"Me too. The Anchin warriors did something to him. Did you see what it was?" Our eyes met. I could see that he was as disturbed by this as I was.
"They punched him in the stomach . . . I think that's what they were doing." Diego rubbed his forehead vigorously. "Amir, in all honesty, I'm not sure of what I saw."
I nodded. Neither was I. Turning to the nearest physician, I asked, "What are your thoughts concerning the duke's condition?"
"Yesterday, we expected him to be better this morning. Now, we fear that he may have breathed in too much water."
"What can be done to solve this problem?"
"We did all that could be done. Prayer is all that is left."
My eyes flew back to Eva and Ivana. The countess was praying. As for Eva, she just sat there, staring into empty space. In all evidence, her mind was elsewhere. I took a step in her direction.
Diego grabbed my arm, stopping me. "I wouldn't if I were you."
Roughly tearing my arm out of his grip, I approached Eva. "My love," I whispered softly.
She blinked, and regained her focus. Raising a stern face to me, she said, "Why did you have to race, Amir? Couldn't you just say no? Why do you always feel the need to prove yourself?"
I gasped, backing away in shock. If she had stabbed me in the heart, it wouldn't have hurt me more. "I . . . " My throat was too tight; I couldn't speak. I swallowed, breathed deeply, then started over. "I did refuse, but he kept insisting. I was also led to believe this was a rider's race." I kneeled in front of her. "Eva, I would never do anything to hurt you, or your family."
She sighed heavily. "I know. I know. Pardon me, Amir. My nerves are frayed to their limit. I'm not myself. I need rest and tranquility . . . and for this I need to be alone. Therefore, I think it's best if we distance ourselves from each other for a while."
I felt as if all my innards had abruptly dropped to the floor. This was a totally new level of pain I was experiencing now, the kind that started with a shock-induced numbness, but would soon turn into horrendous torture.
"As you wish." I bowed, and rejoined Diego.
In silence, we walked to the other room.
"The ice shouldn't have broken," the king argued with one of his advisors. "It never does. Not this early in spring. NEVER!" The king put his head in his hands and mumbled in a broken voice, "Have I not suffered enough loss already? Must I also lose my heir too?"
Rising to his feet, the king paced around the room like a tiger in a cage. As his speed increased so did his furor, until it suddenly erupted into a destructive rage. The king kicked a side table, toppled a chair, threw a painting on the floor; his rampaging outburst went on until nothing was left unbroken around him. Panting from exertion, he lowered his head. "I'm cursed."
"Oh, Your Majesty cannot be cursed," ventured a panicked advisor. "Your Majesty is far too powerful for curses."
The king gave a cynical laugh. "Then it must be a sign, a sign from the gods."
I waited for the king to say more, but nothing came. He just let himself fall back on the couch and remained quiet.
"He's gone mad," Diego whispered from the corner of his mouth. "Amir, I think it would be best if you leave before he sees you."
I didn't argue.
* * *
I intended to go to my rooms, yet for some reason my feet brought me elsewhere.
"Why are we here?" Milo asked once we stopped at the foot of the staircase leading up to the tower. "Are we visiting the alchemist again?"
I shook my head. There was another place I needed to see. A place I should have inspected earlier. Determined to correct this mistake, I climbed the steps. I passed Countess Ivana's door and soon reached my destination, the second door, the one leading to Isabo's rooms. As I stepped onto the landing two things became apparent to me. For one, the door was cracked open, and second, someone was inside.
The sound of glass bottles being tossed about echoed to us.
Pulling my rapier, I carefully pushed the door, widening its opening. The clink-clank increased in volume. I tiptoed inside and scanned the surroundings quickly.
The room was sparsely furnished and in perfect order. In the far left corner a shadowy figure was bent over a long worktable. The urgency in which this individual was searching through the hundreds of ampoules and bottles neatly stored on the table neared panic. The tremors in his hands were so severe that he was struggling just to hold the small bottles still.
"Thief, what are you doing? Stop!" I shouted.
Startled, the individual turned around.
I was stunned to see that it was Auguste Ramblais, the alchemist.
Clutching his chest, the old man gasped for air. His lips, I observed, had a bluish tinge to them, same for his fingers. "Help me, please," he muttered between struggling breaths.
"Help you how?"
"My tonic. I need my tonic. The damn witch's gone and . . . Gah." Grimacing in pain, the alchemist grasped the edge of the table for support.
I rushed to his aid and caught him before he could hit the floor. Milo fetched a chair and I lowered the man into it.
"All right, where's the tonic?" I asked.
He pointed at the table with a trembling knobby finger.
Upon seeing the quantity of containers assembled there, I knew that finding the one containing his tonic would not be an easy task. I went to work. After having gone through fifty bottles, I turned to the alchemist. "Sir Ramblais, I don't see any prepared potion or tonic of any kind here. All these bottles contain only ingredients."
"No more . . . " mumbled the alchemist. "The book. The recipe book." His one-eyed gaze darted to a section of the table.
There set a bowl, a burner, and a mortar. Isabo's workstation. When I moved the heavy granite mortar aside, my eyes fell on what could only be her recipe book, a square piece of brown leather folded in half and tied with a piece of string. To me, this looked more like a folio holder. Wasting no time, I hurried to open it. Inside the leather folder were dozens upon dozens of loose sheets of parchment, each holding a different recipe written in tight, neat print with no flourishes or embellishments whatsoever. Apparently, Isabo's plainness extended to her handwriting as well.
The recipe in front of me was titled WARTS AND BOILS REDUCING OINTMENT. Well, that's clear enough. I looked at the alchemist. "Which one is your tonic recipe? Does it have a name?"
"The . . . the queen's . . . settling heart tonic."
I frowned. "What! You mean she gave you—"
"Hurry. Please hurry."
"Oh yes." I flipped through the folder's pages until I found the recipe then rushed to collect the ingredients. But when I read the recipe I saw that its last ingredient was digitalis. "I can't make this," I said. "There's poison in it."
"Garhhh, just do it," the alchemist grumbled through clenched teeth, while once more clutching his chest in agony.
I hesitated only briefly. With the alchemist's laments echoing in the background—which I must admit played an essential part in my decision to make the potion—I began mixing the ingredients in a beaker. Taking my time, I inspected, measured, and weighed all the ingredients with great care, before adding each one to the potion, especially the last one, the deadly digitalis. Two drops it said in the recipe. That wasn't much . . . but it was still poison. I glanced at the alchemist—he looked about ready to die—then at the potion again. My mind made up, I let two drops of the syrupy liquid fall into the mixture, and stirred. Beaker in hand, I approached the alchemist.
The man's labored breath and tortured expression were hard to behold.
"I followed her recipe to the letter," I said, raising the beaker.
"Please." Auguste Ramblais extended a shaking hand toward the beaker. "I beg of you . . . I can't bear this pain any longer."
"What if she was making a different tonic for you? One without poison in it. Have you thought of that?"
The alchemist stayed mute; perhaps he didn't have the strength to speak anymore, I thought.
&n
bsp; "Master Ramblais, if I'm right, this potion will kill you, and I—" All of a sudden, I decided that I couldn't let that man drink this brew. I couldn't be responsible for his death, not this way.
By some tremendous effort, the alchemist managed to murmur a few coherent words. "I will die . . . if . . . if I don't drink . . . it."
I looked at Milo who was kneeling beside the old man.
"He has a point, my lord."
I nodded, and gave the tonic to the alchemist before I could change my mind again. With an intense feeling of guilt, I watched the old man drain the three gulps of potion I had made. Lord, I think I've just killed that man.
Chapter Sixteen
To my total amazement, within moments of having drunk the tonic not only was the alchemist still alive . . . but in fact he was doing much better. His breathing was less arduous, the bluish tinge coloring his lips and fingertips had subsided, and his heartbeat had returned to a steady pace.
I dragged a chair in front of him and sat down. "You should be dead, Master Ramblais. I've just fed you poison."
"Isabo never told me what was in her tonic. All I knew was that it helped steady my heart and the queen's." The alchemist went on to say that the queen's condition, however, was far worse than his, and that to his knowledge, she had had this heart problem long before Isabo's arrival at the castle. But he conceded that the queen's heart worsened shortly after.
"Do you think Isabo was the cause?"
The old man rubbed his bulbous nose. "Can't say. I never understood the woman's mind. Still, this seemed unlikely to me." He shrugged. "But who knows. At the time, no one paid much attention to her. She was just another orphan or widow of noble birth seeking refuge at the castle. The country was in much turmoil then."
"Really—why? What caused this unrest?"
"Three powerful noble families were fighting over the ownership of a piece of land. To tell you the truth, they were fighting over an ancient temple dedicated to Mirekia, the goddess of war and patron of the soldiers. The temple was a sacred pilgrimage site. Each family claimed the rights to it, and nearly brought the country to war over it."
"What happened?"
"The king stepped in and stopped the fighting. But by then the nobles had almost all killed each other. So to prevent any other conflict of the sort, King Erik had all the deities' temples destroyed throughout the country. Later, he declared that Oledon, the god of the wind, would be Sorvinka's only god. As Oledon doesn't possess any temple, statue, or icon of any kind, there won't be anything to fight over."
Although the king's decision seemed like a logical and simple solution, I knew this was a problem that couldn't be solved this easily. "Surely some people opposed the king's decision to destroy the gods' temples."
The alchemist laughed. "After the destruction and death caused by those noble families, the peasants were too glad to see peace return to the land to protest. The same can be said for the remaining nobility. Only the discarded gods' priests and priestesses were discontent. And the most vocal of those soon filled the Sorvinkian gibbets. Thus, the problem didn't stay one for very long."
I grimaced. This was a drastic way of solving a problem. And although I couldn't deny its efficiency, I didn't care much for it. No wonder the village's peasants were so uneasy when I questioned them about their faith. They were breaking the king's law by worshiping their old gods. And they're not the only ones, I thought, recalling the room I had discovered, the one with all the statues. Those people in dark robes were also worshipers. Maybe I should visit that room again—later.
Milo and I stayed with the alchemist a bit longer. While Milo helped him return to his rooms, I remained behind to make more tonics for him—at least three more doses in case he had another attack. After that was done and I'd given the tonics to the alchemist, I tucked Isabo's recipe book under my arm and, with Milo at my side, I proceeded in the direction of the dark corridor where I had discovered the secret entrance to the statue room.
"Are you sure it's here?" asked Milo as I probed the wall.
"Quiet!" I replied. My fingers had just sensed a change in texture on the wall; from rough it had become smooth. "Found it," I said, pushing the door open.
Without making a noise, we both slipped into the room. I heard Milo gasp beside me as he spotted the numerous statues surrounding us. "Shhhh," I blew, scrutinizing the room.
The room wasn't as dark as I remembered it, and also not as cluttered. There were still an incredible amount of statues and religious artifacts piled up throughout the room, but I could swear some statues were missing. There were gaps everywhere. One in particular held my attention. I vividly recalled having seen a towering form covered by a silk drape. Now all that was left was a rumpled mass of silk piled on the floor.
I took a few careful steps further into the room and immediately spotted the man prostrated on the ground in the far corner. Five candles were burning on the small table beside him. So that explained why the room had seemed brighter to me. Indicating the individual to Milo, I motioned for him to be silent. After exchanging nods, we tiptoed close to the praying man.
"Who are you and what is this place?" I boomed at the prayer's back.
The man leapt to his feet in panic. But upon seeing us, he threw himself on his knees and began begging for mercy. "Please, good lords, please forgive this mistake. It won't happen again. I promise. I swear. Please have mercy on me. Please. Please."
Taken aback by the man's reaction, I found myself short for words and wound up just staring at him for a bit. In his mid-twenties, he was of a slim build, with a long narrow face and thinning red hair. By examining the man carefully, I saw that he was a servant. A porter, I deduced, by the characteristic square-shouldered red coat of his uniform. I tapped his shoulder. "Rise up, porter. You have nothing to fear from me. All I want is a few answers."
The porter looked so relieved and grateful that for a brief moment I feared he might try to kiss me. "Oh thank you, my lord. Thank you, thank you. Yes, my lord, I'll answer. Anything my lord wants."
"What is this place?"
"This is the old gods' room, my lord."
I frowned. "I was told the old faith had been abolished and the temples destroyed."
The porter lowered his head. "It is all true, my lord. However, the statues and icons were spared and brought here. No one dared break them for fear of the gods' wrath. As for the worship, the nobles are free to do as they wish . . . as long as they're discrete." The porter bit his lower lip. "It's more dangerous for commoners to do so."
I nodded. "I see. Which god were you praying to moments ago?"
"Torvel." The porter indicated a painting depicting a bent, skeletal old man carrying a huge load of firewood on his back and two buckets of water in each hand. The expression painted on his angular face was a combination of agony and stubborn determination. To me, this frail old man looked like he was about to be crushed under the weight of his chores. Not the picture I had in mind for a god.
"Who is Torvel?"
"Oh, he's the patron of hard-working people. He keeps them healthy and free of injury, so they can do their tasks. He's mostly favored by servants."
"Why?" asked Milo. "Are you not treated when injured? In Telfar, servants are taken care of when sick or hurt. So they could later return to work."
The porter shook his head. "Not here, my lord. Here, an injured servant is always dismissed, which often means being condemned to starvation."
Milo looked horrified. "Oh, how I miss Telfar."
I surveyed the open space behind the porter. That was where I had seen that black robed group. "What's in the other room?"
"More gods and space to pray."
"Show us."
We moved into the other room. I did a quick inspection of the area; I found the pedestal and the small statue the black robes had been worshiping. It represented a battleaxe-wielding woman warrior riding a hellish-looking beast. The creature was neither wolf nor bear nor lion, but a mix of all three it
seemed. Bending over the statue, I examined its every detail. Done in a rudimentary chip-carving technique, this old wooden statue, with its stylized look and slightly askew proportions, had a certain naïve charm. "What's this one?" I asked the porter.
"The goddess of war," murmured the porter. He sounded a little bit frightened, I noticed. "She's a powerful god, that one. All the soldiers pray to her. She's their patron."
"What's her name?"
"Mirekia," a resounding baritone voice answered behind me.
I turned around.
The baron and his three sons stood in the room's entrance. They were rather impressive in their military uniforms, with their tall, gray fur hats and matching coats elegantly hanging over their shoulders. They looked angry. Then again, those thick grown-together eyebrows of theirs made it appear as if they were perpetually frowning.
The baron approached us. "If you wish to know more about my god, you'd do well to ask me and not a servant." The man's tone couldn't be more commanding. His deep booming voice was perfectly suited for his rank of army general. It was a voice that demanded obedience.
"I agree, Baron," I said. I turned, intending to dismiss the porter, only to discover that he had already fled. Of course. I sighed, and after a respectful bow to the baron, I said. "Please, will you enlighten me, Baron?"
"Mirekia is far more than just the goddess of war, patron of soldiers. She's the dispenser of justice and protector of the righteous. It is this aspect of her that I worship."
Well, he certainly sounded righteous enough to be in his god's favor, I thought. I wasn't sure if I liked it though.
An awkward moment of silence followed, during which we all stared at each other ill at ease. This would have been the perfect time for me and Milo to leave, but too many unanswered questions were still swarming in my mind for me to do so. Gathering my thoughts, I cleared my throat and asked, "Aren't you afraid I might tell the king about this . . . worshiping?"
The baron smiled. "No, because you won't do such a thing."
"You sound very sure of yourself."
The King's Daughters Page 18
