Guardian Last (Lords of Syon Saga Book 2) (8 page)

After a moment, his steady focused gaze rose from the
sheriff’s arm.  “This injury is not what it seems.”  He bowed.  “You bring us
challenge and we thank you.  Come.”

He led them further into the abbey, past a large hall which,
had she not looked, she would never have known was their training area, so
silent were the monks in their sparring.  So different, she mused, from the way
her knights trained.  The practice chamber at Brannagh was almost always
brightly aclang with the clatter of swords, discussions and even banter between
those sparring.  Her knights…  She shut out the memory.

Beyond the practice area was a room with a few simple but
well constructed beds and chairs.  Along the sides were cabinets with bottles,
bandages and instruments neatly organized and labeled.  Daylight streamed in
through the almost transparent hide-covered windows above, chasing every shadow
from the room.

“Our surgery,” said the abbot.  “He should be comfortable
here.”

Renda settled her father on one of the high beds.  “My Lord
Abbot, would it help you to know how this happened?”

“Yes,” he replied, gathering supplies from the shelves to
bring to the sheriff’s bedside. 

She nodded and drew up a chair beside her father’s bed. 
“Well,” she began, then stopped, scratching her head.  Where to begin?  The
plague?  Pegrine’s death?  Cilder?  Or just the morning’s strange battle in the
glade?

“Do not trouble yourself, Lady Renda,” he said softly.  He
took a vial from the crate next to him and waved it under the sheriff’s nose. 
Instantly, the sheriff fell asleep. “We will look into the wound itself to see
what happened and, more importantly, what continues to happen.”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

He touched the sheriff’s arm and looked intently at the
wound.

After a moment, the Bilkarian wiped the sweat from his brow,
rubbing absently at his own arm, as if he had taken Daerwin’s pain to himself. 
“We had no idea…  But you saw victory in the glade, and for that we are
grateful.”

“Only a small victory, I’m afraid.  At great cost.”  Renda’s
voice broke, and she looked away.

“So we saw.  Our condolences.”  The abbot examined the
peripheral burns on the skin, the burned muscle and sinew.  “We see a strange
energy lodged in the bone like molten steel.  You see, just there.  It burns
faster than the flesh can heal.  It tries to burn into the very bone itself. 
We cannot dislodge it readily, but we can perhaps weaken it.”  He ran his
finger through the remains of the gooey salve on the sheriff’s arm and sniffed
it.  “No, this is incorrect,” he said at last.  “It does no harm, but neither
does it much good.  A shame.  The Dhanani have lost so much…”

She jumped at his words.  “What did you say?”

He looked up in alarm, as if he had forgotten her presence
completely.  “Forgive us.  We spoke unnecessarily.”  He took a cloth and began
wiping the remaining salve away from Daerwin’s wounds as gently as he could.

“Perhaps,” she said, suspicion lending an edge to her voice,
“but I would know what you meant.  An old Dhanani god fought against us in the
glade.”

“Aye, we saw as much when we read his wound.”

“And this is His cardinal’s handiwork.  Very powerful
handiwork of a type we’ve never encountered before.”

“Aye, so we see.”

“Ancient Dhanani…”

He looked down uneasily.  “Aye.”

“So when you say the Dhanani have lost so much…”

The abbot looked up at her.  “We…know of this kind of
power,” he said, returning his focus to the wound itself, “but never did we
think to see it ourself.”  The mix of reverence and fear in his voice worried
her, as did his evasive tone.  “We shall try to explain as we can,” he said,
continuing his ministrations.  He held up the cloth with which he had wiped
away the salve.  “This ointment is also Dhanani––it seems to us the crafting of
their shaman, Aidan, pure and well made.  It is created of the same power that
raised the cardinal’s shield, much as a child’s primer is created of the same
letters as a master’s poem.  But they are by no means alike.  This salve is
crude and primitive, by comparison.  It serves well as a general purpose
analgesic and antiseptic, good for bites and poison nettles, even minor wounds,
but against this type of injury, it is weak.”  He nearly spat the word.  “As
useless as a mother’s kiss.”

She marked how deftly he changed the subject to avoid discussing
how he knew of the ancient Dhanani power, but she dared not confront him or he
might refuse to treat her father at all.  At least he understood the wound and
what had caused it, which was more than she had any right to expect.  “You have
a better means to treat it, then?”

Laniel took a crate of vials and instruments as well as a
stack of clean cloths and gauze from a nearby cabinet and brought it to the
table.  “We have stronger analgesics and antiseptics.  These and rest are what
he needs most.”

She stood and paced across the room.  She found it hard to
conceal her impatience.  “Laniel, you’ve seen for yourself.  What caused this
wound is a very dangerous and powerful business, and I am fairly certain that
we did not defeat it.  We lose ground against it every moment we waste here.” 
She looked around at the walls like a caged animal.  “We must not stay.  We
must rejoin the fight.  We have no time for dabbing his brow with wet cloths
and feeding him broth.  We must have him healed at once or all is lost!”  She
did not like the sound of panic in her voice.  “I must know, have you a more
direct means to combat this or no?”

Anger crept into Laniel’s voice.  “You followers of the
other gods become so spoiled by Their wasteful displays of power, and so
peevish when that power is no longer at your beck and call.  Are They your gods
or your servants?”  He angrily bit at the edge of a strip of Bremondine silk to
tear it.  “A wonder, it is, that your weak bodies even remember how to heal
themselves, what with the constant intervention of your gods ere you so much as
sneeze!  Bodies as weak as your minds!”

Weak.  The word struck a warning in her mind.  In the sudden
ringing silence, Renda only stared at him.  She knew she must have sounded like
an ungrateful brat even as the words left her lips, but she could not help
herself.  The abbot’s anger was surely justified.  “My Lord Abbot, please
forgive me.  I should not have––”

But Laniel’s anger was gone as quickly as it had appeared. 
“These simple treatments, the dabbing of his brow and the feeding of broth, as
you say, are all we of Bilkar have to bolster his own ability to heal.  Were
the wound of any other type, it would be more than enough, but in this case…”
He dabbed the silk into a mixture of herbs and oils and twisted it into a thin
strip.  Then he laid it into the burn on the sheriff’s arm.  It seemed to melt
into the wound, just as it always had on the battlefield.  Instantly, the edges
of Daerwin’s flesh started wrapping itself around the silk, bonding to it and
extending across it, as they should.  The wound appeared to be knitting itself
together, using the silk as a lattice.  But as the silk was drawn deeper into
the wound, suddenly it burned away as if it had touched the cardinal’s shield
itself, leaving the wound as raw and oozing as before.  The sheriff groaned
softly in his sleep.

Laniel squeezed another dose of something Renda did not
recognize deep into the wound before binding Daerwin’s arm loosely with gauze. 
“It is as you see.  Nor do we believe any other priest has any means of
treating it more effectively than we, considering the nature of the wound. 
I’faith, another god’s priest might even feed it by invoking the power of his
god against it.  This is…not like other injuries.  You may not believe it, but
you chose wisely, coming to us.”

Renda nodded, grateful for his gracious acceptance of her
contrition.  “Thank you.  Truly.  And for your care of my father, I am in your
debt.  But what of this wound?  Will he lose the use of his arm?”

Laniel scowled at the arm, considering.  “We think most
likely not.  We must watch how the wound heals, of course.  How long it lasts
depends on many things, but we marked how the silk burned away.  The fire seems
to weaken.  We should not expect it to burn for more than another day or two,
not unless the wound is renewed, but that two days’ burn could irreversibly damage
his arm if we do not mind it closely.  For this reason, you and your father
should stay.  By morning, we should know more.”

“Morning?”  She blew out a frustrated breath and counseled
herself to calm.  She had already angered Laniel once with her impatience.  “We
had planned to go to Windale to gather Ker––the Viscount and the knights with
him.”

Laniel nodded.  “Most wise.  Where do you go from there?”

She stopped short, slightly surprised at his question.  Her
meaning was that they were not at leisure to linger and that they needed to be
away.  It was not an invitation to discuss their plans.  She considered
carefully.  She had seen nothing to make her suspicious of him in the way she’d
been suspicious of Valmerous.  But why would he ask where they were going?  She
looked around at the doors to the surgery. 

“We are quite alone,” he said, lowering his voice. “The
monks are finishing their morning chores and preparing for the meal.  We
understand your fear, but we serve only Bilkar.  We would know your plan that
we may help find efficient answer to your concerns.  Upon my word as Laniel,
six hundred seven and twentieth Abbot of Bilkar on Syon.”

She looked up at him in surprise.  Bilkarians did not offer
such oaths lightly.  Then again, she thought of Cilder and of Valmerous.  What
oaths had they offered in their bound gods’ names while serving Xorden?

No.  She could drive herself mad second guessing herself at
every turn.  Her instincts had brought her here, and they had told her to trust
Laniel.  She only hoped they would not betray her.

“My father told me ere we left the castle that, regardless
of the outcome against Valmerous, any of us that survive must achieve the coast
and make our way to Byrandia.”

“Byrandia!  We envy you this challenge!  Did he say why?”

She hesitated, then shook her head.  “He did not share the
meat of his thoughts with me ere he was injured, and he has not been able to
speak much since.  He did say something of a prophecy, but nothing of
substance.”

Laniel shook his head and smiled.

“We of Bilkar do not partake of prophecies or
predestination.  Bilkar holds Man accountable for his choices, a thing
impossible if Man has none.”

Part of her envied the terrible freedom and responsibility
that went with such a philosophy.  But as the war hero bound by prophecy, she
had ended the Five Hundred Years War, as foretold.  She had no choice but to
believe in prophecy and by extension predestination.

But then, until now, she had not considered that if she was
indeed bound by the prophecy, then all her choices, her strategies, her heroic
deeds, everything she had done to win the war had meant nothing. She might as
well have stood afield naked and unarmed.  She would still have lived.  She
would still have won.  She was never free to fail, and so she was not accountable
for the success.

She felt dizzy at this realization, dangerously so, as if
she stood at the edge of a great dark chasm and teetered at its brink.

No.

The prophecy said a hero would come and end the war, but it
had not protected her, and it had not dictated her actions.  She had chosen her
actions at every point. The potential for failure had been real, the potential
for death had been real.  If she had failed at any point, if she had been
killed, then she would not have been its fulfillment, and the world would have
waited for its real hero.  That answer felt hollow to her and unsatisfying, but
she could not say precisely why.  Regardless, a new battle was joined, and she
could not be distracted with self pity.

“For this reason,” Laniel continued, “at the God’s
Rebellion, B’radik did not grace us with a portion of Her prophecy.”  He looked
at her sadly.  “We fear we will not be much use to you in understanding.”

“I understand.”  She sighed, turning her thoughts back to
her father.  “Besides, for all of me, it could be just fever dreams and
nonsense.  For the moment, I choose not to dwell on what little he said––”

…Guardian last…witcher son…prophecy…coming, banishèd…

“—lest I draw a false conclusion,” she said, willing the
words from her mind.  “Nevertheless, from his tone, I very much have a sense of
urgency about reaching the coast.  So while I understand that it would be best
for us to stay here until he is healed…”

Laniel rose to his feet.  “You do not wish to lose the
time.  Understood.  But be at peace.  We of Bilkar will save you time and care
for your father.  Consider, Lady.  Your goal is a port to the east––Brannford
is closer than Pyran, so even a bit south?  Windale takes you out of your way
north and west a day’s ride at least.”

“Aye, it does,” she agreed.  “But we must have those
knights.  We lost so many at Brannagh.”  Her voice nearly broke again with the
memory, and she took a deep breath.

“We will send messengers to summon Windale to you here.  It
approaches noon now, so they should reach Windale by sunset.  Windale will arm
and provision his people tonight and they can make their ways here in the
morning.  We can use that time to tend your father’s wounds and care for your
horses, one of whom is nearly lame with exhaustion.  You will be able to rest
and gather your wits for the coming journey, and from here, you can go directly
to Brannford.”  He seemed rather pleased with himself.  “This is the most
efficient path, praise Bilkar.”

Laniel might still be in service to Xorden for all she knew. 
If so, allowing him this delay kept him off his guard and let him believe he
had fooled her.  It might buy them enough time for the sheriff to heal at least
a little ere Xorden could spring His attack, which He would certainly launch
immediately were she to refuse.  If Laniel was completely honest, if Windale’s
men actually did arrive in the morning as promised, then the slight delay would
indeed save them a day’s ride.  Still, she would be watchful tonight.