing.
I tried to slur an explanation, but I had none. I couldn’t quite hear what they were saying; they sounded far away, like they were at the end of a tunnel and I had cotton in my ears.
Ortham picked me up. The sudden movement made me retch, but I kept it all down. Dawn grabbed my other arm. They walked me back to the inn.
***
Eventually I awoke. I had a headache; I felt cold all over.
At first I thought I had pissed myself, but thankfully it was only sweat. Which was also gross, but not embarrassing.
I was laying in a bed in the rented room. Ortham and Dawn were both sleeping soundly; the shutters were open. Starlight filtered in, turning the whole room blue.
The fevered storm of emotions had passed. But the hollowness remained.
I lay in the bed and didn’t know what to do. Would it always be like this? Would I ever be able to fill this hole in my heart, a hole that had been there since as long as I could remember? War, wine, and womenfolk had failed to satisfy it.
And now that I knew… now that I knew what could fill it, even if it was impossible… was it impossible? Surely there was a reason I was so struck, so hopelessly smitten by a deadly stranger… or else what divine cruelty could it possibly be?
For the first time in a long time, beneath the flickering stars, in the darkness of that room, I bowed my head and prayed.
And then, somehow, I fell asleep.
I dreamed that night – I dreamed of a familiar place. Of golden grass swaying in the wind, of sombre hemlock and pines sheltering darkness in the sunlight. I dreamt of Retker’s Knoll on a summer’s day…
And I dreamt of the warrior-maiden standing on the hill, eyes shining azure blue in the noonday sun.
53
Bram Tan Heth
Majira, in a stretcher, was brought before the faun queen.
The centaurs in their bronzed armour carried her forward through an immense chamber of polished marble and rounded pillars. Dozens of sylfolk all watched and whispered, each dressed in fine raiment.
We approached the twin thrones; one was an ornate, high-backed seat constructed of living branches and decked with silver and amber. It remained empty.
Beside it sat the faun queen in a humbler chair. Humbler, but by no means humble; it was still a throne by every metric.
The faun queen stood as we entered. She was clearly pregnant; she bore herself imperiously, straight-backed, head held high. A simple silver circlet adorned her forehead. She did not seem surprised to see us walking in; no doubt word had already been sent.
I followed behind the procession, ragged and unkempt. It likely seemed I had not bathed nor eaten a full meal in weeks; that I had slept on the ground night after night, scorched beneath blazing suns, kept in a cage.
Which was entirely the case.
The procession came to a halt. The centaurs took up flanking positions in a loose square around Majira’s stretcher. Captain Perethon removed his barbute, tucked it under his arm, and bowed to the queen.
“Queen-regent Boralia,” he said, addressing the queen, “We present to you Majira, by her own request.”
The queen nodded to Captain Perethon, who receded into the background, leaving Majira’s stretcher in the centre of the floor. I was still a ways off, waiting at the edge, unsure exactly where I should place myself. I was also aware that at any moment the Black Laughter could rear its ugly head – a disastrous impression.
Majira sat up in her stretcher, propping herself up by the elbows.
“Your highness,” she said, voice stronger than she looked; it carried well through the high-ceiled chamber. “I request a private audience, at your discretion.”
“Granted,” Queen Boralia replied without hesitation. “And the princess? I pray she is in good keeping?”
“I do believe so…” Majira replied, with slightly less conviction.
Queen Boralia frowned.
“You believe? Has she not returned with you?”
A murmur rustled through the court like a chill wind through autumn leaves.
“No, your highness. The princess decided to continue on,” Majira solemnly answered.
A dark look overcame the queen’s features. She stepped down from the raised marble upon which the thrones sat.
“You mean to say you abandoned your charge?” she asked in disbelief. “Surely you have an adequate reason, one so wise as yourself?”
The murmurs rose; none present made any attempt to quell it.
“Not abandoned, your highness,” Majira said, voice wavering now. “She chose to go. She chose to…”
I realized then, a little too late, that Majira’s aura was not present. She was a master of subtle calming magick. But now, with her grievously wounded soul, that aura must have withered; she could not keep it up.
“And you allowed her? To go alone, while keeping the Royal Guard to yourself?” Queen Boralia continued, anger beginning to bubble to the surface.
“She is not alone,” Majira said defensively. “She has Herace the Redeemed and the battle-mage with her. And she is far from defenseless, my queen. Far from it!”
A voice cried out from the gathered courtiers.
“You let the heiress apparent go defenceless?” sputtered a bearded dau. “After all that’s happened? After bloodshed and rebellion? After regicide?”
“Silence in the court!” Perethon boomed. “The queen speaks!”
The rumblings died down, but did not cease. A seething discontent threatened to break like a gathered storm.
Majira’s calming magick would have been very useful…
“Then where did she go?” Queen Boralia asked.
Majira did not reply. She looked down.
“Where?” the queen repeated.
“I do not know…” came Majira’s hushed reply.
The court burst into shouting; Perethon was helpless to stop it. All manners were in disarray.
I had to do something, or the situation was lost.
“STOP!” I shouted, raising my arms in the air. “By the Maker’s will, stop!”
The ruckus faltered; all eyes turned to me as I walked toward the queen. She drew back at my presence, but the centaurs did not intervene; they knew who I was.
“Who let this wandering beggar into court?” someone shouted.
I ignored them. I approached the queen, and once I was near, I fell to one knee and bowed my head.
“Queen Boralia,” I began. “I know where the princess is.”
“And who are you, an uninvited guest in my court?” she asked.
I got to my feet.
“My name,” I said in a loud voice, “Is Magus Bram Tan Heth.”
Another wave of whispers shivered through the chamber.
“Ah. The one Majira wanted to teach my daughter. The mad seer,” Queen Boralia said in a reverent whisper.
“That is correct. I have come to teach the princess – but I have also come to offer my obeisance to the crown of Céin Urthia.”
Majira looked over to me, shocked.
She knew that I would never bend the knee to any; she knew I valued my freedom more than anything. Even my own life.
But the queen was wise; she walked back up to her throne and sat. She looked down upon me, curiosity and contemplation in her eyes.
“And at what cost, Magus Bram Tan Heth the Mad?”
I stood up straight and looked her dead in the eyes. What I was about to say was madness; true, unadulterated madness. But I saw in it opportunity; I saw here, providence.
I saw the chance to rally. To avenge Avaxenon.
“My price is this, your highness; allow me to strengthen your kingdom. Allow me to found a college, here, in Naraya.”
Queen Boralia’s eyes widened. The court burst into confused noise – a college? Here, in Naraya? In the new capital of some reclusive kingdom?
“We haven’t even had a court wizard in years. Almost decades,” Queen Boralia said in a low voice. “How then can I justify a college?”
“It was magick that killed King Aral! Magick that killed his brother before that!” someone cried from the crowd.
I turned to the gathered courtiers. They watched me with hedged disdain.
“But it is magick that will save your future High Queen!” I boldly replied, pointing an accusatory finger into the crowd. “If you could comprehend even half, nay, even a single mote of the horrors which gather in the far east… horrors that make even the Empire of Un shudder! The Witches, those baleful daemons, who seek to wither and corrupt all lands! Even now they foment their vile sorceries just beyond your borders!”
The courtiers muttered, most averting their gaze from mine. I struggled to keep the Black Laughter at bay; I could sense it was bubbling within, rising to the surface.
I channeled the fiery rhetoric of Avaxenon as I gathered my strength, gathered my wits to convince these stiff-necked sylfolk.
“Do not think that hiding in Sacred woods will save you! Many proud folk, many pristine wilds have been consumed by the Shade. Many others have felt the bite of the Unnic lash! The Twin Pillars of Woe, the Empire of Un and the Witchlands, are only now locked in combat; but one day, one day in our lifetimes, one will rise as victor!” I cried passionately, sweeping my gaze over the court. “And on that day a wave of blood and horror will be unleashed… the entire earth will wail and gnash its teeth! All the Maker’s creation trembles as it awaits the outcome of that far-off conflict!”
My voice echoed through the chamber. There was no response.
Then, after a moment of hanging silence, came a clear voice from Majira’s stretcher.
Day of the Hunt (The Faun Quartet Book 2) Page 43