by Hannah King
The question mark on my face was likely priceless. He laughed at me.
“Feel special?” he asked. I laughed too, though I honestly didn’t mind the cat’s presence, regardless of the intended slight.
Tratis went on. “When they do decide the time is right, someone will come and escort you to the Hull,” he paused at my questioning expression. “It’s not as frightening as it sounds. It’s the place of knowledge in Leida, a special, circular group of rooms in the heart of the palace,” he described. “Basically, where all the smart Leiden’s congregate. Stalvert would feel right at home.” He rolled his eyes. “Anyway, that’s where Tate spends most of his life, and you’ll meet him there. He’ll explain everything to you better than I ever could. To put it plainly, all he’s going to do is,” he paused, frowned and seemed to be struggling with what he was about to say next and whether or not he ought to say it, “teach you a useful practice,” he finished.
My brow furrowed.
“Practice?” I echoed, “Like, magic?”
“Hmmm, no, not, magic per se; more of an extension of your ability, an ancient technique called Nurandism. Tate will explain it to you far better than I ever could, and I think you’ll like him if he doesn’t scare you,” he smirked.
My stomach lurched a little, but I endeavored to grin. “Can’t be any scarier than the council room,” I decided.
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re through the worst then,” he comforted, and a guilty look in his eyes seemed to say, “I’m sorry I got you into this,” but it was only a glance and then he realized he should be going again. “Wait here for your escort,” he instructed.
I nodded and he started to leave, but he turned around once more, remembering something.
“I’ve arranged to have us eat our evening meals in the small common area of this wing,” he added, catching the door with his hand. “It’s a little way down the hallway. I thought it would be more pleasant for both of us, rather than sitting alone in our rooms. Neither of us are allowed to eat with the castle folks, so you can keep me company.”
I smiled weakly, relieved at the promise of some friendship in the coming weeks. Without permission to return to camp, I was already starved for familiar faces.
The door shut behind him and I took a deep breath. My nerves started to return to me in the silent room. I’d have to change, I thought, looking down at my nightclothes. There was a long gown, an accompanying chemise and a sort of corset hanging in the closet that I assumed was for me.
I undressed and pulled the first layer over my shoulders, struggling to clumsily tie the strings of the corset. They were supposed to be tighter, but I wanted to be able to breathe freely.
I reached for the chemise and threw it over the top of my head, pulled on a pair of long silk stockings and added the final layer, a creamy, satin gown with more obnoxious buttons for me to struggle with. Feeling ridiculous and stiff in these unfamiliar clothes, I shuffled over to the looking glass that stood in the corner to survey my new costume.
My hair was a fluffy mess of knots. I grabbed a brush from the table and brushed it out aggressively. Once I’d finished, I shrugged at my reflection. In this ensemble, I almost fit the part. The dress was becoming. The neckline was square and set my shoulders off nicely, and the fitted waist showed my figure. Malnourished figure, I chuckled grimly. Our journey and meager rations had left me weak and skinny. I was too thin, I decided, looking at the slip of a girl that stared back at me. I’d have to fill myself with as much of the rich Leiden food as I could while I had the chance.
The door opened suddenly, and the slave woman came in briskly, walking over to the closet without so much of a glance toward me. Finding it empty she whirled around and started at the sight of me. She looked at me from head to toe, and then bowed her head, disappearing out the door without a sound. I stifled a laugh. I had clearly overstepped a boundary by dressing myself. I shrugged and stepped away from the mirror.
There was nothing else for me to do, so I paced, my stomach tight with anticipation of when they’d come for me, and whether or not I’d be prepared for what was next. The cat was hiding again.
I walked over to my breakfast tray a few times to see if I’d left any crumbs worthy of a snack. After eating three grapes and a piece of bread crust, I took one more swig of the tea dregs, wishing it was coffee for a minute, but then deciding the last thing I needed was something to enhance my jitters.
I moved over to the window. Unlatching it, I discovered the air was cold and damp and it was strangely silent outdoors. The Leiden’s seemed like the sort of peo-ple that wouldn’t like to venture outside unless a day was filled with gentle, warming sunshine and cloudless skies.
I sighed, still feeling helplessly in the dark, even after talking with Tratis. He had asked me to trust him, to follow orders blindly. Was I willing to snuff out my own questions and misgivings?
Tratis had said that what they were about to teach me would somehow help us, help old Cronin. The talk I had heard in the council room had been outrageously optimistic; talk of defeating the shazod, of stamping out Faldir’s power. That was what every one of the Sustainers wanted, to avenge our loved ones, to reclaim our homeland, to free our families from danger.
What I couldn’t understand was how I possibly fit into their plan. I was only one person; I couldn’t defeat the shazod single handedly. Didn’t they understand that? There was a huge pit of fear inside of me, fear that I would fail them, fail the Sustainers, fail Captain Tratis. I would try my best, but feared even my best couldn’t possibly be enough.
Nurandism, I mouthed to myself, wondering if I remembered the pronunciation of the word correctly, trying to force some familiarity into it, but it was so foreign. Gray had so little faith in my basic ability as a Lantern, so little, in fact, that I worried that this “Tate” fellow would feel the same and determine me too weak for whatever training was planned. Did he know I could hardly sleep without gloves? Like a needy child, I thought to myself with frustration.
I jumped. Someone had rapped on the door. Swallowing hard, I moved across the room, and pulled it open.
“Talitha Amlai?” The Ambassador was standing outside with two armed men, their expressions so serious I half believed they had come to escort me to my death.
“Yes?” I answered, standing straight and hiding my trembling hands in the folds of my gown.
“Come with us please,” he said coldly.
At least he said please, I thought with a grimace. I stepped out of my room and positioned myself timidly in the back of the guards, hoping I could fall in step with them and trail them from behind once we started, but I was wrong in that assumption. The Leiden cleared his throat and pressed his lips together nervously.
“Walk in front, please,” he said stiffly.
Again, with the please. I colored and stepped in front of him and the guards, feeling even more like I was on my way to an executioner, but then he stationed himself at my side and slipped his arm around mine, in a feeble attempt to be chivalrous. I awkwardly shifted my hand onto my hip to make a crook for him, remembering that in old times, fine ladies of Cronin would walk with their escorts in such a way.
We headed down the stairs in tandem. If he thought he was making things better, he wasn’t. Already I was wishing for my old clothes back, the fresh air, and the freedom to walk as fast as I chose, but I kept myself as rigid and stately as I could, perhaps not like a lady, but at least like a warrior.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WES
WES OPENED HIS eyes. It was late in the morning, and the rain was falling again. With a groan, he lifted himself up from the damp blanket he was under. He knew he’d missed breakfast, but he didn’t care.
He slumped back beneath the cover and squeezed his eyes shut. He’d really rather sleep than eat anything. If he could drown out the world for another hour, that would be almost heavenly, he decided. There’d been so little to do since they’d come to Leida anyway.
He was a
bout to fall back into sleep when it started. First it was annoying; like the bugs back in the Elm Beds, then it sounded like an animal caught in a trap. That’s when Wes’ eyes opened, and, the more he listened, the more he realized it was a person, moaning in pain, as though they’d been wounded.
For a moment he wondered if he was imagining it, reliving the nightmare he’d had the first few days after Byrne’s death. They’d never had time to recover his cousin’s body, and Wes often dreamed he’d found him in a dark wood, moaning and writhing in pain, an arrow deep in his chest, minutes before all the life had drained out of his body.
But this was no dream. The sound was real. And it wouldn’t stop.
He stood up, casting aside the stale blanket and hurrying to a window for a gasp of fresh air. Dimly he heard someone calling his name, and as he turned around, he saw Captain Gray cresting the stairs. Wes stood at attention, coming to his senses.
“One of the fielder’s is sick,” she was saying, wringing her hands. “Horrible sort of stomach pains from who knows what. Of course, we only packed half our medical supplies when we left camp and the two things that might help him have run out,” she flustered. “I need you to run to the local apothecary and fetch some items.”
Wes hesitated.
“But we’re not allowed to leave these gates…Maybe if I ask the guards, do you think they’d let me through for an emergency?”
“It’s not worth the risk. If the Leiden’s get wind that there’s illness among us, we could get thrown out of here. I’m asking you because I know you can scale that back wall. Wear a cloak, go quickly. Keep yourself out of sight and tell the apothecary that it’s an emergency if they give you any trouble. Whatever you do, don’t tell them he’s sick. Just tell them he’s suffered from stomach pains all his life and we’ve run out of what we usually give him for the pain.”
“All right,” he nodded nervously. The Ambassador had never explained what would happen if anyone was caught leaving the courtyard without permission, but he prayed it wasn’t anything horrible.
“Our healers are in the lower level with the fielder. Ask them exactly what they need. Lavalt help us if this is any sort of epidemic,” Gray added grimly.
Wes nodded, pulled his cloak on and made his way down the stairs into the lower level. The groaning had become muffled, and when he arrived at the cluster of concerned people, he realized the fielder had been given a piece of cloth to bite down on, probably an attempt to keep the Leiden’s from hearing him. It was Camphraz that was lying on a pile of blankets, his face twisted in pain, both hands gripping his stomach.
Healer Farris approached Wes and began to speak with him in a low tone.
“I’ll need willow bark tincture, peppermint oil and maybe some retchbark, in the off chance that it’s something he’s eaten. He’s convinced the Leiden’s tried to poison the breakfast, but no one else has complained of such pain thus far.”
Wes frowned. “What are the Leiden words for the herbs? And the apothecary? Are they called apothecaries here?”
The healer waved a hand in dismissal. “Everyone seems able to speak Cronin here, I’m sure you won’t have any trouble.”
“Yes sir,” he murmured and started on his way. Captain Gray had been right, it was a simple task for him to scale the wall behind the Turaphelin. He was, of course, lightweight, and agile. He landed on the other side softly, feet planted. After casting his gaze around to be sure he hadn’t been seen, he stayed low and made a wide circle around the building, avoiding the sight of the guards.
Once on the streets, he straightened his back and worked to blend in with the crowds of Leidens in the streets and at the markets.
No one seemed to notice him, but his heart pounded loudly in the midst of the bustling strangers, feeling as though the Ambassador would pounce on him at any moment and demand an explanation. He’d been given no clue as to where the nearest apothecary was, so he walked around the market square once, then twice. It was full of vendors and merchants, but no apothecary.
At the end of the square he noticed an archway that seemed to lead to another district. A signpost stood near it, and he hurried over to try and decipher it.
The symbols on the signs were all different. One pointed toward the archway and depicted a myriad of bottles, another pointed right and bore a horseshoe mark, and the third pointed left with a rough drawing of a ship. Wes hesitated and chose to follow the sign with the bottles. He was either getting closer to an apothecary or a brewery, but he figured it was worth a try. He passed under the archway onto a narrow street.
It was quiet compared to the noisy marketplace. He shivered a little at the eerie silence and shrugged off another feeling that he ought to be far away from wherever he was. Another guidepost reiterated the symbols that had first piqued his interest, and knowing that poor Camphraz was suffering every second he wasted, he hurried on.
Ale. The smell grew stronger the further he went, then hung in a thick smog around him. The building to his left was long and tall, grates venting into the alley. This is a brewery, he realized. From within the building he heard grunts, thuds, and the sounds of machinery. There was still more street to follow, but he was beginning to doubt the apothecary was anywhere near. This is likely just the brewery district, he thought disappointedly, but he kept on, determined to reach the end of the street and make sure.
The dead end revealed only a glassblower and a barrel maker’s shop. He sighed.
The glassblower was hard at work in his shop, a hot mass of glass affixed to an iron tube. Sweat dripped off his forehead and onto his ash covered leather gloves. The mass began to bulge and bubble as he blew into it, and for a moment, Wes gawked, helplessly fascinated by the craft, but he was startled by a harsh voice.
It was the barrel maker, resting his arm on his worktable, his eyes glaring at Wes. He’d asked him some sort of question in Leiden. His brow furrowed and he decided the unfriendly tone and expression indicated the phrase, “what are you doing here?”
“I...I’m looking for the apothecary,” he said in Cronin. “I need to find it quickly, a friend of mine is in pain.” The barrel maker frowned, but seemed to have understood.
“You’ll be heading to the port then. Leave this place the way you came. Then go right. You have to pass through the gate in the harbor wall, it’s always open during the day. That’ll get you to the docks and the trade square. Across from the receiving bay there’s a few businesses. The common people’s apothecary is one of them.” This time he spoke in Cronin, and again, Wes was surprised at how unbroken it was for someone who was not a native.
“Thank you, thank you so much,” he expressed, but the man was already focusing on his work again, as if Wes had never said a word. He turned on his heel and started the course he’d been given.
The scent of the ocean grew stronger as he raced along, reminding him of Cronin. Finally he reached the harbor wall and passed through the gate.
Beyond it was the port, with long docks stretching out to meet a ship clustered harbor. He’d never seen vessels so huge in all his life.
To the left of the port was a giant building, and a wide unloading dock. In front of it was a huge flat slab of granite with steps leading up to it. A well-dressed man stood at the top, unfurling a sign with beautiful gold letters, almost as brilliant as the gold chains and pendants that draped around his neck.
Minstrels were tuning woodwinds and lutes to the side, and delicious smells filled the air. Numerous sconces on the wall were lit to give light to the space on the gloomy day.
A wedding or party? Wes wondered, but ignored his curiosity and made his way to the buildings across the street.
The apothecary was a medium sized structure, crisply clean, the front built of pale granite bricks with three words deeply inscribed at the top.
Inside the air was heavy with the scent of herbs. A large counter stretched across the length of the room, with tall shelves behind and two doors leading out back, one on each side, both mar
ked plainly.
A man stood at the counter, pouring over a book, likely of records, and did not look up at Wes. A woman beside him, dressed in green, seemingly his wife, greeted him in Leiden, but drew her lips into a thin line as she realized Wes was not her typical customer.
“I’m here for a friend,” he began, not daring to approach the counter just yet. She frowned at the language in confusion and tapped her husband’s shoulder.
“Eh?” he looked up and she snapped something to him in Leiden, shooting Wes a look of disgust.
“Oh,” he scowled at Wes and sighed. “What do you want?”
“Retchbark, willow bark and peppermint, please,” he asked.
“Payment?” he eyed Wes suspiciously. Wes took a deep breath and unclasped his hand.
“Would you take this?” Gray had slipped it to him before he’d left. It gleamed in the lamp light.
“Fulsy?” the man puzzled. “Where did you get this?”
“It was given to me,” he explained, laying it on the counter. The man stared at it a second.
“Cronin silver,” he scoffed, “but silver just the same.”
He picked it up and weighed it in his hand.
“Retchbark you said?” he grimaced and spoke to his wife in Leiden, listing off several items. She fell to work preparing them, using a step ladder to peruse the shelves of glass jars and bottles, selecting them, then taking bottles or gauze sacks and measuring out an allotment. The man returned to his books and lifted a bottle to his mouth, taking a long swig.
Wes jumped as two people burst into the shop behind him. He was pushed into a corner of the tight room as they came forward, speaking loudly in Leiden and dragging with them a timid, pain-stricken boy of about twelve. His face was twisted and white, with tears streaming down it. His arm was wrapped clumsily in white cloth.
