Hallowed Bond (Chronicles of Ylandre Book 2) (12 page)

He’d clearly been the center of his party’s attention. That had gladdened Dylen for, if the company he kept was any indication, Riodan had risen in importance in society. All his companions were richly attired as befitted scions of upper crust families. And most bore the mantle clasp of the diplomatic corps with its graven image of a leaping delphinid similar to the one Riodan had inadvertently left behind when he departed the Teris abode.

It was Dylen’s most prized keepsake.

The temptation to greet Riodan had been almost overwhelming. But Dylen determinedly fought the impulse. After convincing Riodan of the necessity of keeping their affair a secret, he could hardly be the one to now put his lover in an awkward position.

A well-born Deir could address and even be cordial with a social inferior if he so chose. It was seen as a sign of graciousness by most. But the reverse was considered highly improper. For a lesser-born Deir to initiate public contact with a member of the upper class bespoke a familiarity that went beyond the typical limited interaction that might take place between Deira of disparate social classes. Such behavior almost always stirred curiosity and roused suspicion. Dylen did not wish to subject Riodan to potentially damaging scrutiny by his peers.

Thus, he had remained hidden and contented himself with ascertaining that his lover was hale and happy. He also kept the incident to himself rather than reap the results of his father’s optimism. Much as he appreciated Hirlen’s attempts to keep his hopes and spirits

up, there were times the effort to respond in similar fashion took too much out of him and he avoided such discussions as much as he could.

Discouraged by Dylen’s reticence, Hirlen announced that he was for his bed and rose from the couch. As he took a step away, he lurched forward slightly. Dylen was on his feet in a flash and caught him by the arm. Hirlen grimaced then righted himself. He slowly made his way around the couch and headed for his bedroom.

Dylen frowned. “Your limp seems to be growing worse,
Adda
.”

“Actually, it’s getting better,” Hirlen assured him. ”My leg no longer aches as much and only feels numb sometimes.”

“Numb?” Dylen’s frown deepened. “How odd. I really think you ought to see a physician.”

“What, for something as trivial as a sprain?” Hirlen scoffed.

“Is it a sprain? I sometimes wonder whether it was the limp that caused you to fall that time and not the other way around,” Dylen suggested.

Hirlen snorted. “Ah, that is nonsense, Dy. I am perfectly—”

Dylen cried out as his father’s leg suddenly gave out under him. Hirlen fell heavily to the floor.

“
Adda!
” Dylen hurried to his side and dropped to his knees beside him. “Are you hurt?” he anxiously asked, helping Hirlen up to a sitting position.

Hirlen did not speak at first but sat there panting slightly. Finally he looked up, his face quite pale. His eyes were wide with consternation.

“I can’t move my leg,” he whispered. “Saints above, I can’t even feel it!”

Dylen stared at him, his anxiety blossoming into dread.

“Tarqin!” he bellowed.

His shout easily roused their retainer whose quarters were just below the stairs. The elderly Deir came up the stairs hastily, alerted to possible trouble by the fear in Dylen’s voice.

“Go to Aron’s house at once,” Dylen instructed him. “Hurry!”

He watched Tarqin depart then turned back to Hirlen. To his alarm, Hirlen’s eyes had half-closed, and his skin had blanched to a startling degree. Dylen caught up his father’s hand. It was frighteningly limp and clammy. Tendrils of terror clutched at his heart.

“What ails you,
Adda
?” he whispered. “Veres almighty, what is wrong?”

The physician Aron straightened up after ministering to Hirlen. He had also extensively interviewed Dylen and Tarqin regarding the initial symptoms both had observed in the retired
hethar
. Now he instructed Tarqin to rub Hirlen’s benumbed leg as often as he could to bring feeling back into it and to always keep the room warm. Even the slightly lower temperature of a summer night could trigger an attack, he warned.

His expression as he signed to Dylen to follow him out of the bedroom was cause for much apprehension. It was clear Aron had treated Hirlen’s affliction before and found it difficult to cure.

Dylen insisted on serving the healer a cup of fortifying tea and buttered bread slathered with honey. Tarqin had roused Aron from sleep just an hour ago, and the physician had to stifle an occasional yawn. He gratefully if tiredly munched the simple

snack and downed the steaming beverage. Afterward, he began to speak Dylen listened with disbelief as the physician explained his father’s ailment.

“He is ill with blight,” Aron heavily said.

Dylen stared in confusion. “But isn’t blight just a minor ailment? And there are no lesions in his groin. Besides,
Adda
has been retired these past ten years. Where would he have contracted it?”

“Ordinarily, it
is
a minor illness, more bothersome than anything else,” Aron explained. “Especially since anyone who’s stricken is forbidden sexual contact for months even after the lesions have dried and faded into scars. Of course, there is the possibility of infertility if it isn’t treated early. And because unsanitary practices coupled with extreme promiscuity promote its circulation, it is most prevalent in the brothels and among street prostitutes. Occasionally, however, indeed only very rarely, thank Veres, it can turn virulent. And interestingly enough, this happens when the disease doesn’t manifest itself at once but lies dormant in the body for years. Many of my colleagues suspect that there
are
lesions present but they don’t appear on the surface and therefore aren’t visible. In any case, I fear this is what has happened in your father’s case.”

“
Adda
would have refused a patron with even a suspicion of blight scars,” Dylen said. “That must mean one of them was infected with this strain and passed it to him.”

“Or he may have borne the ordinary strain but only suffered mild scarring from the lesions that swiftly became indiscernible,” Aron added. “The disease then altered into its deadlier form in your father’s body.”

“But why?” Dylen cried. “How is it possible?”

“We don’t know,” Aron honestly replied. “Ailments sometimes evolve, and it’s all we can do to keep up with those changes and find ways to counter them. Unfortunately, we don’t always succeed. Ordinary blight is easily healed and when treated early doesn’t leave lasting damage. But this other form of it—” The physician shook his head. “I only pray that I shall live to see the day when a cure is discovered.”

Dylen was aghast. “What? But you heal Deira afflicted with blight every day!”

“The common form of it, yes, but not this strain.” Aron heaved a frustrated sigh.

“There have been a few cases where its progress was retarded for a while but not completely halted. And it was only because the disease was discovered early.”

A few minutes of quiet passed while Dylen digested the information. “What will happen next?” he asked apprehensively. “What can we expect?”

Aron pursed his lips then said, “This disease goes through stages. The protracted limp you described or extended aches in other parts of the lower body are the most common symptoms during the first stage. Numbness of the extremities ensues at the onset of the second stage as well as fainting spells. According to your servant, Hirlen began experiencing these symptoms at least a fortnight ago. In the third stage, the body sickens easily. By then, your father will be bedridden for the most part. The fourth and last stage…” Aron looked pensively over his shoulder at Hirlen’s bedroom door.

“Everything will slowly fail–his heart, his breathing, his vision, even his ability to keep food down. He’ll be unconscious more oft than not and in considerable pain when he is awake. The end won’t be far off when that happens.”

Dylen’s earlier incredulity turned into anger at himself.

Seeing his expression, Aron kindly said, “Don’t blame yourself for not coming to me sooner. You didn’t know enough to realize what his symptoms portended. And, in any

case, no matter how early it’s discovered, there is no cure.”

There was a painful silence “How long?” Dylen finally asked.

“A few months at most.”

Dylen paled. “Holy Veres… So soon,” he whispered.

Aron placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. “I’m so sorry, Dylen,” he murmured. He rose to his feet. “I must go. I have a surgical case later this morn, and I must get some sleep. But I’ll pass by every day to check on him.”

Dylen mumbled his thanks as he saw the physician to the door. Returning upstairs, he took a few steps toward his father’s room. But he felt an overwhelming sense of horror and helplessness, and he stumbled into the parlor instead.

Shaking badly, he sank into Hirlen’s great chair before the hearth. For the longest while he stared at the guttering fire, shorn of all coherent thought and besieged by turbulent feelings, none of them able to lend him hope or strength. At length, he glanced at the couch and saw a book resting on it. It was the book Hirlen had been reading while he awaited his son’s arrival from work.

Dylen reached for it and resettled himself in the chair. But though he stared at the cover, he could not make out the title. Not when his hands trembled so much that he could not hold the book steady enough to read. He dropped it, heedless of its tumble to the floor.

He buried his face in his hands as great sobs wracked his body and tears streamed down his cheeks. He did not notice Tarqin’s approach until the old servant knelt before him and gently stroked his hair, his own eyes wet with tears.

They wept together while the night slowly gave way to dawn.

Chapter Ten

Blow

Dylen watched as Aron examined Hirlen. His father had taken a turn for the worse right after the evening meal, vomiting everything he’d eaten until all he could do was curl up in bed and feebly retch in vain. Tarqin hastily fetched the physician who thankfully was at home. Now dread that Hirlen was at death’s door cast a suffocating pall on the Teris residence.

“It’s as I feared,” the healer murmured. “He’s in the fourth stage of the disease. He can’t last much longer. A month perhaps.”

He took a small phial containing a translucent liquid out of his physician’s pack.

Deftly parting Hirlen’s parched lips, he tipped a few drops onto the Deir’s tongue.

Though only semi-conscious, Hirlen reflexively swallowed the medicament, grimacing as he did.

“That should keep the pain tolerable,” Aron said. “I’ll return tonight to give him another dose. You must feed him only bland foods from now on, preferably boiled or poached. Nothing rich or greasy. By the way, do you eat rice grain? Yes? That’s good.

Save the water you use to wash the rice, boil it and let him drink it. He should be able to keep it down.”

Aron slowly straightened up, obviously weighed down by the all but hopeless situation. While Dylen sorrowfully stared at his father, Aron quietly bade him goodbye and made to leave. But as the healer passed him by, Dylen grabbed at his arm. Aron stopped and looked at him questioningly.

Still gazing at Hirlen, Dylen said, “I can’t stand by and just let him go.”

“There isn’t anything else to be done,” Aron gently reminded him.

Dylen turned to face him, frustration thrumming in his very bones. “Are you absolutely certain nothing more can be done?” he defiantly asked. “Surely there must be a healer somewhere who’s managed something, anything, even if it’s just to prolong life, stave off the end. Please, there
must
be something!”

Aron hesitated. Dylen could tell the Deir was torn between the reluctance to purvey false expectations and the desire to assuage some of his desperation. But Dylen refused to relent.

“I don’t want to raise your hopes in vain but…” Aron started to say.

“Then there
is
something?” Dylen pressed.

The healer sighed and cautiously proceeded. “There is one physician who has succeeded in halting the progress of this disease—Eiren Sarvan, the Ardan’s own cousin and physician.”

Dylen stared at him. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I only heard the tale a few nights ago from a colleague lately arrived from Edessa.”

“Edessa—”

“He spoke to a number of us over dinner,” Aron explained. “Told us that a few years ago, one of the Mesares, a brother of the Herun of Edessa, I think, sickened with this

strain. They asked Eiren Sarvan to attend to him. Sarvan did what he could though he made no promises. After all, even if he is fulsomely gifted—the most talented healer to emerge in centuries I dare say—well, even he has his limits. But, according to my friend, he achieved the impossible. He actually cured the Herun’s brother.”

“He cured him…” Dylen frowned. “Then why hasn’t this news been spread farther afield? Why keep it a secret?”

“Because it may have been a fluke,” Aron pointed out. “Sarvan would never announce something of which he himself is not certain just yet. Think of the many dashed hopes were he unable to repeat that feat. I didn’t tell you for that same reason.”

Dylen nodded. “I understand. But I would rather cling to any possibility than just give up. How can we contact Eiren Sarvan?”

Aron was startled. “He usually divides his time between the Rikara Public Hospital and the Order of Hospitallers’ Health Center,” he said. “But I believe he is abroad right now.”

“Where?”

“On a medical mission in Arvalde, on the behest of the royal family of… Sarmatia I think.” Aron shook his head. “He won’t return to Ylandre for anything less than a summons from the Ardan himself.”

“Then I shall find someone with close ties to the Ardan,” Dylen decided.

Aron stared at him. “To what purpose?”

“To secure an audience with him.”

“You would dare ask Rohyr Essendri to send for his cousin?” Aron asked, shocked.

“I will dare anything!” Dylen declared. “This is my
adda’
s life at stake!”