That day was now upon him, and sooner than he’d wanted.
The late afternoon sun cast his shadow as a spindly rider beside him as his mount crested the rise that marked the boundary of his father’s lands.
In the distance rose the tower of Strand Keep, blocky gray stone that held memories of a hard upbringing and little joy. Tarek pulled his horse to a stop, regarding the collection of buildings clustered at the base of the tower. It wasn’t an easy life, that of a border lord pushed against the boundary of Hardorn, and Tarek had to admit that his father had successfully managed his lands for decades.
But at what cost?
With a sigh, he nudged his mount into motion again.
I am here as a Healer, he reminded himself. Not as the heir to the keep. If all went well, he’d be back on the road, headed the opposite direction, in less than a week. Back to Haven, back to his budding romance with Bard Shandara Tem, and the comfort of the Collegium, where he belonged.
A handful of years earlier, he would’ve scoffed openly if anyone had told him he’d end up a Healer. Lord Strand had brought his children up secure in the knowledge that the powers possessed by Heralds and their ilk—Bards and Healers included—were negligible at best and base trickery at worst.
“We’ve no need of such charlatans within the walls of Strand Keep,” Tarek’s father had said the few times Lady Strand had broached the idea of having a Healer come tend a serious injury, or a Bard visit to bring news and play them the most recent songs of the kingdom.
It was surprising that Lord Strand had unbent enough to send for Tarek now, although the ties of kinship would account for it.
Tarek patted the inner pocket where he’d tucked the letter from his mother. He’d read it enough times to know the short missive by heart.
Dearest Tarek,
I shall skip the pleasantries and inform you that your father has fallen ill. We would like you to come as soon as you may. It will be good to see you.
Love,
Mother
His mother and younger sister, Elen, had come to Haven last year to help celebrate Tarek’s graduation to full Healer. That his father had chosen to stay at Strand Keep had been no surprise. The one time Lord Strand had gone to Haven, when Tarek was first enrolled in the Collegium, the border lord had disliked nearly everything about the city and school.
It was too busy, too undisciplined, too overdecorated.
That, plus Lord Strand’s open disdain for the Gifts, meant he would never understand his son’s choices. Tarek was anticipating an uncomfortable reunion ahead—but if he could help his father back to full health, surely that would change Lord Strand’s mind about the value of Healing.
A small dust cloud rose on the road ahead; a rider, coming from the keep. Tarek squinted, trying to see who it might be, although he strongly suspected it was his sister. He nudged his mount into a faster pace.
Sure enough, within a few minutes he could make out the figure of Elen atop her favorite chestnut gelding. She was riding at a decent trot, but not a panic-stricken pace. Tarek waved, and she lifted her hand, sending him a jaunty greeting in return.
Her expression when she reached him, however, was somber.
“Hello, Tare,” she said. “It took you long enough.”
“I came as soon as I got word,” he said. “Haven’s not that close, you know.”
She frowned, then glanced at the looming tower of the keep. “I was thinking I’d come fetch you over a fortnight ago, but Mother said she’d already written.”
Elen had wanted him home weeks ago? Concern sparked through him. It didn’t take that long for messages to travel through Valdemar. Certainly it should only have been a matter of days for word to reach Haven from Strand Keep.
Tarek briefly touched his pocket. “Yet I just received Mother’s letter. Did you think I’d simply ignored her summons?”
“I wasn’t sure why you didn’t come.” Elen’s expression turned grim. “Father’s not well. Not at all.”
“What happened?”
“There wasn’t an accident or anything,” she said. “But starting this spring, he began to . . . slow down, I guess.”
“He’s getting older—and he’s always driven himself hard.”
“Himself, and everyone around him.” Elen shook her head. “I was the first to realize there was a change, actually. I started taking on things he was letting slide. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I kept thinking he’d get better.”
“What kinds of things? How did you notice?” Dust clogged Tarek’s throat, and he tightened his grip on the reins. Worrisome, indeed, to hear that Lord Strand’s illness had been proceeding for months.
“I started acting as his secretary two years ago,” Elen said. “After Mr. Dellin passed. It was supposed to be temporary, but Father said I was doing a fair enough job that he saw no point in hiring someone new to take over—at least not until you returned. You were supposed to be coming home from the Collegium and resuming your duties as heir, remember?”
Tarek grimaced. “Things changed.”
He hadn’t meant to become a Healer, after all; but his Gift had insisted, and the path under his feet had changed. Now he wasn’t sure where it was leading him.
“I don’t think Father understands.” Elen shot him a look. “He’s expecting you to return and take over Strand Keep.”
“I know.” Tarek’s thoughts skittered away from what that meant—and from the inevitable choice ahead.
Healer. Or Lord of Strand Keep.
Can’t I do both? he wanted to shout. But that wasn’t how life worked, no matter how much he might want it to.
“Anyway,” Elen said, “a few months ago I started doing more of the keep’s business: meeting with farmers, hearing grievances, consulting with the garrison commander when Father didn’t have the energy.”
Tarek glanced at his sister. In his mind, she was still half a child, although she was only two years his junior. He forced himself to take a harder look. Though her cheeks were still round, her features had matured. Her hair still bore streaks of honey-gold, but it had darkened from the shining blonde of childhood. And her gray eyes no longer held the open inquisitiveness of a youth, but the beginnings of wisdom brought by experience.
His baby sister had become a woman.
Apparently a very capable one, if Lord Strand had approved of her work as his secretary, however temporary.
The shadow of the tower fell across the road, the lowering sun painting the fields red-gold, and Tarek shifted in the saddle. They’d be at the stables soon, and he was more than ready to get off his horse. Though perhaps not quite as ready for what came after.
“What are Father’s symptoms?” he asked.
“Most days he has no appetite. He sleeps a lot, and recently he doesn’t even get out of bed.”
Tarek gave her a sharp look. “That’s not good.”
The man who’d threatened beatings if his children weren’t up at first light, ready to work, now spent days abed? Misgiving moved coldly through Tarek, a shiver touching his shoulders.
“You’re a full Healer now, though.” Elen glanced at him anxiously, and suddenly she looked like his baby sister once more. “You can fix whatever’s wrong, can’t you?”
Tarek straightened. “I’ll do everything I can to help Father back to full health.”
He had no other choice.
* * *
* * *
A short time later, standing beside Lord Strand’s bed, Tarek’s earlier fears came roaring back. The man who lay before him, apparently asleep, was a shadow of his former robust self.
“Sit down.” His mother pushed a chair up behind Tarek. “I’ll fetch tea.”
He glanced at her, noting the weariness in her face, the dark smudges beneath her eyes. Lady Strand looked as though she, too, was in need of a gr
eat deal more rest than she’d been getting.
“Are you sick as well?” he asked, his heart squeezing with anxiety.
“Just tired.” She gave him a wan smile. “Your father’s had a few difficult nights.”
“Difficult, how?” He glanced at Lord Strand’s pale skin, the gaunt hollows of his cheeks.
His mother let out a sigh. “It’s hard for him to get comfortable. His belly pains him.”
“Stomach trouble?” That was more than Elen had said.
“Sometimes. Other times he can’t catch his breath, or his limbs ache.”
That made the diagnosis harder, and Tarek frowned, wishing his mentor, Master Adrun, were there. But the Master Healer’s place was in the Collegium, not out with his new graduates, holding their hands. Even if, as in Tarek’s case, their education had been a bit rushed.
“Sit with me,” Tarek said, turning to his mother. “I can get my own tea later.”
He grabbed a second chair from against the wall and set it down near the head of his father’s bed, then sat. Muscles sore from riding protested, and he mentally shook his head. His father would scoff if he knew how a few long days in the saddle had affected Tarek.
“Books are no substitute for hard work.” The echo of Lord Strand’s voice threaded through Tarek’s memories. “A real education is gained through experience, not study.”
“Father,” Tarek said, gently taking the thin hand lying atop the smooth linen coverlet. “It’s me, Tarek.”
There was no response, and he glanced at his mother.
“He may wake soon,” she said softly. “If not, you can try again first thing tomorrow. Mornings are often better.”
“I’d like to use my Gift to try and sense what’s wrong,” Tarek said, then hesitated. “I’d rather do it with his permission.”
“Will it hurt?” His mother gave him an anxious look.
“No. An initial exploration, without attempting Healing, will be painless. But he wouldn’t like knowing it was done without his knowledge.”
To put it mildly. Lord Strand’s aversion to the Gifts was strong.
But hopefully, if Tarek’s father experienced the power of Healing firsthand, he would change his mind. At least a little. It would be best if he were fully conscious during the entire process, however, from the diagnosis through Healing and recovery.
“Father.” Tarek leaned forward. “Please wake up.”
Lord Strand’s eyelids fluttered, and a moment later he opened his eyes. Just a little, but Tarek could see the gleam of annoyance in their dark depths.
“What is it?” Lord Strand’s usual gruff voice was diminished, creaky now rather than commanding. He blinked, then opened his eyes all the way. “Tarek—thought it was you. Just in time. You’re the new Lord Strand when I go.”
Tarek’s mother pulled in a quick breath of denial, and Tarek shook his head.
“That’s years in the future,” he said. “We’ll get you Healed and back on your feet in no time.”
Then later—much later—he’d break the news to his father that he couldn’t be the Lord of Strand Keep.
“Healing, bah.” Lord Strand grimaced. “Too late for me.”
“I don’t think so. Will you let me try?”
For a tense moment, Lord Strand glared at him. Tarek’s breath hitched at the thought his father might deny him—might stubbornly cling to the belief he was dying and thus make it true. Then Lord Strand sighed, the spark of anger fading from his expression.
“Very well,” he said. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Tarek nodded and closed his eyes. One of his first lessons had been how to shield himself, so that he didn’t experience the aches and small injuries of every person around him. It hadn’t been easy, probably because he’d come to his Gift so late. But he’d learned.
Now, he opened himself to let his Healing flow, and nearly jerked back at the illness he sensed in Lord Strand’s body.
By the stars! His father was terribly sick, his body so compromised that . . .
No. Tarek’s mind shied from the thought.
He’d been given the Gift of Healing for a reason—and surely that reason was embodied in the man now lying before him. Tarek’s duty, his calling, was to save Lord Strand’s life.
“Well?” His father gave Tarek a knowing look. “Bad, isn’t it?”
Tarek’s lips tightened. “Not good, at any rate. Why didn’t you send for me sooner?”
“Wouldn’t have changed things.”
“Yes, it would!” With effort, Tarek forced himself back to a semblance of calm. “You have an internal sickness that responds well to Healing, if treated early. Now, though . . .”
“Incurable,” Lord Strand said with grim satisfaction. “At least now you’re home where you belong.”
Tarek glanced away, a mix of grief and rage swamping him. Did Lord Strand really intend to die simply to prove a point?
“I’m still going to try to Heal you,” Tarek said, returning his attention to his father. “Starting now.”
Lord Strand’s eyebrows twitched up, but he said nothing, as if inviting Tarek to do his worst.
Or his best.
Tarek took a deep breath, then closed his eyes again, sending Healing energy into his father’s body. Ignoring the smaller problems, mainly to do with circulation, he concentrated on the sullen red smolder of illness crouching in Lord Strand’s belly and lungs. Carefully, Tarek tried to flow a touch of brightness into the most diseased areas, encouraging his father’s body to continue fighting.
“Does it hurt?” Lady Strand asked her husband.
“I don’t feel anything,” he said wearily. “Tarek’s just sitting there taking a nap.”
Tarek refused to rise to the bait, instead continuing the delicate work of shoring up the most battered of his patient’s defenses. He was mindful, too, of not sapping his own strength too greatly. This was going to be a long, difficult Healing.
If it even worked at all.
Finally, he opened his eyes and looked at his father. “You’ll need to eat and drink—far more than it seems you’ve been doing. Bone-rich broths, at the very least. Tisanes and plenty of water.”
Lord Strand made a sound deep in his throat, but he didn’t argue.
“I’ll send to the kitchens,” Tarek’s mother said, rising and moving to the door.
She spoke to the servant in the hallway outside, her soft tones soothing to Tarek, even though he couldn’t quite hear her words. He watched his patient, who, with a sigh, closed his eyes. By the time Tarek’s mother returned to Lord Strand’s bed, he’d fallen asleep.
“Can you cure him?” she asked softly.
“I hope so.” Though his father’s condition was far worse than he’d anticipated. Exhaling, he glanced at his mother. “Why didn’t you send for me sooner?”
Her gaze went from him to her husband, who seemed to be resting well enough, though the Healing had clearly sapped his waning strength. Gently, Tarek slipped his hand out of his father’s sleep-softened grasp.
“I did send for you,” Lady Strand said softly. “I wrote that letter and dispatched it weeks ago, without your father’s knowledge—or so I thought.”
“Then why did I just receive it?”
She let out a sad sigh. “Your father intercepted it. He only told me this recently, declaring that he would be the judge of when you were summoned. I suppose he finally decided it was time.”
“Does he want to die?” Tarek clenched his hands into fists and glanced at his father’s sleeping face. Lord Strand looked so worn and vulnerable, it was difficult to reconcile the sight with Tarek’s memories of the robust and abrasive ruler of the keep.
“Your father . . .” His mother hesitated, staring at the wall a moment before looking back at him. “He’s been master of Strand Keep for
decades. When you didn’t leave the Collegium as expected, it was a blow. He was anticipating stepping back, helping you learn to govern as you took your place as the new Lord Strand.”
“He never mentioned as much to me.” Tarek frowned, guilt tickling his throat. “But I couldn’t have come back sooner. I had to finish my training as a Healer. In fact, I’m still not done. Once Father’s feeling better, I must return to Haven.”
“Oh, Tarek.” His mother squeezed his arm. “Can’t you be done with all that? Your father needs you here.”
What about what I need? Tarek left the question unspoken, though it burned through him. Where, truly, did he belong?
Once, he’d thought he could do both, be a Lord and a Healer, but that seemed naïve, now—the hopeful wishings of a younger man afraid to face the choices ahead.
He couldn’t stay at Strand Keep.
But, under the circumstances, how could he leave?
* * *
* * *
After gaining his mother’s reassurance that she’d stay with her husband and make sure he ate and drank when he awoke, Tarek went in search of his own supper.
He wasn’t surprised to find Elen seated at the scarred wooden table in the great hall—a room that seemed not so large to his eyes, now that he’d seen much grander in Haven and even the Palace itself. His sister had a plate of bread and stew at one elbow and was going through a stack of papers before her.
A faint frown drew her brows together, and she looked far more serious that he could ever recall. Instead of interrupting her, he strode to the heavy wooden chair next to where she sat and leaned his arms across the high back. A quick glance showed that she was going over accounts—from one of the farms, judging by the list of harvest weights for onions and grain.
“Hello,” she said, glancing up at him. “Cook kept dinner warming in the kitchen. I figured you’d be hungry after your long days of travel.”
“I am, and not only from the journey. Healing is hard work.”
Passages Page 3