by T. O. Munro
Kaylan nodded, dumb before his Lady’s fury. Niarmit in her turn could not trust herself to speak. The miserable thief had made his confessions and awaited whatever penance she might exact. It could not be that easy. She drew a breath for speech. He looked up hollow eyed, eager, desperate for whatever reaction she might make. She snapped her mouth shut and strode to the balcony. No, Kaylan, no, not this time.
“My Lady?” His voice was soft, imploring. It grated on her mind like nails on a chalkboard.
“My Lady, I’m sorry. So sorry.”
Saying it again didn’t soften her mood. He cowered at the brief scorching glare she spared him.
“I didn’t mean….. I didn’t know.”
She spun round at that, quick strides towards him, hand raised. He didn’t duck, he didn’t dodge. He stood tall, turned his cheek towards her, determined to accept any chastisement, any physical pain as a welcome exchange for mental anguish. She didn’t hit him, she grabbed his wrist, pulled him towards her, his face level with hers. “Did you do it Kaylan? Did you kill Kychelle?”
“Noooo!” he gave a long wail of despair. “No, my Lady, Never. You must believe me, you must believe me.”
“I don’t know that I can Kaylan, not anymore.”
He paled at her words, head shaking, eyes widening.
“Whatever the truth about Kychelle, there can be no doubt what a burden of fear and worry you must have loaded on Hepdida. Tell me Kaylan, did you ever think about what she had been through, about what this stress would do to her? Making her hide such a dark secret.” Niarmit paused to mutter an inward curse. “I should have guessed, I should have known. I should not have left her. By the Goddess the worry alone could have been what made her ill.”
Kaylan massaged his bruised knuckles. “I thought as much, my Lady. It can’t have been the fall from her horse. There was no mark or injury when Rugan found her, but she was already hot with the fever. He recognised the pallor of her skin. So too did the Lady Giseanne. They knew at once it was the same sickness as that which struck King Bulveld down.”
“You fool, Kaylan, you bloody fool. I expected you to look after her. What were you thinking of, entangling her in your deception and then letting her ride out alone on a frozen morning?”
“I didn’t know,” he wailed. “She didn’t tell me.”
The door swung open abruptly; Quintala stood in the opening. “Seneschal,” Niarmit growled. “I did not want to be disturbed.”
“The Princess has had a relapse,” the half-elf rushed out her message.
Niarmit was hastening towards the doorway before Quintala had finished speaking. “We will try the Grace of the Goddess once more,” the Queen said.
Quintala hesitated. Her lips rehearsed in silence another piece of unwelcome news before daring to give the thought voice. “You may wish to spare some of that grace for Rhodra, Your Majesty.”
“The Deaconess? Why?”
“The Princess was not in her right wits. She struck out.” Quintala could not meet the Queen’s gaze. “The sickness it steals the mind as well as the body. This is not the real Hepdida.”
“And Rhodra?”
“Caught off guard. It was a heavy bowl, your Majesty. The healer needs healing now.”
***
The snow had come, settling thick and white around the palace. Even in the council chamber with the fire roaring in the hearth, the delegates gathered thick cloaks around themselves. Giseanne looked up as the door swung open and Niarmit joined the gathering, last to arrive again. She walked with weary leaden steps across the floor and slumped into her chair. Her face was drawn and her eyes shadowed with fatigue.
“Are you quite well, Lady Niarmit,” Tybert asked with oily solicitude.
She waved away his enquiry with a tired waft of her hand. “There is business to be discussed,” she said, stifling a yawn. “Let’s be about it.”
“We will try not to bore you, Lady Niarmit.” Leniot sniffed and exchanged a glare with his brother.
“How is Hepdida?” Giseanne asked.
Niarmit shrugged, “the same. She gets no worse. Come madam Regent, what questions lie before us?”
Giseanne suspected that behind Niarmit’s impatient demand lay a desire to get the meeting started and finished before exhaustion overwhelmed her. Giseanne knew how many times Niarmit had drawn on the healing power of the Goddess and how much it had cost her, but she dared not press her to rest or suggest that all her healing grace had been expended in vain.
“Bishop Sorenson would speak first, for Nordsalve,” Giseanne said.
“And my question, madam Regent, is the same as it has been these last eight days.” The Bishop keep his eyes on Niarmit, a steady gaze of firm but not unsympathetic enquiry.
“It’s out of the question.” Niarmit snapped a dismissal. “Not now.”
To Giseanne’s left her husband harrumphed his disgust. Leniot and Tybert exchanged a look. A nod and a thin smile of triumph from Leniot as Tybert reached for his purse. That man would bet on anything, Giseanne reflected.
“Please,” Sorenson implored. “Reconsider. The Lady Isobel and the young Prince are desperate for your aid. There is wild talk of the dragon being seen again. The soldiers of Nordsalve cower in uncharacteristic reticence on the North of the Derrach gorge. We have no war leader with Hetwith gone.”
“Send someone else. My place is here.”
“They would have none other than you Lady Niarmit, victor of the Gap of Tandar, destroyer of the snake lady, vanquisher of zombies. Your reputation rides high.”
“They certainly don’t want me,” Rugan growled. “Even if I cared to go.”
“Hepdida needs me.”
Sorenson spread his hands diffidently. “As you say, the young lady’s condition has got no worse. We know from the experience of King Bulveld that this is a slow progressing illness. Surely Lady Niarmit you can see that affairs of state must take precedence over matters of more private personal concern, even when it concerns a child.”
“In her father’s absence, Hepdida is my heir apparent. That makes her health a matter of state.”
Rugan broke in impatiently. “In a few short months the snows will melt, the undead will walk again and we will need all our strength to stand against the enemy. When that time comes I would that the forces of Nordsalve strode forward as strong as if Hetwith himself were reborn to lead them.” He paused a moment, watching the priestess’s tired features. “Whatever our differences may have been, Lady Niarmit, you have talents and in a time of peril such as this it is your duty to use them fully.”
Giseanne saw the look of pure loathing which Niarmit shot in Rugan’s direction, a visceral fury at being lectured on duty by the Prince she believed had abandoned her province and her people at Bledrag field. She heard her husband exhale a throaty rasp of air, his own temper rising in return.
“No final decision need be made today,” Giseanne hastily plucked at their budding argument. “The journey would have its perils, there is no safe direct route with the Silverwood still closed to us.”
“My man Fenwell knows a trail through the North-East of Morsalve. A path Lady Isobel’s heralds tread, which the snow will not unduly hinder.”
“Have him make ready what he needs, Bishop Sorenson, then, when we talk of this again we will know the thought can instantly be put to action whenever the Lady Niarmit is persuaded the time is right.”
“When will that be, pray tell?”
Niarmit’s eyes flashed at Tybert’s mocking tone. “When Hepdida is well again.”
The assertion brought a bout of eye rolling from Tybert, a sad shake of the head from Sorenson, and a snort of derision from Rugan. Giseanne found her voice trembling as she tried to impress once more the nature of Hepdida’s ailment. “Lady Niarmit, though it pains me to remind you, I have seen this illness run its course. It is a long path but in only one direction. We will keep her comfortable and I am sure there will be time enough for you to do service in Nordsalve an
d return to her bedside. But please, please Lady Niarmit, pin not your hopes nor tie your actions to an expectation that Hepdida will get well.” She hurt to say such words of pain, but say them she had to. “Hepdida is not going to get better. She will…”
“No.” Niarmit cried, her baleful stare turned now in all its shivering intensity upon the Lady Regent. She stood up, shaking her head. “The Goddess will not have it. She did not have me save my unknown cousin from Grundurg, she not spare us in the tumult of Morwencairn, or bring her safely through the battle of the Saeth, for Hepdida’s life to end in stinking madness. The Goddess does not play such games with us. Hepdida won’t….. She can’t ….. it will not happen. She won’t…..”
“We all die, Lady Niarmit,” Rugan said. “Even an old elf lady can be cut down untimely in my halls. I grieve for your loss, but it has already happened, you just don’t see it yet.” He reached for Giseanne’s hand and gave it a firm squeeze. “My wife lost her beloved father long months before he died. In all that time no priest could save or restore him. Please, Lady Niarmit, give your time and energy to those you can save. The girl is not amongst that number.”
“Maybe King Bulveld’s priests had too little faith,” Niarmit declared, taking anger fuelled strides towards the door.
“Lady Niarmit, please,” Giseanne called. “Do not attempt another cure so soon, you are exhausted. Do not squander your own strength.”
The priestess paused at the double doors. “Madam Regent I suggest you send your husband to the people of Nordsalve. Let them teach each other the meaning of duty. I was a Priestess before I was a Queen; the calling of the Goddess is my first and principle obligation.”
***
“Father Merlow!”
The priest turned at Kimbolt’s shout and waited patiently for the Captain to ascend the frozen steps to the upper cloister. Merlow was clad in a thin robe, his pale skin tinged blue with cold, but the ascetic priest seemed to be revelling in his own discomfort. “Captain Kimbolt.” He accorded the captain the merest dip of his chin, a minimalist concession of courtesy.
“Are you not standing duty with the Princess?”
Merlow’s thin blue lips twitched in ghost of a smile. “I was dismissed from the young woman’s bedside. Lady Niarmit is with her now. She was most insistent I should leave.” He looked away towards the frozen fountain. “I am not one to impose where I am not welcome.”
“The Queen should be in council now.”
Again the smile, the smug self-satisfaction of one immune to mortal failings. “It is not my place to query any of the actions or omissions of my secular superiors.”
Kimbolt glared at the priest. “I am sure the Goddess appreciates your magnanimous restraint, father Merlow.” Arrogance had dulled the priest’s perception of sarcasm but he still frowned at the Captain’s hostility.
Kimbolt hurried past him to the inner quarters. The guards parted their pikes and snapped to attention at his approach. A week of palatial living had transformed the Captain’s appearance from ragged rough spun outlander to clean shaven officer clad in borrowed livery and every inch a soldier of Morsalve.
He exchanged a salute before plunging into Hepdida’s sick room. The girl was sleeping, half curled but limbs awkwardly askew stretched out to the four corners of the bed. Since Rhodra’s accident they had dared not risk too much slack in the girl’s bindings for fear of what she might do when the madness had her in its grip.
Kimbolt could not see the Queen at first, but then he saw the glint of gold, the crescent symbol lying by Hepdida’s arm and a hand resting on the edge of the bedclothes. He stepped quickly round the foot of the bed. Niarmit was lying ever so still on the floor. Kimbolt stood a moment, holding his own breath until he saw the slight movement of the Queen’s shallow breathing.
He stooped beside her, touched her shoulder lightly. She did not stir. There was a camp-bed by the door, set up for those who sat with the Princess by night. Carefully Kimbolt slipped his arms beneath Niarmit’s knees and shoulders and straightening lifted her from the hard stone floor. He misjudged how light she was, swaying slightly from the ease of lifting her, but she still rested oblivious in his arms. It was a few paces to the humble cot; its canvas bowed as he laid her down. At his back, the unshuttered windows ushered in a gust of freezing air. Kimbolt pulled a blanket over the sleeping form and then, on an impulse, added his cloak.
He stood up, waiting a moment to reassure himself that the Queen still drew in those shallow breaths. He had never seen her so still, closed eyelids masking the fierce light of her eyes, her expression blank with exhaustion. It was a slumber so deep that the cares and animation of a war leader had quite drained away and he saw just a young woman at rest, with far too few years for the burdens she bore.
He stepped back, suddenly uneasy at studying his sleeping Queen so. Behind him on the bed, Hepdida stirred restlessly against her bonds. Kimbolt sat on the counterpane and took her hand in his. Her fingers were parchment yellow, her wrist chaffed by the rubbing of the rope. They had tried to wind the rope with silk, but her frantic writhings had soon displaced it to the rough hemp beneath it. The silk alone was far from strong enough to constrain her at the peaks of her madness.
He squeezed her small hand in his large one, not too hard for the skin was thin and brittle over ill fleshed bone. He looked down at her jaundiced face, dark hair was plastered across her forehead although a central lock was losing its colour, the black fading to a darker grey. Her lips were an unhealthy purple and an ugly pustule had appeared at the corner of her mouth. In all, the thin white lines of Grundurg’s scars were the healthiest looking features. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Her eyes shot open, sudden and bright, so fast he jumped back.
“I’m glad it’s you, Kimbolt,” she said in her old voice.
“Hepdida?” She had not used his name before, in the times when he had witnessed her slavering fury.
“What are you sorry for?”
His mouth moved wordlessly, he shrugged and shook his head and squeezed her hand. In the end he helplessly confessed, “everything.”
“It’s not your fault. It was never your fault.”
“Kaylan thinks it was,” he said, rubbing his jaw where the bruise had faded to a dull ache.
She stretched, straining against her bonds, and wincing as the rope scraped over her scoured wrists.
“Here,” he said. “Let me loosen your ties.”
“Don’t,” she said. “I remember, I remember what I do, what I did.”
“It’s not your fault, Hepdida,” he told her.
Her eyes clenched with shame. “How… how is the lady, the Deaconess?”
He frowned. “Getting better, she will be fully recovered soon.”
“I saw myself do it, Kimbolt, I watched myself from inside. That poor lady.”
He lifted her from the bed, as far as the restraints would allow, and gave her a hug, not caring how close that brought her teeth to his neck.
There was a cough from the door and an artless voice announced, “my but it is cold in here.”
Kimbolt looked round to see the cloaked and coiffered figure of Maia. The spiritual adviser looked from the sleeping form of Niarmit to Kimbolt still holding Hepdida as close as the ropes would allow.
“Forgive me, am I interrupting?”
Kimbolt gently laid Hepdida down on the bed. “Why are you here, Lady Maia?”
“Can’t a fellow guest visit an invalid, Captain Kimbolt.” She approached the other side of the bed, a little hesitant despite her confident words. “I have written to my poor friends in Oostport. I miss them so, particularly in winter. But they are most interested in the poor young lady’s illness.”
“Interested?”
“Concerned,” she hastily corrected herself. “So tragic, so much younger than old Bulveld.”
“What do you want?” Hepdida asked, eyes flashing at the unwanted intrusion.
The lucid enquiry took Maia off guard. “You a
re… that is… another of those moments of remission? How quaint.”
Beads of sweat broke out on Hepdida’s brow, her dry lips cracked as she glared at Maia. Kimbolt reached for the sponge to wet her lips and mop her forehead, as Tybert’s concubine settled herself gingerly on the bed.
“I trust we are not keeping you from giving your Lord some spiritual advice,” Kimbolt ground out.
Maia grinned at him. “Oh no Captain, I gave him that last night and twice again this morning. And now he is in the council meeting and I am all alone.” She looked at Niarmit’s sleeping form. “I had thought that your Lady would be there as well, or have you been giving her some spiritual advice Captain?”
His jaw tightened and it took a whimper from Hepdida before he realised how tightly he had begun to squeeze her hand. “Lady Maia…”
She gave him her best winning smile, unabashed at her own sly innuendo. “There were matters of state to address. Tybert and Leniot were in some disagreement as to whether your Lady Niarmit would meet her obligations. But I see she has chosen once again to stay here.” She frowned, “I expect Tybert will wish to recoup his losses somehow.”
“What obligations?”
“Oh child, your Lady is much in demand. All of Nordsalve want to meet her and if one is to believe Sir Vahnce, you would think the whole war will be lost if she does not go.”
“Lady Maia, Hepdida is ill. She need not waste her moments of health in…”
“Why won’t she go?” Hepdida demanded.
“Maia..”
Kimbolt’s admonition could not stop the woman.
“Why, Miss Hepdida, it is you of course. The Lady Niarmit can think of nothing but your health and will attend no other duties until you are well.”
“But I won’t get well.”
“Hush,” Kimbolt patted her hand. “The Queen will exert every effort, you must have faith…”
“I hear things, Kimbolt. Whatever I do and say, I hear what people say when I am ill. I know what I have. I know what it will do to me.” Her voice was rising in pitch, her legs and arms straining at the ropes in her anxiety. Fresh sweat erupted on her forehead and the purple tinge to lips and fingertips deepened. “I know…” the Princess cried but it came out as a guttural inhuman growl, and then another howl of anguish.
