He attacked, swinging Exoner with both hands. Pier met the blow, and they were at it, swords flashing rhythmically back and forth to the grunts of the fighters. Sweat flew in droplets illuminated in the sunlight. The air felt heavy and thick, like trying to breathe water. Magic crawled through it. Caelan could smell it like a scorched scent overlaying the fragrance of recent rain upon the pavement.
Someone was calling frantically, “Bring the jinjas! Bring the jinjas! Hurry!”
He did not understand why those peculiar little creatures were wanted, but he could spare no thought for it now. Normally he judged a man’s intention by the shift in his eyes, but Pier’s black eyes were like opaque holes, impossible to judge. Caelan frowned and barely evaded the man’s quick lunge. What possessed him? Either darkness lurked in this palace, or else Pier had brought it with him. Yet his first impression of the man had been favorable.
Caelan attacked in a furious flurry of strength and complex maneuvers that drove Pier back. Spectators fled before them, and Pier stumbled, barely parried as Caelan drove him harder, then mistakenly left himself open.
Caelan leaped at the opportunity, his sword thrusting deep, but at the last second Pier shifted his weight. Exoner did no more than slice along his ribs. Black blood spurted forth, and where it touched the Choven-forged metal, flames burst up.
Pier screamed and staggered back, clutching his side. For a second his anguished eyes met Caelan’s, and they were their normal color again. Then the blackness engulfed them once more.
In a second Caelan realized what he had to do. Even as Pier slowly straightened and lifted his weapon to fight again, Caelan was charging.
He took advantage of his greater reach and heavier weight to tackle the man, heedless of Pier’s sword, which raked across his ribs. Caelan gripped Pier by the front of his tunic, twisting it hard at the man’s throat, and slammed him into the wall of the stables, pinning his sword arm beneath him.
Pier swore and struggled, but Caelan braced his feet and held him bodily. Then he pressed the flat of his sword against Pier’s wounded side.
Arching his back, Pier screamed a shrill, piercing cry as though his soul was being torn from him.
Flames and steam rose between them as Exoner burned away the poison inside Pier. A terrible stench filled the air—not from burned flesh but from something much worse, something inhuman.
A man wearing Pier’s colors dared grab at Caelan’s arm. “In the name of Gault, desist! Take me, demon, and let my master go!”
Caelan glanced at him, and bared his teeth. “Get back,” he said, spitting out the words.
The man turned pale and backed away.
But by then someone else was shoving a group of jinjas forward. “Stop the magic! Stop it!”
The small green creatures stared at Caelan and did nothing.
Relieved, he turned his attention back to Pier. The screams stopped. When Pier sagged against the wall, Caelan took his sword away. Pier was as white as the limestone wall behind him. He looked at Caelan as though he would speak, then swooned.
Gently Caelan lowered him to the ground.
Men rushed closer, but Caelan glared at them. “Stay back!”
“Monster!” one shouted back.
“Demon!” another cried.
“Will you eat him?”
“Lord Pier is dead!”
“He isn’t dead,” Caelan said grimly, touching the rapid pulse in Pier’s wrist. “Not yet. Just stay back!”
But now the jinjas approached him. They bared their small pointed teeth and stared at him with bright eyes.
“No fear, master,” one of them said. “We protect.”
And they formed a ring around Caelan and Pier, keeping the others away.
Consternation seemed to flow through the crowd, but Caelan ignored it. He was grateful to have the creatures on his side.
Gingerly he tugged at the burned edges of Pier’s tunic, parting the cloth to look at the wound. It was well cauterized, the bleeding stopped. Although burned and raw, the skin looked human. Caelan saw no more black blood.
Hardly daring to hope, he peeled back one of Pier’s eyelids. Although the eye was rolled back, it looked a normal color.
One of the jinjas crouched beside Caelan and put its narrow hand on Pier’s chest. “My master,” it said.
Caelan frowned. “Is the darkness in him gone?”
“Mostly. I will take the rest.” With that, the jinja stretched itself across Pier’s chest and began to utter an eerie whine that made Caelan wince.
Hastily he backed away from whatever spell the jinja was weaving, for its magic was not compatible with his own.
Wiping off Exoner, Caelan slid the sword into its scabbard. The clouds closed over him again with a muted rumble of thunder, and it began to sprinkle.
Silence stretched over the courtyard. The crowd stared at Caelan in wonder and fear. He frowned back at them, not certain what they had seen. There should be something he could say, to reassure everyone and dissipate the tension that was like a wall against him. But no words came to his tongue.
Looking over their heads at the steps rising up to the palace, he saw a woman standing near the top, her full skirts billowing in the wind. His heart lightened at the sight of her; then he frowned again.
What would Elandra say about this debacle? He had not meant to alienate her people. Now they feared him, and soon that would turn them against her also. He had let her down, and he was sorry.
His gaze swept across the faces staring at him. “Lord Pier is not dead. Let me pass.”
They parted for him and he walked alone, his head held high, his shoulders tense in expectation of an attack.
But no one dared move against him this time. He walked up the endless steps as the rain strengthened to a light patter, cleansing him of sweat and blood. The cut across his ribs stung, but it was hardly more than a scrape, and he ignored the discomfort.
A few steps short of the top, he stopped and stood there so that she could look down at him. A strange expression lay on her face. She seemed unaware of the rain pelting her, and her eyes held pain. He bowed his head to her, ashamed.
“I am sorry,” he said.
“Surely thou art a god,” she whispered.
His head snapped up. “No! Elandra, do not blaspheme.”
“I saw everything. You were a column of light. He was a pool of darkness.” Her eyes shifted away, then met his again. “It was a prophecy, Caelan. A prophecy of what comes.”
“Whatever possessed Lord Pier,” Caelan said thoughtfully, trying to pretend he felt no shiver of fear down his spine, “I think perhaps it possesses Prince Tirhin as well. My sister is right. I must confront him without delay.”
She nodded, her frown deepening. “We will go. But you must meet my father first.”
Only then did he remember the old man was dying. “Beloved—”
“He has asked for you,” she said. Pleading filled her eyes. “Please ... the physicians are such fools. Can you heal him?”
“No.”
Her breath caught audibly, and he realized she was fighting not to cry. “You know more than they,” she said. “You know many of the arts of healing. You do! At least try.”
He took her hand in his. “Let us go in out of the rain. You’re getting soaked.”
She shook her head, but he escorted her back under the portico.
“Try, Caelan,” she pleaded. “At least try. We need him.”
“I cannot heal others, Elandra. That is not my gift.”
“Are you sure?” she asked him. “Oh, please, please try. Have mercy and go to him. Please.”
He frowned, ready to protest further, but she was not listening to him. He remembered how he had grieved for his own father, whom he had not even loved as Elandra loved hers, and he could not refuse again.
“Let me clean up.”
She gripped his hand and drew him along. “No delays. Come now.”
“But, Elandra, if you want his
blessing, I would look better clean and clothed.”
She wasn’t listening. “I will have you go to him while the light still shines a little on your skin. If you could save me within the realm of shadow, and if you have released Lord Pier from the grasp of darkness, then surely you can also save my father.”
He sighed. A physical injury was not the same as an injury to the soul. But Elandra’s stubbornness was a wall around her.
Together they walked through the immense palace that rivaled Kostimon’s in splendor and size. Two Gialtan guards trailed after them, although no one sought to stop them. Caelan did not think he would impress anyone with rain, sweat, and blood drying on him, his tunic torn off his back, and his hair hanging in his eyes.
In the antechamber, the physicians looked startled to see them. One of the men held open an ancient book with a crumbling leather binding and a lock and chain that swung freely. He paused with his long index finger still resting on one of the vellum pages.
Caelan glimpsed strange, arcane writings, and a sense of magic hovered in the air above the man’s head.
Caelan frowned, focusing on the mortar and pestle the second man held and the bottle of liquid in the hands of the third.
They stared like guilty men caught in some act.
“Learned men,” Elandra said with a courteous inclination of her head. “I return with a visitor—”
“Your pardon, Majesty.” Caelan broke in with a sense of deepening unease. “Who are these men?”
She looked surprised. “The physicians—”
“Are they? What are you concocting?” Caelan asked the men.
The three exchanged glances, and he saw lies enter their faces.
“Only a potion to help soothe Lord Albain’s discomfort,” one replied. “The pain grows worse.”
Caelan looked around. He felt a strange charge in the air, something unseen and unwanted.
The hair on his scalp prickled, and he would have set Choven warding keys on the doors and windows as protection if he’d had any.
“What’s wrong?” Elandra asked him, her eyes wide. “What do you see?”
Caelan glanced at her two guards. “Do you serve her Majesty or have you been set to follow her like watchdogs?”
They bristled at his question, but Elandra answered for them. “They are my men.”
“If you would save Lord Albain,” Caelan said to them, and his glance moved to encompass the men guarding the door as well, “then get these physicians out of here and do not let them return. That is not opium they are mixing.”
“I protest!” the tallest physician said. Holding the bottle, he stepped forward. “Majesty, this is an outrage. What manner of barbarian have you brought here? How dare he accuse and slander us?”
The guards stepped forward, but not fast enough. Caelan glimpsed a movement from one of the physicians and drew Exoner. As swift as thought, he sprang across the room and speared the ancient book on the end of his sword.
Flames burst forth, engulfing the book. With a scream, the physician dropped it. The fire blazed up, hot and hungry. Within seconds the book had been devoured, and all that remained was a small pile of ashes. The air stank most foully despite the open windows.
“Exoner is truth,” Caelan said, glaring at the physicians, who watched him fearfully. “You are lies. Get out!”
The guards hustled them out, and Elandra ran to the door of her father’s chamber. Flinging it open, she snapped her fingers.
“Jinja! Come forth and serve your master,” she said imperiously.
She had to call a second time before a sniffing, woebegone jinja appeared. Its green skin was tinged an unhealthy gray. Its pointed ears drooped. It could barely drag itself along. When it came to the doorway, its eyes held only misery.
“There is magic here,” Elandra said sharply to it. “Bad magic. Did you know? Why are you not protecting my father?”
The jinja did not appear to hear her at first; then it sniffed the air and blinked. Lifting its head, it sniffed again. A glower darkened its small face, and it straightened erect. Like a dog following a trail, it began to slowly zigzag back and forth across the room.
One of the guards returned, looking slightly breathless. Shame burned in his face. “Majesty, we beg—”
“Let no one enter,” she commanded in a voice like iron. “No one.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
Elandra stood in the doorway to her father’s chamber and beckoned to Caelan. “Come,” she said.
He could smell sickness and death ahead of him in the room, which was thick with gloom. If she expected a miracle, he could not give it to her, but at least Lord Albain could now die in peace, in his own time, not helped along by his enemies.
Sighing, Caelan squared his shoulders and reluctantly stepped inside.
Chapter Twenty
It was a warrior’s room. Besides the large bed, it contained a vast table weighted down by scrolls, scraps of parchment, broken pens, ink cases, books, deed boxes, strongboxes, lamps, a stirrup iron, dog collars, and a pair of daggers. The opposite wall held a beautiful collection of swords mounted in crisscrossed patterns. Starbursts of daggers adorned another wall. Albain’s banner was flung over the tall back of a tapestried chair, and his boots lay forgotten in one corner. If the man had a valet, the servant must be forbidden to touch anything.
Still, Caelan could not help but smile a little at the disorder. This was a man’s room. He liked it.
But Elandra did not want him to stand and gawk. She was already at her father’s bedside, beckoning him to join her.
Throughout Caelan’s boyhood, the sick and injured had come constantly to the house. If the infirmary was full, Caelan was forbidden to make noise in the courtyard lest he disturb the patients’ rest. His father had worked tirelessly, calmly soothing fevers and talking away fears. How often had Caelan crept from his bedchamber in the middle of the night, following the glow of lamplight and the faint sounds to peer into his father’s workroom? There Beva would sit, hunched at his table in the glow of the lamp, grinding herbs for his potions and making neat notations in his books of study.
The smell of sickness and herbs in the infirmary often crept into the rest of the house. Caelan had always hated that smell. While he felt sorry for the sufferers who came to his father for cures, he could not bring himself to be a willing assistant. He fled the moment his father released him from his chores. Never had he wanted to be a healer. Never had he felt comfortable around those in misery.
Now, in Lord Albain’s chamber, he longed to turn and run. This was not the time to meet Elandra’s father. Albain’s reputation as a fierce old warlord was well deserved, from all accounts. He should be left alone with dignity and peace. He did not need quackery, or sorcery, or Caelan’s unskilled fumbling.
But Elandra’s eyes were on Caelan—trusting him, believing in him—and he could not refuse her anything.
Reluctantly he walked up to the bed and stood behind her, looking down over her shoulder at the battle-scarred old man. Al-bain lay there unconscious, moaning a little.
Caelan could hear the rattle in his lungs, could see the bloody froth on Albain’s lips.
He frowned.
“What is it?” Elandra asked, watching him anxiously.
“He needs more pillows, to prop him higher. He can’t breathe, lying down like that.”
Hope flashed through her face. She rushed away, opening a servant’s door and calling for the valet.
In a few minutes Caelan was carefully lifting the old man while Elandra and the valet piled pillows on the bed.
“I thought so,” the valet kept muttering. “I wanted to do that, but the physicians said he should lie flat. I knew better. I am sorry, my lady. I—I mean, your Majesty.”
“Yes,” Elandra said, holding her father’s hand and seeming to barely hear the man’s excuses. “What else?” she asked Caelan, then glanced at the valet with a frown of suspicion. “Has he eaten? Has he had any water?”
/> “No, Majesty. They said—”
“Never mind what they said,” she broke in sharply. “Bring broth, just a little. And cool drinking water flavored with the juice of lemons.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
She glanced at Caelan, who knew he could hesitate no longer. Carefully he unlaced Albain’s sleeping shirt and gently probed along the man’s ribs. They were spongy, and dark bruising discolored his sides. He groaned and coughed up blood, which Elandra wiped away.
“At least five broken ribs, maybe a cracked hipbone,” Caelan said at last. He frowned to himself, trying to remember his old lessons. “One of the ribs has punctured his lung. That is why he coughs blood. There is more damage, but I have not the knowledge to tell you what it is.” He met her eyes and told her the truth. “He bleeds inside.”
“Can anything be done?”
“Yes, if we had a proper healer. My father could have mended him easily. Agel could do it.” Caelan heard the futility of his own words and shook his head. “But we have no one of that—”
“We have you.”
He sighed. “Elandra, I am not a healer.”
“Your father taught you something. I know he did.”
Caelan held out his hands. “I could not learn the healing arts. Yes, I learned severance, which I have explained to you, but I—”
“I know,” she said eagerly. “That is why I am so certain you can do it. You must believe in yourself. You must reach deep and find the knowledge that you have. There is a way. There must be a way. I don’t know why I feel so sure, but I do. You can do this, if you will but try.”
He turned away from her, unwilling to face the pleading in her eyes. Elandra had never begged before, but she was begging him now. The worst thing, however, was that she was right.
He did not want to admit it.
He did not want to pay the price.
“Am I wrong?” she asked, her voice suddenly sounding dull. “Am I mistaken?”
He sighed. “We must all lose our parents at some time. It is part of life.”
“Is this his time?” she asked fiercely. “Is it? Or has the darkness reached out to strike him down? When I lived here, the palace was not riddled with shadows and forbidden magic the way it is now. I can feel it crawling everywhere, seeking prey, ready to strike anyone who is unwary. The jinjas are supposed to sense it, keep it away, but they are clearly failing against what has come here. Everything is breaking down, Caelan. The closer we go to Imperia, the more I think we will find much evil turned loose on our world. The darkness is overtaking us, one by one.”
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