by Jason Parker
“You,” Jhenna said directing her gaze at the most composed of the two uninjured guards. “Jeffers, right?”
“Yes, Priestess,” the guard replied.
With short, medium brown hair beginning to gray around the temples and a thick moustache, Jeffers was the older of the two. Jhenna remembered him primarily because of the distinctive moustache. A month earlier, Jeffers received treatment on an ankle he had sprained during a training exercise.
“Can you tell me what happened, Jeffers?” Jhenna asked, raising her voice to be heard over the hollow screams.
Jeffers motioned to the guard standing next to him. “Well, Corvis and I were on personal protection detail inside the audience chamber.”
Jeffers paused and winced as a particularly loud wail pierced the air.
“Quickly,” Jhenna prompted.
“Right,” Jeffers half-held his breath. He then pointed toward the writhing figure on the examination table, “Skenan over there was on the door along with Renald. Suddenly, we heard wailing coming from outside the door and Renald burst in. He said Skenan broke into a sweat, complained about not feeling good, and then dropped to the ground thrashing about and screaming like he is now.”
“Okay, thanks,” Jhenna said moving toward Skenan. “You two can either go back to your posts or have a seat in the waiting room. I need to work.”
“We’ll be waiting,” Jeffers said as he tugged on Corvis’s sleeve and walked out toward the waiting area.
Vynnera quickly leaped out of the way as she approached the examination table, relieved now that Jhenna was taking over. Skenan was sweating profusely. Thankfully, his howls of anguish were slowly transitioning into load moans. Jhenna observed no apparent injuries, but Skenan continued to flail about which made it impossible to perform a thorough evaluation.
“Vynnera,” she said with forced calmness. “I need your help restraining the patient.”
Vynnera nodded and together they buckled Skenan’s wrists and ankles into the cuffs attached to the sides of the examination table. Once he was secure, Jhenna began to palpate his abdomen, arms, and legs. Applying pressure to virtually any area of his body caused Skenan to buck and wail, but she found no external injuries.
Jhenna opened her mind and silently asked Keyaul for strength and guidance. Almost immediately, the familiar surge of energy stirred inside of her. Taking Skenan’s hands in her own, she closed her eyes and concentrated on trying to feel his pain. As was common in such instances, her awareness transcended the confines of her mind and traveled inside the body of her patient. Suddenly, she understood the cause of the ailment. How she knew wasn’t something she could explain. She just knew. Jhenna attributed the intuitive phenomenon to the grace of Keyaul, but Dennan had insisted if that was the case then other devout members of the clergy should be able to exhibit similar skill. To his knowledge, however, no one could. He jokingly called it super diagnosis and said the ability was nine parts Jhenna and one part Keyaul.
“He’s been poisoned,” Jhenna said to Vynnera. “It is a type of toxin that stimulates virtually all of the body’s pain receptors. It’s not fatal, but he probably wishes it was. The pain will get worse if it is not treated. I’ll need you to get me mugwort, ginger, white willow bark, and lemon balm.”
Vynnera scurried off to the supply room while Jhenna moved to a nearby work station. She ignited a small burner, set a beaker of water on it to heat, and grabbed a mortar and pestle from a cabinet. Vynnera returned carrying a tray with four jars. In her haste she stumbled and almost dumped the tray, but recovered her balance and righted the tray at the last instant. Jhenna breathed a sigh of relief.
“Sorry,” Vynnera said with a nervous smile.
Jhenna selected a large mugwort leaf and a medium lemon balm leaf from their respective containers. The leaves were dry but they would have to suffice. Skenan need relief. There was no time to have Vynnera dig through the crates of new supplies to find fresher samples. Jhenna put the leaves into the mortar, added a dropper full of the heated water, and ground them into a thick green paste. She added a small scoop of white willow bark powder and a few scrapings of ginger root. She mixed it well and spooned it into the boiling water in the beaker. As she stirred the mixture, she glanced at Skenan. His moaning had quieted and his thrashing slowed. He was on the verge of passing out. This can’t happen. Jhenna needed him awake.
“Vynnera, please make sure the patient remains conscious,” she said calmly so as not to further agitate her.
Jhenna continued stirring the remedy as Vynnera attended to Skenan. Vynnera lightly patted his cheeks causing him to stir and exude a loud moan that burgeoned into a scream. Vynnera jumped and let out a quiet shriek. Skenan thrashed a bit then quieted and slowly began to fade. Once again she patted his cheeks, repeating the sequence.
Jhenna stifled a laugh at the actions of Vynnera but quickly composed herself.
Once the mixture reached full boil, Jhenna stopped stirring and allowed it to simmer for a minute before extinguishing the burner. She retrieved a chilled ceramic cup from the icerator next to the work station and placed it by burner. Carefully lifting the hot beaker with a pair of tongs, she gently poured the green mixture into the cup until it was about half full. The chilled cup would help bring the temperature of the remedy to a tolerable level. For maximum effectiveness, it needed to be ingested hot.
“Hurry. Move around to the top of the examination table and tilt his head up and hold it steady,” she told Vynnera. “I need to get this in him quickly.”
Jhenna squeezed the corners of Skenan’s mouth with her left thumb and forefinger forcing his lips to part and placed the rim of the cup between them with her right hand. He was semi-conscious thanks to Vynnera’s slapstick routine.
As she tilted the cup, Jhenna said, “Skenan, I need you to stay with me and drink this. You will not enjoy the taste, but it will bring you considerable relief.”
Skenan swallow twice and then began to sputter and cough. She removed the cup and released her grip on his mouth. Once he had recovered, she again parted his lips and slowly tipped the cup to his mouth.
“You need to drink all of this, Skenan. Stay with me and keep swallowing,” Jhenna encouraged.
Skenan started coughing again, but he managed to swallow the majority of the liquid. Satisfied it was enough, Jhenna set the cup aside. Motioning for Vynnera to lay his head back down, she once again grasped Skenan’s hands and closed her eyes. She became one with the remedy coursing through his body seeking the toxin and overwhelming it, like a wave crashing on the shore.
When she opened her eyes Skenan’s discomfort and tension had noticeably dissipated. He was relaxed and resting comfortably.
“Glory be!” Vynnera exclaimed. “I’ve seen you do some amazing work with cuts and bruises, Priestess—but this is truly a wonder. There is no way that remedy should have worked so quickly.”
Jhenna felt her cheeks warming in embarrassment. She knew Dennan had been correct. Her healing ability was primarily intrinsic. She disliked, however, having attention drawn to her and uttered her familiar refrain. “Thank you, but everything I am able to accomplish is through the grace of Keyaul.”
“Please let the men in the waiting area know Skenan will be fine, but he will need to rest here for several hours,” she said in an effort to change the subject. “Then if you would be so kind as to finish sorting and stocking the new supplies. I need to finish tending to the patient.”
“Of course, Priestess,” Vynnera said with a smile as she walked toward the waiting area.
Jhenna knew of a few different poisons that would cause the symptoms manifested by Skenan, but none were common. The logical conclusion was intentional poisoning and Jhenna found this highly disturbing. Skenan needed to rest. More importantly, though, she needed to know the cause of his distress—the sooner the better.
She unfastened the restraints around his wrists and ankles and gently shook him. Skenan’s eyelids fluttered open and his brown eyes wi
dened as he saw Jhenna. Confusion spread across his face and his eyes darted around the room.
“You’re in the infirmary,” Jhenna said reassuringly, “but don’t worry, you’re going to be fine after a bit of rest.”
“Ugh…my whole body aches,” Skenan said in a weak, raspy voice.
“It will for a while, but the residual pain will gradually diminish,” she said. “I was hoping you could tell me what happened. Your case is quite unusual.”
“Sure, but could I please have some water first,” he said, sounding increasingly hoarse. “I have a terrible taste in my mouth.”
Jhenna retrieved a pitcher of water from the icerator and poured a glass. Skenan winced as she lifted his head and raised the glass to his lips. He took several small swallows and then she slowly eased him back down on the examination table.
Skenan cleared his throat and began speaking in a stronger voice. “I remember standing on guard outside the audience chamber and suddenly feeling very hot and uncomfortable. The next thing I knew I was in incredible pain and couldn’t see or hear anything. It was like the pain was everywhere. I don’t remember anything else. I don’t know how I got here.”
“You were brought here by a couple of your fellow guardsmen,” she said with a smile. “Do you have any idea what might have caused your condition?”
“I’m not sure what caused it, but I definitely know who caused it,” he said, his voice amplified by anger. “It was that asshole Wexworth.”
Skenan suddenly blushed and quickly added, “Excuse my language, Priestess, especially if he is a friend of yours.”
Jhenna waived her hand dismissively. “The Master Scientist is little more than an acquaintance,” she told Skenan. “Do not worry about that.”
She respected Wexworth for his accomplishments, but thought him overly arrogant. He treated people below his rank and station with disdain and, consequently, was not popular with the castle staff and guards.
Dennan had introduced her to Wexworth at a Triumvirate social event a few years ago. Dennan told him about her skill in healing and suggested they consider working together sometime. Wexworth listened respectfully but quickly lost interest and excused himself at the first available opportunity.
Despite his contemptuous personality, Jhenna believed him to be relatively harmless. Perhaps she had misjudged him. He had all the ingredients at hand to concoct the kind of toxin Skenan’s ailments exhibited. More inquiry, she thought.
“Why would Wexworth want to harm you?” she asked.
“He was making a fool of himself flirting with the High Priestess and he caught me snickering at him. When he entered the audience chamber he grabbed my arm and stuck me with something. It wasn’t too long after when I started to feel sick,” he explained holding up his right arm.
Jhenna rolled up the red sleeve of his uniform and examined his arm. She found a small pinprick on the inside of his forearm.
She frowned and asked, “Was the High Priestess flirting with him as well?”
Skenan looked surprised by the question. “No, of course not. She was being gracious toward him, but I can’t imagine she would flirt with him—or anyone for that matter!” he answered in genuine astonishment.
Based on her past experiences, Jhenna was considerably more skeptical of the High Priestess’s piety. Flirting with Wexworth as part of some political game would not surprise her. She did, however, understand Skenan’s reaction. The leader of the Church was expected to be above reproach.
“Well, Skenan, it would seem that you have made an enemy today—a well-connected and powerful one. I would recommend you keep a low profile and stay out of the Master Scientist’s way,” she cautioned.
“Yes, Priestess, you are probably right. But he should have to answer for what he did,” he complained.
“I don’t disagree with you,” she said offering a sympathetic smile, “but you can provide no proof of wrong doing. It would be your word against his and I’m afraid the odds would not be in your favor. No lasting harm has been done to you, Skenan. You should let this one go. Now, rest. You will feel much better in a few hours.”
“Thank you, Priestess,” Skenan said with a smile. “For everything.”
She returned the smile and walked out and then down the corridor into the small room that served as her office. She sat in the uncomfortably hard chair behind her beat up desk and massaged her temples. Wexworth was walking around with a potent poison. This greatly concerned her. What concerned her more was his willingness to use it on a whim.
She was growing tired of playing the part of a wallflower, tired of standing idle while injustices occurred to her and those around her. She wasn’t sure she could follow the advice she gave Skenan and let this one go.
CHAPTER 12
Nightlocke’s coach arrived at the Brighton station to the east of Lyraton on the Gandany coast in the late afternoon. Disembarking, he smiled as he inhaled the salty beach air. It was his first time at the shore. Smiles decorated the faces of the people milling about. Even the horses seemed happy. Ron was right, everything was better at the beach. The beach truly was paradise. He almost laughed at that thought. More accurately, paradise was a lab near the beach—at least for him.
He retrieved his backpack and noticed a stable next to the station. The sign above the entrance swayed in the gentle breeze with the words “Gaines Stables” etched on it. Nightlocke walked inside and blinked, attempting to adjust his eyes to the dimness. The smell of hay and horses saturated the air.
“Hello?” he called out.
“Yes, sir.” A sandy-haired man in his twenties with a hook nose popped out from one of the stalls. The name “Harlan” was stitched on his dusty gray shirt. “How can I help ya?”
“Do you have any horses for rent?” Nightlocke asked.
Harlan brushed at his shirt. “Sure do. I’ve got a few that have been trained with Horse-Back.”
Horse-Back, while unoriginal in name, was remarkable in function. It was a horse anti-theft concoction developed fifty or so years ago by the late Scientist Equinus. After receiving a dose of Horse-Back, a horse would become compelled to return to its home stable after a rental period of approximately twenty-four hours. Once the time elapsed, the horse would travel in no other direction. If stabled or hobbled, the horse would whinny and nicker until released and allowed to return home.
The rental horses Harlan showed Nightlocke were old and tired. Harlan motioned to the other side of the stable. “I’ve got some beauts over here. I can sell ya one for a good price.”
Nightlocke shook his head. His grandmother had left him some money, but purchasing horses would quickly deplete his funds. “No thanks, a rental is fine,” he said.
Nightlocke paid the rental fee. Harlan saddled a droopy black mare and equipped her with a large bag of feed. Nightlocke mounted and coaxed the horse down the cobblestone road past the station toward the dwelling of Dagan Garris. According to the directions provided by Rainstel, Dagan lived about two miles north of town along the coast.
After traveling for about a mile, the worn roadway he was following narrowed to a little trail that snaked upward through sea pines and white blossomed devilwoods. The pleasant odor of moss and salt water filled his nostrils.
Toward the end of another mile, the woods thinned and the trail opened into a large grassy clearing. At the end of the clearing, near the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean was an imposing slate gray castle. A magnanimous two-story stone structure with round turreted towers at each of the front corners. Framed by the surrounding woods and the rolling waves of the ocean in the background, Nightlocke was taken aback by the breathtaking scene. He reined his mount and stared. He had not known what to expect of Dagan's home, but a castle such as this had never entered his mind.
“This could be cool,” he thought as he urged his horse toward the castle.
When he reached the front steps of the castle, he dismounted, opened the feed bag, and emptied a large portion out for the horse.
“Good girl,” he said, giving the mare a gentle pat on the rump.
He climbed the five steps leading to a pair of eight-foot tall dark stained wooden doors and using a large, ornate iron knocker he rapped on one of them. Within a minute, one of the doors creaked open and he was greeted by a tall, handsome man with a neatly trimmed gray beard and short salt and pepper colored hair. The man was trim, but solidly built and had an ageless quality to his face. Aside from his hair, he could easily pass for a man in his late thirties or early forties. Nightlocke guessed he was much closer to sixty based on how deferentially Rainstel had spoken of him.
“Dagan Garris?” Nightlocke asked.
“That's right,” the man replied warmly, “and you must be Jalen Logan or rather you were Jalen Logan.”
Dagan's friendly expression turned to one of surprise as his dark blue eyes fixated on Nightlocke's neck.
Confused by the reaction, Nightlocke faltered, “Uh, uh….yes, I'm known as Nightlocke now.”
“I'm sorry, Nightlocke,” Dagan apologized, “but the charm you’re wearing. Do you mind if I ask where you got it?”
“What?” Nightlocke began, then touched the amulet at his throat. “Oh, this? I had forgotten all about it. I met an unusual old man in Lyraton who gave it to me. He was dressed as a priest or clergyman or...” he paused and reached for the amulet. “Would you like to take a look at it?” Nightlocke offered as he tried unsuccessfully to pull the leather cord over his head. “That's strange, it went on easy enough.”
“That's all right. I can see it fine with you wearing it,” Dagan said. The warmth had left his voice and as if trying to ascertain the validity of his statements, he eyed Nightlocke suspiciously.
“Do you know anything about the medallion?” Nightlocke asked hesitantly.
“I've…seen its like before,” Dagan responded, speaking carefully, “but it probably does not represent anything of importance now.”
Nightlocke was about to ask another question concerning the medallion, but it died on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he said, “It's very nice to meet you, sir. Rainstel and Fodjan speak very highly of you.”
