by Hannah King
I’d never felt so weak, so empty, so much like I was the living version of death itself. He was stroking my hair, and that took my mind off of the pain a little, but I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t form any words, I could hardly even form a thought, I could only sit there dumbly, listening to him apologize to me over and over.
He hadn’t known how taxing it would be on my body. His blue eyes were filled with pain and guilt. I wanted to tell him it was all right, and more than that, ask what exactly had happened, but I just looked up at him blankly. Then he was carrying me, all the way back to my room.
The chamber was full of servants, and a strangely dressed woman with a white cowl covering her head. The Ambassador was there too. Tratis set me down on the bed and drew the blanket up to my neck. I realized then that I was shivering uncontrollably. I guessed that was better than no movement at all, but it was wreaking havoc on my painfilled body, awakening all the bruises that seemed to cover me.
Tratis stepped back and the woman, who I realized was a Leiden healer, began to administer oil to my temples. In response to her command the servants piled my bed with blankets that had been heated by the fire.
A cold liquid was forced down my throat and a thick haze of steam began to fill the room. The windows had been blocked up with thick canvases and a huge pot of water with something sweet smelling in it was producing a fragrant, numbing fog.
I heard the door close and after a moment of panic from being left alone with all these strange things, I fell back into sleep.
The next time I woke up my cheeks were wet with tears. I was crying, uncontrollably. My room was dark and a nurse was standing over me while Tratis held my hand. I didn’t know why I was weeping, I only knew I had to. Then my head became numb and emptied of water and I drifted away again.
When I next opened my eyes the room was clear of steam and fresh temper air was filtering into the room. Snow was falling through wide-open windows, but I didn’t feel cold. I thought maybe I’d died for just a moment, but then I saw the nurse again, and Tratis, both dressed in thick woolen cloaks to keep out the freezing air that they were standing in.
Slowly, almost like the flecks of snow, my thoughts started to trickle in. My mind was returning, and I felt my lips tremble, at last ready to form words, or at least, a name.
“Tratis?” I spoke it so quietly but it took so much effort. He had been waiting for any such croak from my throat and jumped to my side, beckoning the nurse to come.
“Talitha,” he clasped my hand in his once again. “Do you feel all right? Can you speak?” I tried to swallow but found there was an insufficient amount of saliva lining my throat.
After a few dry coughs the nurse brought a cup to my lips. I wished for it to be water. I wanted water so badly right then, but instead it was something sweet, I don’t know what. Maybe it was simply milk, but to my mind then it seemed so foreign. The substance coated my throat effectively despite my dislike of it, and after a few breaths I began to experiment with a few basic words and sentences.
“I'm all right,” I managed, and later, small memories began to flood back to me, not without pain, but at least I could think and remember again. I’d stolen the binding from Faldir and, and… My mind fought to grow a train of thought. And then Faldir must have stolen it back from me. That was all the horrible, horrible pain. I’d lost a battle with him, and it felt like he’d tried to kill me.
Could he have killed me? I wasn’t sure if Nurandism worked that way. I’d rendered Tate unconscious before, but never produced consequences like the ones I’d experienced. Faldir was strong, just as I had feared. So, terribly strong.
“Are you hungry Talitha?” Tratis was asking me. “There’s broth here.”
I wasn’t terribly hungry, no, but I wanted the feeling of warmth going down my throat. I wanted something to remind me that I was alive. The nurse shut the windows and procured a broom to sweep up the drifted snow.
Tratis lifted me up onto some propped pillows and started to spoon broth into my mouth. I shivered as the heat met my chilled frame. Suddenly I was ravenous. When the broth was finished, I asked for more, and he smiled in relief.
“You’re stronger than I thought,” he remarked, then turned to the nurse. “Can you get her some more broth, and maybe some food with very little richness to it?”
He turned back to me.
“Tate thought that even with all the care he prescribed, you might not wake up until tomorrow, and then he thought you might not want any food at all. He even thought-” he stopped, apparently changing his mind about what else he had been about to reveal.
Probably thought I wouldn’t make it at all, I imagined, and then sighed. It was so good to have my own thoughts back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
WYATT
WYATT STOOD AGAINST the wall, his hands folded behind his back as usual, watching, listening, appearing unmoved by the conversation taking place before him, but he could sense beads of sweat trickling down his neck.
“We simply won’t be able to continue with this ex-periment!” Tate’s voice was raised and with it the eyebrows of the council. He was pleading with them to understand.
“If the girl lives, her mind will be too weak from the trauma to try again any time soon. Even if she could, it likely wouldn’t be worth it if Faldir had such an upper hand over her the first time,” he sighed. “I’m afraid I misjudged her strength.” The old man put his rough gray chin in his hand thoughtfully while shaking his head.
Lord Orp frowned. “If what you say is true, we must cancel all conquests,” he said.
Lord Sasal jumped in, “Let the girl at least try again, providing she recovers,” he suggested. “She may have been distracted, lost her focus; well, next time she’ll remember not to be. You, yourself, said all along that these things take practice, repetition, almost the same as learning swordplay. She’s lost her footing from a mistake, but if she recovers it she’ll be prepared the next time someone tries to knock her off her feet. She’ll know how to dodge the blow and so on.” He slid one of his rings up and down his index finger habitually.
“Hmm…swordplay yes,” Tate narrowed his eyes. “If it is like swordplay, she’s been run through. This was not a bump or a bruise or a cut, but a killing stroke. If she survives she may never be the same.”
“Why not wait a few days?” Lady Vencia spoke up. “If and when she recovers, put the question to her. If she will try again, then we may as well let her. The benefits would be far worth giving it one last chance.”
Tate shook his head, took the glass of wine in front of him and choked down a sip, much to the horror of the others.
“Do you presume to drink the wine of agreement before we are finished here?” Lord Orp stood up, outraged. Chaos over the action was resulting across the table.
“Lord Orp, please sit down, let us finish this council peaceably,” the queen was pleading, but he paid no mind to her.
“You made us a promise!” Lord Orp demanded, shaking his fist at Tate. “You insisted that this young woman could handle any task we set before her, and you will answer all of our questions, and comply with the standards and the customs of this sacred room sir, or I’ll see you hang!”
He pushed out his chair, stormed over to Tate’s glass and threw it to a shattering fate upon the hearthstones.
Tate glowered at him, unphased.
“You and I both know that carrying out such a threat would produce ill consequences for Leida,” he said in a low voice.
Lord Orp was turning red with rage.
“Remember your heart Orp. Don’t waste the precious last few years of your life on me,” Tate warned. Orp hesitated, then cursed and returned to his seat.
“Paraphrant,” Tate went on. “Lady Vencia, before my unsanctioned swig of spirits, I believe you suggested that she try again. Did you not?”
The woman nodded, “What is there to be lost in another attempt?” she reasoned.
“The girl’s life, of course,” T
ate answered her grimly.
“A Cronin’s life,” Lord Sasal clarified coolly. “She could have been a slave in separate circumstances.”
“She is a soldier,” Lead Gorphal put forth. “Every soldier knows that their life is in the hands of their superiors. If she tries again for the sake of her country and dies, she will have done nothing more than she swore to do when she placed herself underneath their leadership.”
“The girl has suffered enough,” Tate argued. “It may take years for her mind to recover enough to issue anything greater than a single binding again. Let her go. In doing so I can almost guarantee you will lose nothing.”
“My brother will not stand to see the girl placed in harm’s way,” Queen Eithne inserted. “He was quite shaken by these results. He never meant to endanger her in this process.”
“If another attempt is made, it will have to be without his knowledge,” Lord Orp decided.
“No further attempts,” Lord Ruthes spoke up anxiously. “This was never meant to be, and it should have never been considered!” He and Lord Rartoth had been against the alliance from the very beginning. “She’ll bring a curse on our people,” he added, his eyes fearful. “She may have already disturbed Faldir and set him against us. If she tries again, she may anger him further.”
A spark of hope shot up in Tate’s eyes. “Yes, yes, exactly! Now that we have roused the beast we would be wise to run rather than chase him! We must stop all attempts, or his dark magic may very well detect our disloyalty. Send her back to her people quietly.”
Wyatt realized that Tate was playing into their superstitions about Faldir in hopes that they would spare the girl. He doubted Faldir had any such power to determine where Talitha was, but there was enough mystery surrounding the ruler to contribute to vast misconceptions and fears among the council.
Besides that, they saw Tate as a sort of magician, and trusted him when it came to arcane matters. If he fueled their fears by throwing in a few tactical uses of the term “dark magic,” he’d win them over quickly. They feared a curse almost as much as they feared sickness.
“Then by all means, end this madness. Send her back to her people and away from this citadel,” Lady Vencia said quickly, wringing her hands.
The others were nodding and adding their agreement. Even Lord Orp’s attitude seemed to have shifted.
Wyatt kept his face straight but was silently admiring how quickly Tate had changed the tide.
“Then we shall make arrangements, if we are all in agreement that no further attempt shall be made,” Queen Eithne summarized. She took a deep breath. “In view of that, maybe an extension could be granted to the Cronins? I would not have them cast out so soon in view of their circumstances.”
Lord Orp nearly choked on the request. “Your Highness, the time agreed upon will be more than satisfactory. If there will be no alliance, there can be nothing further granted to them. They will bring uncleanliness to this city and a curse on our land during Purification. They may have already tainted it. If they can offer us nothing except a useless girl and a few bundles of pelts, then we owe them nothing according to Leiden law.”
“Nothing good could have come of going to war with such scum anyways,” Lord Ruthes said under his breath. “We should have never let them stay within our walls.”
“Send them on their way at once then,” Lady Vencia suggested. “Rid our city of these foreigners. I can hardly sleep at night knowing they lurk in that forsaken place.”
“No. Our promise to my brother allows them sanctuary here until the first day of the season of night,” Queen Eithne reminded them insistently.
“Your brother indeed,” Lord Sasal scoffed. “He is a traitor to this country and yet possessed the gall to beg us for help. He is preying on your weakness Highness. He knows you will not disregard the kinship between the two of you. But he has never had Leida’s best interest in mind. If he did, why would he have left? Why would he have joined their cause? He is toying with your emotions.”
The queen’s gaze hardened. “We gave our word. The black seal was issued. They must stay here until just before Purification. Besides, it might cause a stir, even an uprising if we go back on our agreement now. Better for them to leave in good standing.”
“Yes, yes, I see your point,” Lord Sasal said with a frown.
Wyatt sighed and shifted. He was exhausted. It had been two days. Between the arguments, the uncertainty, the politics and simply the memory of the girl’s face as she fought for her life, he hadn’t been able to sleep a wink since the incident.
Tate had been sure that first night, that she would be gone from them for good.
“And perhaps it’s for the best,” he’d told the Paraphrant. “At least then she’ll be released from the suffering.”
Wyatt’s stomach was still in knots. He knew he shouldn’t feel sorry for her. She was a Cronin, after all, and she’d clearly overestimated her ability. No, Tate had overestimated it. He had been so sure, so excited about the possibility that everything had been done in a hurry. Foolishness. Why rush some-thing so dangerous?
He wished more than anything, that he hadn’t been part of the endeavor. He felt responsible, even though he hadn’t fully understood it all. It was Tate and the Paraphrant who had known the depth of the consequences. And they had learned how to keep secrets from Wyatt.
He could not read thoughts or enter minds. A Truthbearer’s code was useless unless he could vocally and directly inquire. His power was only effective when he could ask a specific question. To guard themselves from this, Wyatt was never allowed to question the Paraphrant. They liked having him around of course, in case they needed his skills to determine a truth from an outsider, but they were never far from lying to him themselves.
“Ambassador Pearadur,” Lord Sasal was addressing him. Wyatt looked up, startled out of his thoughts.
“If we no longer have use for the girl, send her back to the Turaphelin with her people. There is no reason for her to stay here,” he stated.
“Yes, sir,” Wyatt answered numbly.
He shut the door behind him and made his way to where she was kept, his heart pounding. When he reached her door, he rapped on it, quietly at first, then louder as he realized how weak his first attempt was. Tratis faced him as the door swung open. Wyatt swallowed.
“What do you want?” Tratis asked, his tone low and gravelly.
“I’m here to escort her back to the Turaphelin,” Wyatt announced nervously. “Is she able to walk?”
Tratis shook his head. “No, she should stay here a little longer, with your physician’s care,” he insisted. Tratis cared about this girl almost like a father, and Wyatt had feared it would be hard to get him out of the way.
He cleared his throat. “The Paraphrant has also requested that you see them immediately sir, and they’ve asked me to see Talitha back to her people by myself. Those are my orders and yours. They are from the Paraphrant and not to be challenged.” He tried to keep his posture unmoving, despite how anxious he was that Tratis would defy him.
He looked as if he might for a moment, but seeming to realize the importance of complying with the Paraphrant at the time, he took a deep breath and agreed reluctantly, but not without snapping a few orders at Wyatt about how to take great care of the young woman.
Once he had left, Wyatt consulted with the healers for a moment. He asked them to find a healer or well-trained slave that could go down to the Turaphelin to nurse the girl during the day, and another for the night to administer medicine and care while she continued to recover. Two slaves were decided on, for no Leiden healer would agree to visit the Turaphelin.
The slaves silently gathered up the medicines and supplies while Wyatt picked Talitha up and carried her downstairs to the courtyard.
He’d never been more embarrassed in his life, and by the looks of it, she was equally disturbed. It seemed like forever and she was growing heavy in his arms by the time they reached the stables.
“Can yo
u ride?” he asked her, feeling foolish even asking the question. She was clearly too weak. Her pale face looked even worse in the gray daylight, without the glow of the fire. Her eyes were wandering, and her limbs were still trembling.
“No saddle,” Wyatt directed the stable hand quickly. The boy set down the heavy Leiden style seat in a corner and led the black stallion into the yard.
Wyatt hoisted her onto his horse’s back, letting her lean forward and helping to close her fists around the long mane. Then he clumsily climbed on behind her, unused to riding barebacked. He took the reins and reached around her shoulders to both steady her and guide the horse. The slaves would follow on foot.
They made their way through the village, people staring and pointing as they passed by. When they finally reached the Turaphelin, he had hardly managed to swing down carefully and start helping her off when the Cronins started to crowd around them, peppering him with questions and concerns.
No one has told these people what’s happened, he realized in horror. They didn’t know why she had been at the palace, and now with no explanation she was returned to them in such a state. What would they think?
“Step back, please,” he ordered, and the guards keeping watch there brandished their spears lazily to add a bit of weight to his words.
“She’s all right, she’s all right. She suffered a bad fainting spell,” he cringed at the lie, but what else was he supposed to tell them? They knew so little of the situation. “Don’t be alarmed, she’s on her way to recovery with our healer’s aid, but she is very weak and still needs constant care.”
The crowd stepped back enough for him to carry her into the hallway.
“Where is there a room that would be suitable for her to recover in?” His eyes searched the grim interior, hearing the wind whistling through gaping breaks in the walls and feeling the icy puddles beneath his feet.
Jumping to action, the boy, Wes was it? The one with the Aunt in the city, his eyes deep with concern, was quickly leading him to one of the drier, more protected rooms.
