And So It Begins (6 page)

He exhaled sharply as his gaze drifted around the room, one of the more expensive rooms that could be had in the city. The furnishings were sparse, as the allure of these top rooms was in their privacy rather than their luxury, but it was clean and warm, with only remnants of the frigid air outside noticeable near the window. There was a separate washroom, with a third room set aside for sitting privately, but it was far from the comforts found in the apartments at the castle, and far below the appointments given to a prince. Derek lived in rooms such as these, but Kherin….

He regarded the prince, seeing him calm now, but pale, and wrapped tightly in the blankets across the bed, one hand visible where it gripped the edge. What he had seen tonight could very well happen again if the prince stayed in Delfore. Derek knew that. He had seen it coming for far too long. Even Adrien, when he returned, would likely be unable to end it, not when the chains Kherin was so certain bound him here only tightened with each passing year. Derek raised a hand to sweep a chestnut lock from Kherin’s forehead, and a gentle sigh escaped as the decision he had weighed since he had found Kherin in the Mouse settled over him.

Derek would be in Delfore until the funeral ceremonies were over, and when he left, he would take Kherin with him. Adrien would understand.

He just needed to convince the king to let him go.

“H
OLD
him down, damn it!” Sweat coated Willum’s face, and his gnarled, spotted hands shook as he twisted the rag between his bony fingers. “Get his mouth open before he breaks his teeth or swallows his tongue!”

The younger hands of a Gravlorn Defender moved from the prince’s arms to his locked jaw, positioning his fingers above and below a mouth clenched in agony. A second Defender added weight across the prince’s chest, risking the crushing of his lungs in his effort to keep the prince still. A third Defender lay across the prince’s legs, probably the most dangerous place, for even though the prince wasn’t in the midst of convulsions, the pain that racked him made him writhe and struggle.

This was the third seizure to grip Adrien Rhylle in as many days, and it was by far the worst.

A quiet prayer was whispered over Adrien, a fervent plea from the Defender prying open the prince’s mouth that Adrien wouldn’t bite through his fingers. A louder prayer followed as the jaw began to open. Willum wasted little time in shoving the rag between the prince’s teeth.

Adrien’s struggles grew violent as the rag blocked the breathing that already came out harsh and tortured. The hands of the Defender left his jaw and moved back to hold his arms. Willum wiped one shaking hand across his forehead, smearing the sweat that beaded his skin. There was no more to do until the seizure had passed. Then the linens would have to be changed, and the stains washed from their threads. And washed, as well, from the prince’s body. It was like this every time.

And Willum was frightened.

As one of Gravlorn’s healers, it was his responsibility to see to the well-being of the Defenders, and he was well versed in injuries and illness. The wound from the blade that had found his prince’s side had been deep but not grievous, and it had responded well to the treatment of calendula salve and stitching. The bruises on his arms and neck were fading to dull purple and yellow, and the cut above his brow was minor despite the amount of blood it had spilled. The fevers had come and gone, and for all appearances, the prince healed well.

Save for the mark on his back.

The torn flesh on his shoulder should have scarred by now, should have at least healed enough that it no longer opened and bled. But it hadn’t. The cut remained fresh and raw, bleeding profusely with each seizure that claimed him, the blood darkening what skin it touched as if it were scored by fire. And when it was over, when the seizure had passed and when the blood had been cleaned, the mark looked the same. No better, no worse. It was terrifying.

Willum turned his tired, faded eyes to the darkened window next to the prince’s bed, noting the dim light of the flickering lamps that gave only brief glimpses of the shadowed streets of Gravlorn. He would have to send another message to Delfore, but it was too late to send a rider today. He wanted—needed—to tell his king of the condition of his son, of the illness that all but crippled him, an illness of which he had no knowledge.

An illness—or a poison.

Adrien had suffered these seizures since the day the northerners surged across the Ford nearly a week ago. A terrifying show of northern strength that compared to nothing in recent memory. Adrien’s injuries had been omitted from the message sent then, that first message after the attack, by the orders of the eldest prince himself. Not to save the king worry or leave him questioning, but to spare that worry from his brother.

“I will not chance my brother coming here,” Adrien had whispered then, in the aftermath of that first seizure. “Thank the Gods above he is not here now. I will not have him worry, and I will not have him in danger.
Say nothing of this
.”

The second message was sent because there had been no choice. The Defender company would be leaving Gravlorn in only weeks, and it would be unsafe for Adrien to make the journey while these seizures still plagued him. The injuries were noted in the second message, but the subject of the seizures was not. Adrien would not allow that.

But the seizures were coming more often now, and they were stronger. That this may end in the prince’s death was becoming frighteningly real. The king had to know.

The sighs of the Defenders drew his gaze from the window, and he saw that Adrien lay gasping and soaked in sweat, though no longer struggling. The seizure had passed. Dark, tormented eyes opened above the rag-stuffed mouth, and they blinked slowly before resting on the healer.

Say nothing
. The eyes pleaded understanding.
Please….

Willum sighed and turned back to the window, sudden exhaustion sweeping over him. He would have to send a message; he couldn’t
not
send one. But what would he say? And would Adrien forgive him if Kherin came to Gravlorn, into the heart of this sudden northern war? He had no answer to that, but he knew he couldn’t delay the telling any longer.

He looked at the prince, and for now assumed practicality. For now, he needed to remove the soiled linens, mix his powders into a draught that would let the prince sleep and recover, and apply salve to the wound that would maybe—just maybe—finally begin to heal.

Another sigh, heavy and weary, and he signaled the Defenders to help raise the prince’s body.

“G
ODS
help me….”

The muddled sensations of regaining consciousness had coalesced into that one coherent thought, and it drove relentlessly into his waking senses as he breathed, slowly and deeply. The sour taste of ale coated his mouth, and the pressure of both the memories and the air itself forced him into awareness. He was hot and thirsty, and his first movement found his arms heavy and tangled in blankets. A pulsing throb deep in his skull erupted despite the feebleness of his efforts to move, but at last he opened his eyes and blinked. Daylight brought full feeling and awareness crashing over him, and with a sickening twist of his stomach, he pushed himself to sit.

Bile burned in his throat, and the breath caught in his lungs, exploding in a choking cough that sprayed spittle through his lips. He was still dressed, though sloppily, and a cold draft wrapped around his bare feet as they touched a hardwood floor. The whole room was cold, now that the blankets lay piled around him. Bleary eyes found a brazier in the corner, though the coals it contained were no longer red. He swiped a sleeve gracelessly over his mouth and swept his gaze over a room he had never seen before.

It was painted in warm neutrals, with sturdy furnishings of dark wood trimmed in brass. Two dark traveling packs were set on the single chest, which was positioned between two open doorways. One revealed a chair upholstered in a faded flower pattern and showered in a myriad of dust motes floating in a stream of sunlight pouring through the window beyond. Vague shapes that may have been a table and lamp darkened the area beside it, but any other indications of the room’s purpose were obscured by shadows.

A washstand could be seen through the other, and the recognition was enough to draw Kherin’s attention to the pressure stretching his bladder. The urgency only grew once it was acknowledged, and it became persistent enough to force him to his feet. He all but staggered through the open doorway in search of a closet.

The washroom was similar to Kherin’s own in the castle, though the wooden tub pressed to one side was a little more austere, and the mirror over the basin of the washstand was less elaborate. He avoided the mirror as much as possible as he stumbled to the water closet tucked into the far corner, and behind the door of the tiny room he eased the pressure with a long and relieved sigh. Only then did clear thoughts begin to form.

This was obviously one of Delfore’s inns, though he couldn’t name which one, and he was obviously in Derek’s room, given the dawning familiarity of packs on the chest. But the how and why gathered from his flitting memories were slow to fall in place, and those that did made his stomach clench.

The Mouse hadn’t been a wise choice from the beginning, and Derek would want an explanation, of that he was certain. How the trader would react to it, however, he was anything but. Royalty or not, the trader was not going to be pleased. And the Gods only knew what his father would say.

The return to the bed was a little steadier, though weariness and the aftereffects of the Mouse’s ale dropped him on the edge as soon as he was near enough to reach it. Another nauseous twist assailed his stomach, nearly doubling him over, and he pressed a hand to his belly in a futile attempt to still it, raking the other through the matted strands of his hair, that felt sticky and heavy against his head. His father would no doubt be unsurprised, had probably expected him to do something like this. But Derek…. He could only hope Derek’s patience hadn’t been tested too far. He drew a shaky breath and wondered where the trader was and how long it would be until he returned.

It could have been moments or an eternity before the door finally creaked open.

Kherin glanced up as a draft of cool air followed the dark-cloaked figure into the room. The fresh air sweeping over him carried the scent of almonds. Derek didn’t speak, and another twist of his stomach made Kherin look away. He felt more than heard the trader approach in steps that could only be called cautious, and the acrid scent of bitter almonds grew stronger as the trader grew closer. A crockery mug was set carefully on the bedside table, and he recoiled as the sudden smell threatened to turn his stomach again. He didn’t look at the trader’s face until Derek knelt in front of him.

Dark eyes studied him in a gaze both concerned and assessing, but lacking the reproach Kherin had expected. Kherin remained wary, though, and set his jaw against the chilled fingers that lifted his chin.

“I’m glad to see you awake,” Derek said calmly. “How bad do you feel?”

Kherin answered with a soft grunt as he pulled his chin free, the skin of his cheeks heating as a half smile quirked the trader’s face.

“About as well as can be expected, I suppose,” Derek mused, dropping his hand and patting the prince’s knee. He stood then, shed his cloak, draped it over his packs, and cast a frowning glance at the cooling brazier as he seated himself beside the prince. Kherin braced himself but didn’t speak.

He was surprised when Derek only reached around him to retrieve the mug from the table, and Kherin risked a glance at the trader as the mug was brought nearer. The amusement in Derek’s eyes said clearly how little he believed Kherin would retrieve it on his own, and the tilt of his mouth indicated his full awareness of the smell and, ultimately, the taste. But it would settle his stomach at least, or so every healer in Delfore believed.

“Here, drink.”

There would be no point in arguing, even had he felt up to it, and though it was no surprise the taste was every bit as bad as the smell, Kherin handled the task of sipping adequately enough to satisfy the trader. He took a deep breath as the heat settled comfortably in his stomach, then let it out slowly as the silence in the room continued. Derek was waiting, but for the moment Kherin was content to let him do so.

Sounds outside the door interrupted his second sip, and a firm knock preceded the door opening again. A trail of servants employed by the inn entered and vanished quickly into the washroom, each carrying a steaming bucket in either hand and none giving the two more than quick, furtive glances as they passed. Kherin watched with equal silence, and a glance at the trader all but confirmed their arrival was Derek’s doing, as was, most likely, their lack of proper greeting. There was little chance any in Delfore wouldn’t recognize the youngest prince of the country, no matter his current state. Within moments, he heard the sound of splashing water.