by David Waine
Lissian eyed him darkly, unimpressed at the thought of donning masculine training attire. “Will they be clean?”
“No,” he smiled, “they will be muddy and sweaty, having just been vacated by some hairy brute of a pupil.”
She was horrified. “You expect me to wear that?”
A complacent grin flitted across his bristly features. “I deal with your physical body, My Lady. What it wears is nothing to me, other than that it should not interfere with your freedom of movement. I’m sure that if I lend you a training uniform, you will be able to persuade a discreet seamstress to run you up one of your own quite quickly,” he said. “One that will need to be washed out every night.”
“Give me one for a pattern,” she snapped, “I will have two run up tonight.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mussa was still rubbing herself down in his bathroom when Callin admitted a nervous-looking Tetcher, who handed him a folded piece of parchment. He recognised the Seal of the Vorsts.
It was written in Dorcan’s bold hand, but the message bore none of his brother’s accustomed cheeriness. Instead there was the unmistakable gravity of one who knew he was soon to inherit great responsibility.
Nassinor
26th January
My dear brother, Callin,
I know I'm not the best letter writer, but now I feel as if I carry some tragic kind of curse. Within a month of my last post our brother was taken from us. Now I fear that our father is not long for this world. He never really got over Simack’s death. The princess, God bless her, buoyed him up while here but, now that she is back in Brond, where she really belongs, to be honest, he seems to have sunk ever deeper into a pit of despair. Day after day he sits in the library staring at the wall. He seems broken. Nothing seems to matter to him now.
I am shouldering more and more of his responsibilities. It seems just a matter of time before they become mine permanently.
Dr. Kraan attends him daily and he assures me that there is nothing wrong with him, yet he wastes away before us. The doctor thinks he has lost the will to live. I have suggested a priest, if the malady is to be found more in his soul than his body, but he assures me that he has made his peace with God, Who will take him when He sees fit. Be that as it may, but it seems to me that he is forcing the Almighty’s hand.
Could you beg some compassionate leave from the academy and pay us a visit? It would do him good to see you again and it just might remind him that he still has responsibilities in this world. Age is as much a state of mind as body. Years in plenty he may have but until recently, nobody could ever have thought of him as being old.
Please come. You are my last hope.
Your ever-loving brother
Dorcan
Callin folded the letter thoughtfully and put it on his writing desk, as Mussa emerged from his bathroom, freshly dried and ready to become damp again.
“What is it, Master Callin?”
“It’s from my brother,” he said, “he is worried about our father.”
Her face showed genuine concern. “He’s not ill, is he?”
Callin shrugged. “He has no sickness, but he is sick at heart. Grief at Simack’s death is destroying him.”
He felt her soft hand at his shoulder. “Oh, poor soul. That’s horrible.”
He lay alone that night, Mussa having respected his desire for solitude. He stared at the ever-darkening corner of the ceiling, conflicting emotions vying within his breast. The overriding feeling was grief. Grief for the man who had given him life, who had given him a name, who had loved and nurtured him, who had guided him, who had been his father. Not for the first time since he had made the fateful climb to her lair, he silently cursed the Hag.
The feeling of guilt was augmented by a vague sense of unease. He peered out into the empty courtyard. Nothing that he could see there. He crept to the door. Nothing in the passage outside either. He inspected his bathroom and under his bed. Nothing. The thought of his father suddenly caused the vague sense of alarm to snap into focus.
He sat bolt upright, suddenly wide-awake. The palliative salts! Had they been what they were supposed to be? If not, suppose Dorcan fed their father a dose?
*
The castle looked as he had remembered it as he rounded the final bend, retinue in tow, complete with the nation’s most senior physician, jolting along uncomfortably in his carriage. Nothing could try Dr. Sirulak’s patience, however. He was a man in whose veins honey flowed instead of blood. Rhomic had supplied an entire company of mounted troops, complete with camp followers and supply wagons to ensure that young Vorst and the doctor reached Nassinor safely.
That morning, a rider had returned with Sir Dorcan’s confirmation that his father’s condition was unchanged. Callin breathed again.
It was a sober Dorcan who greeted them at the gate, thanking both Callin and the doctor for coming and asking them if they wished to see his father immediately.
“You go ahead, Master Callin,” said Doctor Sirulak, “I need to consult with my colleague before examining the patient myself.”
Count Amerish Vorst sat in the library, staring into the fire. There was a book on his knee but he made no attempt to read it. Callin took in the tall, vaulting room, stacked with books, row on row. The large window, one of Nassinor’s few glazed casements, gave out onto the gardens, far from their best at this time of year. He could see nothing of it now because the curtain was drawn, day or night.
His father sat hunched up with his back to the door. He still had a full head of hair, steel grey for many years. Now it hung lank about his head. Illuminated in the flickering firelight, the count looked immeasurably older. His face was deeply lined and the aquiline nose more resembled a shrivelled beak. The wasted flesh hung limp and grey from his frame, which seemed to have lost its old military bearing and surrendered meekly to encroaching senility.
He heard Callin’s approach and looked up slowly. A thin smile rippled across his aged face as he held up a thin, bony hand in greeting.
“Callin…” he murmured, attempting to rise.
Callin stayed the attempt and helped him back into his seat. “I came as soon as I heard, Father. I’ve brought the king’s physician. If anyone can set you back on your feet, he can.”
The old man turned away towards the fire. His voice had taken on a dry, cracked quality reminiscent of the flames themselves. “You are kind, my son, and I appreciate your efforts and those of your brother. They are, however, in vain. My sickness is not of the body.”
“Is it Simack?” asked Callin after a pause.
His father nodded. “Yes,” he affirmed, “but not exclusively him. His passing has reminded me of my own mortality. It would have been the same had either Dorcan or you gone before your time. I loved you equally and I love you equally still.”
He fell silent again, looking into the flames. Callin opened his mouth to speak but his father stopped him with a weak wave of his hand.
“Forgive me, my son, words are not necessary. Since your mother passed on, I have been outwardly robust, but inwardly waiting for the day when my Creator would take me. That day is not long removed now and I am content. I only pray that I will endure long enough to see you knighted.”
A soft cough attracted Callin’s attention. The two doctors stood side by side in the doorway. “Not more doctors,” groaned Vorst. “How many times do you need to be told that there is nothing wrong with me? Nothing that you can cure, at any rate.”
Dr. Kraan ushered Callin out of the room. As he went, he turned and said, “Father, you will see me knighted!”
*
“It is, I regret to say,” said Doctor Sirulak, “as my colleague has already diagnosed, there is nothing wrong with him.”
“Then why does he ail?” asked Dorcan.
“He is grieving for his son. He is sick at heart and no longer wishes to live.”
“But we were all here when Simack — died,” put in Callin awkwardly, trying to keep the guilt out o
f his voice. “He seemed well enough then.”
“And for months afterwards,” confirmed Dorcan.
Doctor Sirulak nodded. “This is an insidious thing. When your brother died, you were both here to cheer him up and so was the princess. Forgive me for saying this, but I suspect that she had a greater effect than either of you. Since she returned to Brond, the reality of his loss has grown on Count Vorst until the weight of it has become unbearable.”
“We could ask her to return,” suggested Dorcan.
The doctor nodded. “I am sure she would, so kind is her heart, and I think it would also be our best course of action. The winter still has a month to run before fairer weather arrives. If his spirits can be raised for those few weeks, there is a chance that the returning sun will provide some recovery.”
“I’ll write to her myself,” said Dorcan. “Callin, you go in and tell him that we’ve invited her. That might give him something to look forward to.”
As Callin opened the door into the library, he heard his brother ask the dreaded question of the royal physician. “Doctor Sirulak, we still have a plentiful supply of palliative salts. Our physician says they would make no difference. What do you think?”
“He is correct,” confirmed Doctor Sirulak, “palliative salts are all very well if you have a headache, but they have little real medical value and certainly would not help in this situation. You were wise to leave them alone.”
*
Simack’s room was in darkness. The first thing Callin did was to jar his knee on the bedpost as he entered. He stifled the curse in his throat and listened to the hammering of his heart against his ribs. He dare not light a lamp lest it attract attention.
His eyes gradually acclimatised. He could see the bed, the writing desk and the closet. If the palliative salts would be anywhere, he reasoned, they would be in there.
A small chest of drawers stood in the bottom corner. Locked! Callin cursed his luck and cast around for the key. He found one quickly on the writing desk. It fitted the lock and turned with a soft click. The top drawer contained the familiar red bags. There were seven, two already opened. He must locate the false bag and dispose of it. But how? The glass crystals looked exactly like palliative salts.
He sat on Simack’s bed and thought. Master Treasor had taught him that there was a logical solution to most problems provided he gave them sufficient thought. Simack had probably been killed by the glass crystals reacting with his internal fluids and growing in his body. Therefore, logically speaking, they had to be in one of the two open bags. He checked the other five. All still bore their seals unbroken. He took the other two to the window, where he could examine them by moonlight. His eyes could distinguish no difference at all.
Taste was out of the question. What about smell? He held the first bag to his nose and sniffed it cautiously. He could detect no smell at all. Carefully, he sniffed the other bag. This time there was a difference, a faint but definite tang. Progress. Now he simply had to check with the sealed bags.
His luck was in. All five carried the faint but now unmistakable scent of palliative salts. He now knew which bag to get rid of. Replacing its partner in the drawer, adding a further bag he had brought from Brond, he stuffed the glass crystals bag into his pocket. Straightening the coverlet on the bed, he left his brother’s room.
*
His father seemed a little brighter now that he had come. He took his meals more regularly, although he still ate sparingly. That, however, pleased the two doctors because he had given up eating altogether for several days before Callin’s arrival. The years remained on him, however. Whereas he had once been straight and proud, he was now stooped and aged; where he had so recently strode firm, he now shuffled; where his voice had once carried the rasp of command, he now spoke in little more than a whisper. Dorcan took over all of his official duties. It was never stated, of course, but they all knew that few, if any, of those powers would ever be handed back.
“Your arrival has certainly improved his condition,” observed Dr. Sirulak. “Without that, I suspect that he might have been taken from us already. If the princess is able to visit, that should further improve matters — and by then the spring might have broken and we all will feel a bit better.”
“But there is no hope?”
“With fortune, and with Avalind — particularly Avalind,” returned the doctor softly, “we may get him through what remains of the winter. If we do, I am confident that he will see you dubbed in the summer.”
The two were walking together in the cloisters around the central lawn next to the chapel. Sirulak was taking a welcome break from attending his patient and Callin some less welcome fresh air.
“Your father has lived a long and, for the most part, happy life,” went on the doctor. “Perhaps it is fitting that he should see out his final days watching his last son achieve his title. That will give him peace. Would it not be cruel to expect more?”
*
“Father has perked up,” beamed Dorcan. We just heard that Avalind is on her way.”
And so she was, arriving within a week. Count Amerish made a valiant attempt to resume his former stature and greet her properly. The stoop was gone, the head held high and the smile that cracked his face when she appeared was simple and genuine; it grew even broader when she called him “Uncle Vorst.”
At dinner that night, she sat next to him, as guest of honour, chattering cheerfully throughout, recommending the best morsels when she saw that he would eat but little and graciously neglecting to notice when he dribbled his soup. Dorcan and Callin sat quietly to either side. She marvelled sadly at the effect his father’s condition was having on Dorcan. Gone was the dashing cavalier of old, replaced by a weight of responsibility that crushed him. He was polite and smiled, of course, but as each day passed, he realised afresh that he had never really prepared himself for the coming responsibility at all.
After dinner, Count Vorst retired for the night, Dorcan escorting him, as the dutiful elder son should. Avalind sat next to Callin and smiled at him warmly.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“I am no medical person,” she said, “but, to my untutored eye he appears to be perking up a little.”
“He’s putting it on for you,” Callin pointed out.
“I thought as much,” she admitted. “Doctor Sirulak has already brought me up to date. Poor man. How does he save the life of someone who wants to die?”
“That is why we sent for you,” said Callin.
Avalind looked at him squarely. “If the finest doctor in the land has despaired of him, what can I do?”
“You can give him your smile.”
“Will that save him?” she asked soberly.
“No,” he shook his head in confirmation, “but can it do less than the doctors?”
A silence fell between them. Both looked elsewhere, taking in the great hall, its tables packed with local dignitaries, whose forced jollity — maintained for the count’s benefit — had now lapsed into a mood of studied sobriety.
“I will do what I can, of course,” she announced finally. “He once told me that he looked upon me as the daughter he never had. How could I possibly demur?”
“Your mere presence reduces the weight on Dorcan’s and my shoulders considerably,” Callin confirmed. “He looks brighter already.”
She smiled warmly. “Thank you, young sir, I will do my best, and do it with a full heart. I don’t call him ‘Uncle Vorst’ for nothing, you know. But what of you?”
Callin blinked. He did not understand. “What of me?”
She smiled again. “You know what his greatest wish is. He says it is his only remaining wish.”
“To see me knighted.”
“You were right to come quickly,” her look was wise, “and your presence has saved him from giving up altogether. However, I am here now. You cannot qualify while you sit here. Your place is in Brond. He will understand, believe me.” Callin took this in and nodded. Now her voi
ce developed an unexpectedly hard edge. “I must also inform you, Master Vorst, that I am here in two capacities. The first is to care for your father and the second is official. It comes from your liege lord, the king. You are recalled to Brond.”
She edged closer to him, checking round to make sure that no one else was listening.
“Keep this to yourself,” she confided, “for it has not yet been publicly announced. Sulinan, king of Draal, has requested that he make a state visit this summer.”
“What does he want?” asked Callin.
She smiled. “On the face of it, it’s just a social call on a neighbour. As we both know, however, kings don’t make social calls. He’s bringing his eldest with him.”
“Prince Kubelik?”
“The very same,” she nodded. “There is no hint of it in the official request but we surmise that he will propose a marriage.”
“Between you and Kubelik?” She nodded. He whistled softly. “How do you feel about that?”
A small sound of distaste escaped her throat before she controlled it.
“As you are aware, I have been brought up expecting to be married off in confirmation of some alliance.”
“Yes,” he put in, “but I always thought it would be to strengthen us against Draal.”
She nodded. “It still is.”
“Has the king agreed to the visit?”
“He had no choice. To refuse it would be a slap in Sulinan’s face and we would face immediate invasion. To refuse the offer of marriage will have the same effect.”
He considered for a moment. “What of Kubelik?”
“I have only met him twice. Once, when we were both children. I thought him an ill-mannered brat. I met him again a couple of years ago when I accompanied my father on the annual toll renegotiation. He has grown into a hulking great brute, utterly devoid of humanity; a cruel, selfish beast of a man. I would sooner give up my birthright than ally myself to such a creature.”
