Flight From Blithmore (17 page)
The
Emperor’s servant leaned over and whispered, “His name is Jackson Roving.”
Emperor
Krallick nodded, having forgotten the name since earlier. Jackson stopped a
comfortable distance from the Emperor’s seat and bowed so briefly it looked
more like a jerk of the body. The Emperor chose not to speak for several
moments while he gazed with mild astonishment at the writer’s appearance.
Whatever amount of impetuosity Roving possessed, it did not extend to speaking
to the Emperor before being addressed.
“Can
you guess why I have summoned you?” Emperor Krallick began in a soft tone.
“Your
Imperial Highness,” Jackson Roving answered with another small bow, “my best
guess would be that you wish to employ my services again, in which case I am
most humbled.”
Roving
sounded anything but humbled, and the ruler of Neverak bristled on his throne.
Why hadn’t he ordered a spring-panel installed for
this
throne, and not
just in his northern palace? Then his thoughts rested on the Valeek. Maybe he
wasn’t so put out after all.
“You
could not be more wrong, Mr. Roving.” Emperor Krallick made his voice sound
even more welcoming. “On the contrary, I am displeased with the service you
rendered me a few weeks ago.”
Jackson’s
face fell so low, even his moustache and feather seemed to droop. “My—my Lord,
forgive . . . and allow me an opportunity to rectify my mistake.”
“Can
I trust you?” The Emperor sent a piercing stare directed at the widened eyes of
the writer. “You have proven yourself once to be unworthy of my commissioning.
I would appreciate a sample of what you wrote to the woman who was the object
of the invitation.”
Taking
courage at this proposal, the writer began to recite his lines in the tone of a
poet on a balcony speaking to the soft moonlight on midsummer’s eve. When it
was finished, Jackson looked to the Emperor for a sign of satisfaction, but the
Emperor sat unmoving and expressionless.
“She’s
right, of course,” he said in his quietest voice.
“What
did you say, your Majesty?”
“The
woman was right. Awful is the word she used to describe your prose, and I
agree. What gave you the idea I would wish to be compared to a gardener? Or a
plant?”
“It
is a rich symbolism used by some of the greatest p—”
“Have
you ever seen me gardening? Or heard of me gardening?”
“No,
my—”
The
dulcet tone of the Emperor underscored his growing wrath. “You should have
consulted me before sending off such repugnant words in my name. No wonder she
rejected my offer to join me. You tarnished my name, my family’s name, and all
of Neverak. Indeed, your pen has struck a bleeding wound into our country’s
vein!”
The
writer recoiled in horror, sputtering excuses and requests for forgiveness,
horrified as though the Emperor had already shot him with an arrow. As quickly
as the wrath poured forth from the tongue of the Emperor, it was gone. Rigid
control over his emotions was a technique one of his old teachers had taught
him.
“Of
course, you must repair the damage you have done.”
“I
will do whatever my Lord commands,” cried the writer as he bowed to the ground
in true supplication. “I believe I can do it, and would not think of charging a
fee for any other writing your Majesty would have me do until my errors are
fixed.”
“How
honorable of you.”
“Thank
you, your Majesty.”
“Come
now and stand,” the Emperor said, “forgiveness is not so hard to come by as you
might think.”
“Thank
you, your Majesty. Oh, I how thank you!”
A
placating smile from Emperor Krallick eased the rest of the tension in the
writer. In his mind’s eye, the Emperor imagined blood flowing from wounds in
the writer’s head and neck. The small smile grew until it seemed to reach out
and embrace Jackson Roving in a warm, comfortable blanket. Jackson’s face
showed no fear.
“Tell
me something else, Mr. Roving. Have you ever played Crackin’?”
Essence of Angel Herbs
Henry
faithfully applied
fourteen drops of medicine into Isabelle’s
mouth, nose, and ears. James observed Henry the first few times, thinking he
might take a turn in caring for his sister, but Henry never gave him an
opportunity. James had noticed a lift in the group’s mood when they
successfully brought back medicine for Isabelle. It had been their first small
victory after being run out of town. Now, over a week since her poisoning, with
no change in her condition, morale had reached an all-time low.
With
the East Richterton Forest long behind them, the small party now stuck to their
plan of traveling through the hills west of the Drewberry River. James was
careful to keep them as concealed as possible in the hills. He reminded them
several times to stay close together and travel in a small pack. They avoided
fires, usually doing all the cooking for the day in the early hours of the
morning. He urged them to take turns keeping watch day and night. Still, James
was ever on his guard, watchful for ambushes and looking for safer routes to
travel.
He
and Henry checked on Isabelle after every meal. The group wanted to see signs
of improvement so badly that James feared they might start imagining things.
Yet Isabelle showed none. To make matters worse, autumn had arrived. Hints of
brown appeared in the tall grasses, wildflowers wilted away, and strong winds
and rains assaulted them almost daily. While James realized this made the
party’s trail through the meadow harder to follow, the morning gusts grew
colder, and Isabelle’s condition continued to deteriorate.
“Looks
like an early winter,” James mentioned during lunch one day. He stared at the
dark clouds that reflected his mood. “That doesn’t bode well for us.”
“Any
day now, she’ll wake up and be absolutely fine,” Ruther answered. He’d said the
same line many times, but James heard the lack of gusto in the storyteller’s
voice.
They
journeyed on, though the rain and winds slowed them. Isabelle’s already-slender
frame grew thinner and frailer without food, and her skin began to take on a
waxy appearance. Next, a paleness set in that reminded James of a deep morning frost
in the middle of winter. Henry asked Brandol to ride the spare horse so he
could spend the days in the carriage by her side. James quickly missed Henry’s
company at the head of the group. Brandol spoke hardly a word, which meant that
the only sounds came from Ruther, whose random thoughts and jokes often became
unbearable. After a couple days of this, James asked Ruther and Brandol to lead
the party while he rode alongside the carriage. From there, he could hear Henry
speaking to Isabelle in pleasant conversational tones. Henry would spend long
stretches of time describing to her the scenery, telling her about the humorous
exchanges between Ruther and Maggie, and revealing the dreams he concealed in
his heart for their lives together. James felt like an intruder during some of
these moments, but they also reminded him of his own personal tragedies that he
had shared with no one else.
On
one occasion, James heard his friend muffling sobs. He peered in silently and
saw Henry holding Isabelle tightly, cradling her in his arms, and whispering to
God to somehow transfer the life from his body into hers. Witnessing Henry’s
devotion to his sister touched James’ heart, and made him wonder how God could
allow such good people to suffer.
“I
thought I loved you,” he heard Henry tell her in that dark hour, “but I didn’t.
I didn’t know what the word meant then. Now I know. I truly love you,
Isabelle.”
James
decided after that moment to ride a bit farther from the carriage. The next
morning—the same day the Emperor arrived at his summer mansion—James calculated
that the party’s pace was far too slow. With the constant rain, the prevailing
depressed mood, and the poor decision to let Ruther set the pace, they had
already fallen four or five days behind on their schedule. Their next planned
stop for purchasing food and supplies, Fenley, was over a week away. James
privately advised Maggie to shrink their rations, and asked Ruther for
permission to ride with his bow to shoot game if it wandered near the company.
As
he and Henry rode to the river to fill the water skins, Henry voiced new
concerns. “We need to take her to another physician as soon as we can.”
James
did not know what to say.
“She
won’t last much longer,” Henry pressed. “The water and honey mixture isn’t sustaining
her.”
“The
medicine still isn’t gone,” James pointed out.
“I
don’t care anymore.”
“You
should, because all another physician will do is let her blood. I will not
stand for such a barbaric practice on my sister. You’ve seen how pale she is
already.”
“But—”
“Ruther
has reminded you several times the Emperor wouldn’t give a deadly poison to
Isabelle if he intended to take her to Neverak. I don’t see eye to eye with
Ruther often, but on this I do. There is still medicine in the vial.”
“Look
at her, James! She’s melting away. Her skin is tight, her hair brittle, and she
has no color. What good is it to let her die of starvation?”
Again
James answered Henry with only silence. His eyes, gray as the clouds constantly
hovering over them, stared off into the distance, searching the sky for
answers. “When the drops run out, we’ll get a physician. Is that agreeable?”
Henry’s
agreement came at length.
The
next morning marked a fortnight since Isabelle’s supper with the Emperor. The
sun had not yet risen and the air was unusually chilly. Henry finished his cold
breakfast first and went to the carriage to give Isabelle her medicine. James
walked with him to check on her. Very little medicine remained in the vial, so
little that James doubted they had enough to last through the day. With all the
care he possessed, Henry poured ten drops into Isabelle’s open mouth. After so
much practice administering Isabelle’s medicine and giving her water several
times a day, Henry could complete the tasks without spilling a drop.
James
watched the medicine disappear down her throat and prayed silently that they
would take effect. Next were the ears and the nose; as the last drop
disappeared down the canal of Isabelle’s ear, her chest rose sharply and from
her throat came a rattling gasp so frightening that James thought she was
inhaling death itself.
“Oh,
no,” Henry said. “Isabelle, no . . . . ”
Her
chest heaved violently but her eyes stayed closed.
“Henry?”
Maggie asked. Her faint voice drew nearer. “Is everything all right?”
Henry
continued to hold Isabelle. James had to lean in to see what was happening. Her
chest rose and fell faster and more powerfully, though this time without the
convulsions. The carriage door on the opposite side opened, and Maggie appeared
with Brandol. Ruther tried to look on from behind them. Henry glanced at them
all with wild, desperate eyes.
He
pressed his cheek against Isabelle’s and whispered in her ear, “You’ll be
alright! You’re going to live, Isabelle!”
Ruther
began asking anxious questions similar to Maggie’s, while Brandol watched in
silence, his face filled with horror. They listened to Henry tell Isabelle over
and over again that he would not let her die. These statements were both pleas
and commands that rose in urgency until Henry’s anguish was so great that he
overwhelmed the others with his tone of voice. Brandol clutched at his own
chest while Maggie covered her tears and Ruther turned away. James finally
squeezed into the carriage, trying to help Henry with Isabelle.
A
scared whisper interrupted Henry’s cries. “Henry?” the delicate voice said.
“Henry, I’m right here.”
Henry
brought his face away from Isabelle’s ear and muttered, “Thank you, Maggie.”
However,
Maggie had not spoken—she could not speak as her body still shook in sobs.
Henry turned back to Isabelle. James watched his sister’s eyes open to small
slits, and he brought a shaking hand to his own open mouth. A rosy hue crept up
her neck and cheeks. The beating heart inside James’ chest felt only gratitude,
and Henry, like his sister, broke down in tears.
“Henry,”
Isabelle said, almost laughing, “don’t cry.”
James
took one of Isabelle’s hands in his. They were still cold, but not to the same
degree as recent days.
“I
can’t help it,” Henry explained. “I’m—I’m overcome.”
“Don’t
be overcome,” Isabelle responded, “you have to get me something to eat. I’m
famished.”
Laughter
broke through the group. Only James did not join in.
“Then
I’ll make you some food right away.” He left, calling on Brandol and Maggie to
assist. To James, he said, “Keep an eye on her.”
James
went inside the carriage and sat by his sister.
“James,
what are you doing here?” She smiled weakly at him and then closed her eyes as
though she was in pain. “I’m confused. So many bad dreams . . . and some good
dreams. My mind is like a brick. I can’t seem to answer any of my own
questions.”
“What
do you want to know?” James asked as she slipped her hand into his.
“Am
I well?” she asked without pause. Her eyes were wide and focused on his. The
expression reminded him of when they were children, and he told her stories of
demons and monsters late at night. It surprised him how quickly she’d grown
into a younger version of his mother. Her tone of voice was similar, and her
hair color was exactly the same as Lady Oslan’s before she’d fallen ill. James
had seen Isabelle so little after joining the King’s Guard that she had become
a woman, and he’d missed it.
He
squeezed her hand tightly to reassure her. “Yes. You are well now.” The touch
between them felt both awkward and familiar. James had never shown this kind of
tenderness to anyone, and the thought saddened him. “You will recover.”
Tears
trickled down from Isabelle’s eyes as she breathed deeply in relief. The longer
James stared at her, the more he saw why Henry had been so worried. Her skin
was so tight, so pale and shiny, she could pass as a specter.
“I
was terrified, James. At times I didn’t know if I was alive or dead. I heard
voices, but I thought they were angels calling me. Or dreams . . . . ”
“You
heard Henry’s voice. Not exactly an angel, but he stayed at your side for
days.”
This
statement brought another smile to Isabelle’s lips, and she kissed her
brother’s hand. Again, the contact made him uncomfortable. Very few guardsmen
had their hand kissed by a sister. “How many days have I been asleep?”
“Two
weeks.”
Isabelle
mouthed the words to herself. “It felt like a very long nap.” She looked at
James. Her face hadn’t changed much, he noticed, she still looked like the
young girl he’d left behind when he enlisted. “I missed you so much. Especially
with everything that has happened. It was like living in a nightmare with
Father those last months. When did you receive my last letter?”
“I—I
received no letters. I arrived home in the middle of a duel between Henry and
our father. I should teach him to use a sword. He couldn’t even defend himself
against an old man. Do you have the strength to tell me about Mother’s death?”
Isabelle
slowly recited the events of the day their mother died. Hearing her tale left
James with deep regret. He had wanted to be with his mother during her last
hours, and had written her a letter not long before telling her how she had
been on his mind. For the first time in a long while, he had even penned the
words
I love you
.
When
Isabelle told him of the strange utterance Mother gave regarding him, he asked,
“What does that mean? ‘Climb the windy side?’”
Isabelle
shook her head. Her gaze was far away as she remembered these things. James
wished he could have seen his mother one last time. He couldn’t remember the
little things about her: the smell of her room, the touch of her hand, the
sound of her weak laugh as she teased him for his stoic manner.
Isabelle
spoke again. “Everything happened so fast . . . there was so much to do. Her
eyes were not normal when she said it. I don’t think she could see anymore.
Perhaps she saw past this world and into something we can’t understand.”
“Or
it might have all been a dream.”
“Now
you must tell me of everything that’s happened since I was poisoned.” Isabelle
shuddered and her face went pale again. “Tell me how you and Brandol and Ruther
came to be traveling with us.”
James
related to Isabelle all that the group had done over the last two weeks. During
his tale, Henry returned with a large dish of the best food that remained. Isabelle
pounced on it, voraciously consuming all the food on the plate, all thought of
manners forgotten. James watched her eat with morbid interest.
Ruther,
standing behind Henry, remarked, “I don’t think I’ll eat anymore this month.”
