Shadow War (19 page)

She walked quickly
along the galleries and passageways, keeping her hood up and her veil in place
for concealment. Each time she met a courtier or a servant or a chancellor, she
was conscious of the swift flick of their eyes, followed by a little gasp of
recognition. It irked her. Why should she maintain this pretense of being
hidden away when anyone who saw her knew who she was? Or maybe it was the fact
that she’d left her chambers to stroll through the palace at large that shocked
everyone she met. She must be violating another rule and another set of
protocols. For once she did not care. She felt restless and edgy, rebellious
and daring.

Finally she
reached a section where she did not know her way. She stopped and gestured. One
of her guards stepped forward and bowed.

“The new healer,”
she said impatiently. “Where is his workroom?”

The guard frowned,
looking shocked. “But, Majesty, if you are ill he will be brought to you. You
must not go to him. It is not—”

“Do not tell me
what is and is not permitted,” she said sharply enough to make the man blanch. “Direct
me to his workroom.”

The guard bowed
again. “If your Majesty will follow me ...”

He led her into a
modest area of pokey passageways, dark, ill-lit rooms, and storerooms stocked
with provisions. Women on their knees scrubbed steps and floors with brushes.
The men were all carrying items or hurrying somewhere. Elandra saw no idleness,
no slacking.

Unconsciously she
gave a nod at the activity. It looked well supervised, but she would very much
like to check the inventories someday to see how much waste and graft were
going on.

Then, for the
first time all day, she nearly smiled at herself. The steward would die of
horror if he found her in his storerooms, counting barrels herself. No, no, he
would expect her to sit in her audience room while he laid carefully penned
lists before her and assured her all was as it should be.

She passed an open
door where cold air was pouring in along with servants busily unloading laden
carts. More feast day provisions. So much work toward an event that might be
canceled.

Stop it,
she told herself sharply. The emperor had said there would still be a
coronation. She might as well shake herself out of this dark mood.

They climbed a
long series of steps, leaving the bustle of the storerooms behind. Here, there
was no heat and no activity. Despite the warmth of her cloak, Elandra shivered.
Ahead she could smell the unpleasant scents of a sickroom mingled with the
aroma of herbs and bracing tea.

The guard leading
her stopped. “Wait here, Majesty.”

He walked alone to
the infirmary door and knocked, while the other guard stood close to Elandra.

The door opened,
and the new healer peered out. He and the guard spoke softly a moment, and the
healer shook his head. He pointed and closed the door.

The guard returned
to Elandra. “Healer Agel is honored by your visit, Majesty. He begs you to
enter his study. He will attend you shortly.”

Already half
regretting her impulse, she nodded. The guards led her a short distance down
the shadowy hall and opened a door.

She was shown into
a small, austere room. Almost entirely bare of furnishings, it contained only a
writing table, a stool, and a simple chair. There was a case to hold parchment
scrolls, and everything looked neat and utterly clean. Even the table was swept
clear, and the medicine cabinet stood open to show orderly rows of small jars.

No fire burned on
the cold grate. A single lamp struggled to supplement the inadequate light
streaming through the window.

Elandra gazed
about her with keen disappointment. “Is this all?” she asked.

“We Traulanders
require little in the way of material possessions,” said a deep, faintly
accented voice behind her.

Elandra turned as
the healer stepped into the room. He wore the plain white wool robe of his
calling, and his hands were tucked inside his sleeves. His face was gaunt and
pale. His eyes were calm, dispassionate, uninvolved.

Seeing him, she
relaxed at once. “You are Healer Agel,” she said, “newly appointed to the court
of my husband.”

His eyes widened
at this hint. He bowed deeply to her. “Majesty,” he said, less calmly than
before. “Forgive me. Had you but summoned me, I would have come to your
assistance at once.”

Her eyes narrowed
in annoyance. So, when the guard had first spoken to him, the healer had
thought her one of the concubines. Presumably they came often to his infirmary.
“Had I desired you to attend me in public,” she said through her teeth, “I
would have done so. I prefer privacy for this consultation. Without my ladies
in waiting, without my tutors, without my guards.” She gestured at her guards
in dismissal. “Leave us. This room is too small.”

“Majesty—”

She glared at them
over her veil. Reluctantly they left the tiny study and shut the door.

Closing her eyes a
moment, she released a sigh.

“May I see your
hand?” the healer asked.

Shivering and
wishing he would light a fire, she extended her left hand.

He supported it
carefully on the tips of his fingers, taking care to touch her as little as
possible. When he massaged the web between her thumb and forefinger, she winced
at the tenderness.

“You suffer the
affliction of a headache,” he said.

“Yes.”

Releasing her
hand, he studied her a moment. His eyes were so serious. She wondered if he
ever laughed.

“May I reach
beneath your veil and touch the back of your neck?”

“Yes.”

Again his touch
was impersonal, professional. He moved around her with exaggerated care until
she longed to scream at him to simply take down her veil and handle her as he
would any other patient. She resisted this, knowing it was foolish and
self-indulgent.

Finally he stepped
back. “Your Majesty is very tense,” he said. “You have not been sleeping well,
and you are overly fatigued. My advisement is rest.”

She looked at him
directly. “I do not have that luxury. I will be involved in ceremonial
activities this afternoon, all evening, and all day tomorrow.”

“The coronation,
yes.” He frowned. “I can remove the headache. I can induce calm, if your
Majesty wishes. However, without rest the headache is likely to return in a few
hours. I can also mix you a very mild sedative to help you sleep.”

She knew nothing
of Traulanders, except that they were cold, characterless giants who lived in a
country of snow and ice. They were said to be incorruptible and trustworthy,
clannish, and hard to like. Suspicious of strangers, old-fashioned, and
nonprogressive, they rarely traveled beyond their own province. It was strange
to meet this man from a land that sounded like a tale for children. She did not
think he would poison her.

“The potion is
acceptable,” she said at last. “You may also treat me.”

Bowing, he said, “If
your Majesty would remove your veil and hood.”

She could not
hesitate, could not betray any nervousness. It was said that healers from Trau
possessed extraordinary powers. They could remove all kinds of hurts with a
simple touch. She marveled at such abilities, but she was not sure she
believed. Kostimon had an old man’s desperation to try anything that would ease
his aches and pains.

Lowering her veil,
she pushed back her hood and faced the healer. Gravely he seemed to gather his
concentration; then, with a frown, he pressed his fingertips against her
forehead.

“No,” he murmured
and shifted his touch around to her left temple.

The pain flared
harder inside her skull, throbbing wildly for a moment, then it eased. Suddenly
it was gone, as though it had never been.

Elandra’s eyes
widened. She drew in her breath sharply. “It’s gone.”

The healer stepped
back and bowed again. “Yes. But your Majesty must heed my advice to rest. Also,
you should avoid salt in your diet for a few days. These simple precautions
will insure that the pain does not return.”

“Thank you,” she
said with a smile. Impressed by him, she marveled at his skills. Kostimon was
wise to bring this man to court. He should have done so years ago.

Nodding, the
healer moved to his cabinet and began taking down bottles. “I will make an
infusion which you might drink later with tea, just before you retire. It will
help you sleep.”

“Yes. That would
be helpful,” she said, keeping her tone as formal as his.

“Your Majesty
should not wait,” he said. “It will not take long to make the infusion, but I
shall be happy to see it delivered—”

“No,” she said sharply,
fearing poison and interference. Anyone might meddle with it on the way. “I
shall wait.”

“My humble study
is not comfortable.”

“No,” she agreed,
putting up her hood and veil again for warmth. “But I shall wait.”

He did not protest
further. Gathering his materials, he walked out into the passageway and shut
the door quietly, leaving her alone.

Sighing with
relief, she sat down and massaged her temples. Miraculously, the pain was still
gone. She felt restored, and some of her edginess was fading. Even this
dreadful, icy room was better than her own quarters. At least it was quiet and
utterly private. She shut her eyes a moment, sinking into the tranquility.

The window slid
open with a scrape, startling her. She looked up at a man’s head and shoulders
framed within the window’s opening. He was climbing inside.

Even as she
scrambled to her feet, he pulled himself the rest of the way through and
dropped to the floor like a cat.

He was immensely
tall, taller even than the healer, with broad, muscular shoulders and a tangled
mane of golden hair. Dressed in filthy rags, he was covered in grime from head
to foot. His blue eyes glared fiercely, darting here and there in feral
distrust.

Elandra regained
her startled wits immediately. “A thief,” she breathed, and gathered herself to
scream.

Faster than
thought, he was across the small room and on her. Her cry was cut off by his
hand pressing roughly against her mouth. He pushed her back against the wall
and pinned her there with his body, holding her fast despite her struggles. He
stared at the door, but her guards had not heard her. They did not come to her
aid.

“Be quiet, or I
will choke the life from you,” he whispered harshly.

She heaved against
him, but he might as well have been a rock. His hand was crushing her lips. She
drew them back from her teeth and bit him.

Sucking in a
breath of pain, he shifted himself slightly and gripped her throat with his
other hand. The pain was immediate and terrifying. She couldn’t breathe at all.

Then his crushing
fingers lifted from her throat, and she sagged weakly, struggling to draw in
air.

“Now be quiet, and
I will not hurt you more,” he said.

She started
coughing. Her throat burned like fire.

He seemed to take
her coughing for assent, for he released her slowly and cautiously. Lifting his
hand from her mouth, he held up his forefinger in warning.

“Remember, not a
sound,” he whispered. “Who is out there?”

“My guards,” she
replied, her voice a strangle. She was thinking desperately, trying to devise a
plan to escape. All the while a derisive voice in the back of her head jeered
at her:
Oh, yes, how safe it is inside the palace. You may roam anywhere you
please. Why not dismiss your guards entirely?
But telling herself how
stupid and naive she’d been did not help. This seemed to be a day of hard
lessons.

He was eyeing her
in a speculative way she did not like, obviously taking in the richness of her
velvet gown and fur-lined cloak. Her veil had come loose in the struggle. She
tried to pull it back in place, but it would not stay.

“Where is the
healer, my lady?” he asked with a little more respect in his voice. “Is this
his room?”

She nodded. “He
went to make a potion for me.”

The thief pushed
himself away from her with a scowl. He crossed the room in two long strides and
came back again. “Agel, Agel, where are you?” he muttered, shoving back his
tangled hair from his face. “How long has he been gone?”

“Only a few
minutes,” she answered.

The thief, if he
was a thief, grimaced impatiently. He seemed very nervous, and he was limping.
She noticed his footgear was worn through as though he had walked a long
distance. He looked half frozen as well. He had no cloak, and what remained of
his tattered tunic was silk. One of his hands looked burned; the flesh across
the back was puffed an angry red.

“This was the only
window,” he said. “Tell me, is there more than one entrance into the infirmary?
Or must I reach it by the passage outside?”

“I do not know,”
Elandra replied calmly. She had revised her original estimate of him. By his speech,
he was provincial but not lowborn. He looked worried rather than insane. A
thief did not refer to his intended victim by name and fret because he had
stepped out for a few minutes. She decided he meant her no real harm.

“My guards are
outside in the passage. You must wait until the healer returns.”

He pulled at the
back of his neck, tipping back his head in a weary motion. “There is no time,”
he said.

Without further
hesitation he went to the medicine cabinet and started picking through the
bottles there, examining one after the other as though he could read the arcane
symbols on the labels.

“Ah,” he said
finally, lifting one to the light. “That will do for a start.”

Tucking it in his
pocket, he started for the window.

“Wait!” she said. “What
is your need, stranger? Why do you come here in this clandestine way, asking
for our healer by name? Why do you hurry away, when you need care for your
hurts?”