King's Last Hope: The Complete Durlindrath Trilogy

by Robert Ryan

  “A very interesting observation,” Gilhain said thoughtfully. “One that I’ve also made myself.”

  Aurellin looked at him sharply. Likely enough, she knew exactly what he was thinking. She usually did.

  11. Magic, not Medicine

  Arell had time to think as she followed the stretcher-bearers toward the palace. In the distance, the elug war drums began to rumble to slow life once more. She was sick of them. She was sick of many things, but she endured. And endurance had always served her well.

  Her beginnings were humble. Her prospects had been poor. And she was too strong willed, too ambitious, to merely use her looks to attract a husband of wealth. Not that she disdained the girls she grew up with who used wiles to attract a partner of influence. The idea had occurred to her too, but something else drove her. She had a thirst for knowledge, and marriage and children would not satisfy her. Not completely, anyway.

  That thirst for knowledge took a special form – a desire to understand the human body, to cure illness, to slow aging, to make people’s lives better. It was a worthy goal. But a goal, at least in Cardoroth, reserved as the special province of men.

  She learned and studied under bearded old healers, never more than a servant to them, never having any real hope of being more than their pretty flunky. But she kept her mouth shut and her eyes open – and learned – and endured. Until one day Brand exposed her master as a fraud and propelled her into the light. For she had learned her lessons well through long years of servitude, and he had given her the chance to save the king’s life.

  It was a kingly gift, for Brand had earned enemies that day. The bearded old man knew other bearded old men, and they talked and plotted and schemed against him. But he was Brand, and he smiled at them when he saw them, but he did not turn his back on them.

  Now, she wore the white smock of a healer herself, the only female in Cardoroth to do so. Though many still called her a witch behind her back, even those who begged her to heal them when they were sick, she had prosperity and fame. But not respect. Then again, the king respected her, and the queen, and the Durlin. And there was always Brand. There was always him. The esteem of a few like that was worth more than the veneration of the masses.

  She followed the stretcher-bearers to the palace and the chambers of healing situated within its east wing. These rooms were shared by several healers, those old men she despised so much, but medications and equipment were close to hand.

  The rooms could be noisy, for the king paid the healers to see not just to palace staff but every morning and every evening they opened the doors to the poor. And the poor were many, and often in need of treatment.

  Barok was there, though he was not busy. He paid her little attention though, until he saw who was on the stretcher. His eyes widened at that, and she could see his mind working and knew where it would take him.

  She went into a room. It was empty, containing little more than a bed. What she wished most for was a door though, but there were none anywhere in the chambers of healing. Had there been one, she would have closed and barred it.

  Barok followed her inside, as she knew he would. He was in charge of these rooms, and the only healer left because all others now served in rooms close to the Cardurleth. He was going to try to take over, for to heal Aranloth would win him praise, and praise meant fame and money.

  “Gently,” she instructed the soldiers as they began to transfer the lòhren from the stretcher to the bed.

  “You’ve done well to bring him here,” Barok said.

  She raised an eyebrow and shot him a flinty look with the other eye. It was no easy thing to do, and it usually had the desired effect. But Barok had seen an opportunity and he would not be so easily put off.

  He ignored her and made ready to commence an examination.

  “Out!” Arell said with intense force, but still quietly. “I didn’t bring him here so that you could squint at him and pretend you had an idea of what was going on. Out!”

  Barok turned. He gave her his own look. It was one of superiority. His pale hands, nearly as white as the smock he wore, were clasped in front of him. He peered down at her, eyes cold as they studied her from above his long beard. It was a look that she had seen him use on troublesome patients, but it had no effect on her.

  “Out!” she repeated.

  “Don’t you think someone of Aranloth’s stature deserves treatment from one of Cardoroth’s finest healers?” He looked at her, leaving no doubt in his expression that he did not consider her worthy of the task.

  Arell had had enough. “The king placed him in my care, and I’ll do what can be done.” She spoke quietly, her voice filled with icy determination, and it carried an edge of threat. “Speak with the king – if you dare interrupt him while the city teeters on the edge of destruction. If he places Aranloth in your care, so be it. But while we argue, the lòhren’s life slips away. Now stand aside, for I’ll not tolerate any further delay. Don’t interrupt me again except at the king’s word.”

  She made to move past him, but Barok blocked her path.

  “I’m in charge here. I’ll treat the lòhren. I don’t know what the king said, but there are ways of making such pronouncements officially, and I’ve seen no paperwork nor heard from any messenger. You can go and get leave from the king to treat the lòhren. Until then, I’ll do what needs doing.”

  Arell wanted to slap him, but that would not be enough. He was too thick headed for that to work, and time was running out. Instead, she made one swift move and drew a knife from her boot.

  The blade gleamed wickedly between them, and she would use it if she had to. If Aranloth died, the city would fall.

  Barok looked at her in astonishment, but what he was going to say, she would never know.

  Taingern strode past her and before Barok even realized what was happening the Durlin had grabbed him in a headlock and manhandled him out the door. When they were in the corridor, he threw him to the floor.

  “Fool!” he said. “That’s your message from the king. “And if you step inside this room again, I’ll kill you. Cardoroth needs the lòhren, but it doesn’t need you.”

  The Durlin drew his sword to emphasize the point.

  Barok scrambled to his feet. This was more than he expected, more even than Arell expected; but it proved the point that Cardoroth was on the edge.

  The healer fled, and his dignity went with him, but Arell was already moving to Aranloth as the sound of Barok’s retreat pounded away into the distance. Faintly, she heard him yell when he reached somewhere he considered safe: this is beyond her – the lòhren will die, or worse, she’ll kill him with ineptitude.

  She spared Taingern a brief look of thanks as she sheathed her knife.

  “Pay him no heed,” the Durlin said. “Not for nothing are you the king’s own healer. Not for nothing did Brand recruit you to train the Durlin. And not for nothing does Brand speak highly of you.”

  She gave a little bow. “May I prove your confidence in me.”

  Once more she examined the lòhren. He was no better, and she knew with the certainty of natural instinct and honed skill combined that no art of medicine could bring him back. They needed magic for that, but it seemed not even the lòhrens themselves could achieve such a thing. If it was possible, perhaps only the greatest lòhren of them all knew how, but he lay silent and dying on the bed before her.

  She sat and thought. There were medicines that might make his heart beat faster, for it was slow now, so slow as to be pumping blood at half the rate that it should. No wonder that his pulse was hard to take. But those medicines were no cure. They would buy some time, but time for what?

  Taingern sat near her. He did not speak, did not ask questions that would interrupt her flow of thought. She appreciated that. He was a thoughtful and kind man, notwithstanding his earlier violence.

  But the more she thought the deeper she sunk in a pool of despair. It swallowed her up, drowned her in hopelessness. It was not enough to prolong
Aranloth’s life for a day or two. It was not enough!

  She stood and looked out the window. The city stretched out before her. Her city, and it would fall. Of that, there was no doubt.

  Brand was out there beyond it, somewhere in the vast land of Alithoras. He gave her hope. They must endure; they must survive the enemy for as long as they could to give him the time to do what he must do. And only Aranloth had the power to stem the dark tide of sorcery the elùgroths would throw against them. The other lòhrens would fight, and they would die. Against the might of the enemy they would not stand long without their leader.

  She must think. Medicine was of no avail. Perhaps magic would help, but there was no magic in the city except for the lòhrens, and they had admitted they knew of no way to bring Aranloth’s spirit back to his body. But if magic had freed it from the bonds of the flesh, then magic could summon it back. That was only logical. But if not the magic of the lòhrens, then whose?

  There were witches in Cardoroth. But they had no real magic, at least so she believed. Their talent lay more in foresight and prophecy. It was too far to go to Lòrenta for more help; Aranloth would be dead before such a journey even began, not to mention that an army barred the way, and the lòhrens left in Lòrenta probably knew no more than the ones here.

  Barok’s words haunted her. This was beyond her skill. Aranloth would die. It made her feel no better that he would die no matter who cared for him. The other healers would fuss and meddle. They would draw blood and prescribe herbs and potions. None of it would work.

  She had done what could be done. It was a simple thing. She had positioned him on pillows so that he half sat in the bed. That allowed him to breathe a little better. Soon, she might give him a medicine that would make his heart beat faster. But that put strain on it also, and it came with risks. There was nothing else to be done, and she must face defeat.

  She looked through the glass window. They were on a lower floor of the palace, but they still had a good view. There were many houses out there. All along the streets were homes where she had healed people. They were everywhere, all the way to the Tower of Halathgar and beyond.

  Her mind wandered, and then it focused on the tower. It was distant, but it stood tall and strange. It was a great landmark in the city, the tower of the Witch Queen. The tower of Carnhaina, who had once ruled in Cardoroth. She had power. Power beyond an ordinary lòhren. Power enough to rival Aranloth himself. And there were stories of what the queen had done with that power. Arell had read of them in medical textbooks.

  That gave her pause for thought. Carnhaina was a battle queen, not a healer. And yet there was a story of some healing that she had done. A distinct image of the book’s cover came to Arell, and fragments of the story with it.

  She bit her lip and looked at Taingern. There was another story, a story that Brand himself had told her of Carnhaina, though she was long dead and become dust.

  “The Forgotten Queen,” she whispered. “Carnhaina.”

  That was all she said, but Taingern’s face paled. She read fear in his expression, or perhaps awe, and it was confirmation that Brand’s story was true; not that she doubted him, but it was a wild story, a story to frighten even brave men. It was also a story that just now gave her hope. And even if it was a wild hope, desperate and no doubt dangerous, it was still hope.

  “Let no one into the room!” she said.

  She raced away. The corridors were empty, though there were patients in some of the rooms. She saw no sign of Barok, and it was just as well for him. The knife was still in her boot, and she would use it if he got in her way.

  She sped up a flight of stairs, taking them two at a time, and then spun around a corner and flung open a door.

  Inside was the library of the healers. She knew each book, though there were hundreds. She had read them all, studied them, committed their knowledge to her memory. Much was false, proven wrong by her own experiments, but much was true and valuable.

  She headed straight for the book she sought. It was old. Its cover was black, faded to gray. Gold script covered it, and the sign of Halathgar was there as well, the constellation that the Forgotten Queen had taken for her seal.

  Arell raced back. She had an idea, but the book would give her the confirmation that she needed. But even if her memory was correct, the look on Taingern’s face when she mentioned Carnhaina gave her pause for thought. And, given the story Brand had told her, well it might.

  12. Blood Calls to Blood

  Arell returned to the room. Even in so little time the fear that Aranloth had already died near paralyzed her.

  She stopped running when she neared the entrance. Haste was not a good look for a healer; it inspired a sense of panic, and that was not what patients, or anybody else, ever needed.

  She methodically checked the lòhren’s pulse again when she returned, and she hid her relief that he still lived as much as she hid her fear that he had died.

  “What’ve you got there?” Taingern asked, gesturing at the book.

  “It’s old,” she replied. “It must have been copied several times, for the language, while stilted, is modern.”

  She sat down and opened it. For one brief moment she looked at him, noted that his face still seemed pale, and then she put her head down and flicked through the pages.

  “It was written in the court of Queen Carnhaina. The author, one Karappe, was a great healer, responsible for many of the treatises that we still use today – but this is more a memoire of his queen’s accomplishments.”

  “That’s not a Camar name.”

  “No. He was a foreigner. “The queen rescued him from a battlefield somewhere when he was a child. He thought of her as a mother, and in a strange kind of way that was exactly what she was to him.”

  She paused, flicking carefully through the pages. The earlier parts dealt with Carnhaina’s ascension to the throne, and then her first battles. She skipped those chapters, seeking one of the last ones where the queen was old. Old, of course, was a relative term. The events in the book had occurred near on a thousand years ago.

  She nearly held her breath when she found the chapter that she wanted.

  “This is it. It’s a little story, one of many the healer tells about Carnhaina. But all his stories serve a purpose.”

  She paused, and then began to read out a sentence here or there to give Taingern the gist of events.

  So it came to pass that the lòhren Gavnor, the least of the lòhrens in Queen Carnhaina’s court, attempted to Spirit Walk.

  She read on, swiftly passing by much else that was interesting.

  At length, the bonds of the flesh were broken; his spirit soared. He saw what was, and what yet may be, and he reported to his queen … but the enemy discovered him. Thus was he assailed. Pursued by those of greater might, he fled. Chased incessantly, he retreated into the uttermost darkness. There, he lost his enemies. They dared not follow. Yet, in saving himself, he therefore was lost also. Too far he strayed. Too weak was become the link between body and spirit. On the brink his life hovered…

  Arell read on. It was clear to her that the healer was reporting things that he did not fully understand, yet it was the essence of his story that counted, not the details.

  Gavnor was a favorite of the queen. She desired his service, and not even death would she let prevent it. At great risk to herself…

  “Some of this just doesn’t make sense,” Arell said.

  Blood calls to blood she proclaimed. And Gavnor was related to her through her father’s line … Her face was set. No doubt she showed. With a swift motion she cut herself. The small blade, marked with the Sign of Halathgar, cut with ease. Sharp it was. Her palm seemed uninjured, and then her royal blood sprang forth. She that was queen bled like a commoner, but no common act it was: rather it was a deed of nobility … Red her blood was, and bright, and her Court muttered in astonishment and averted their gazes. She laughed at them, her deep-throated laugh filled with disdain and courage and defiance.
She that was as a Queen of the World cared nothing for their petty opinions. Gavnor was of her blood, and she would save him if it could be done.

  “There is more like that. Karappe cared little for her court, it seems, though his love of her is plain.

  Queen Carnhaina spoke, her voice haughty and prideful as ever. To Gavnor she called, her great utterances ringing through the uttermost dark … And Gavnor, hearing and obeying, came back into the light. Thus did the queen recall her servant; thus did blood call to blood.

  “There’s more, but that’s all that counts.”

  Taingern looked at her stonily. He knew what she intended, and he did not like it. Yet he did not try to talk her out of it.

  “Speak, Taingern. Am I mad, or is there some hope, however slim, in this?”

  He sighed. “As Brand obviously told you, we met her once. Her spirit at least. We saved her tomb from a sorcerer. Of that, I’ll not speak. But to try to summon her, to summon her by asking the king to spill his own blood, well, that is doubly bold.”

  “But do you think it’ll work? I have here the very words that Carnhaina spoke, and Gilhain is of her line. Blood calls to blood.”

  “Maybe. But the king has no magic. Then again, I don’t think anybody could compel her – with or without magic. If she comes, she’ll come of her own choice, and judging from my past experience, anything is possible. But she is not the sort that likes to be summoned, even if it’s only an attempt…”

  “I’m a healer, Taingern. It’s a chance I’m willing to take. It’s the only chance we have.”

  The Durlin ran a hand through his hair. “There’s a floor in your plan though, as well you know.”