Color Mage (Book 1)

by Anne Marie Lutz

  Callo paced up and down in front of his window; it was unshuttered, and the noon light, fresh with the beginnings of Las’ash’s late spring, beamed in. The sunshine lit his fair hair and gave an unearthly glow to his eyes. It took the dazzled Kirian a moment to notice his pallor, the tension in the set of his shoulders.

  “My lord. How are you this afternoon?”

  “Well enough,” Callo returned shortly.

  “I think you must be in some pain. Has Yun’lar been here?”

  “With his mellweed, yes. I won’t take it. I won’t lie around in a stupor while Ar’ok tries to kill me.”

  Kirian was about to reply when Chiss held up a hand. “Wait, my lord. I thought you realized—those were not Ar’ok’s men.”

  “Whose, then?”

  “I fear they were King Martan’s men. Did you note one of the attackers wore a raven tattoo? That is his private guard’s emblem.”

  Callo sighed. “I had forgotten. Yes, the raven, from Alghasi. I remember now.”

  Kirian frowned. “Surely anyone might have such a tattoo?”

  “Perhaps. But I think these were Martan’s assassins.”

  Callo asked, “How in hell did Sharpeyes get six men through the port?”

  “It would be easy enough to simply arrive at some other place. A small town, perhaps. If you had your own boat, your own navigator—why not?”

  “I am slow today.” Callo tested his left arm, wincing as it pained him. “I cannot think.”

  “You lost much blood,” Kirian said. “Your body takes time to repair that. Also, Lord Callo, mellweed would ease some of that pain.”

  “No!”

  “It need not send you to sleep. Yun’lar used a heavy hand. He was afraid, I think, that you would use your psychic magery if he caused you pain while examining your arm.”

  There was no response to that. Callo gave her a level stare, then turned and looked out at the golden sunlight illuminating the rooftops of the city two stories below. Chiss gave his lord a look out of the corner of his eyes, then began to tidy the room; he poured fresh water and wine, disposed of a clump of bandages lying on the floor near the soft chair, and freshened pillows. Kirian stood, not sure what to do.

  After a while, Chiss said: “My lord, I will request luncheon from the kitchens. Please allow Hon Kirian to examine your arms. The left arm in particular has swollen a great deal, and the ice does not seem to be helping.”

  Callo sighed. “All right.”

  Chiss left the room. Callo turned away from the window. “Where do you want me?”

  “The big chair will be fine. Tell me, honestly now, how you feel.”

  “Like I’ve been dragged by a wild horse.” He didn’t smile when he said it. He sat on the chair and with much tugging and awkward twisting, managed to get his left arm out of the tunic.

  Kirian touched the arm as gently as possible, probing around the shoulder and elbow joints, evaluating the swelling. Callo sat through this with a muscle twitching in his cheek as he clenched his jaw. When she was finished, she sat back on her heels and looked him in the eye. There was perspiration on his forehead.

  “Mellweed would . . .”

  “No, I said.”

  “Do you think I would knock you out?”

  He was silent for a moment.

  “I must still examine the right arm.”

  He sighed. “All right. A little.”

  She mixed it in the wine cup so that he could see how little she used. He drank it down fast and then sat with his eyes closed. After he had taken it, she went through the things in her bag while she waited for the drug to take effect. She said, “My sart leaves grow fewer.”

  “They have not found it here yet?”

  “Lord Yun’lar said they had found it in Leyland. They have sent someone to obtain some and bring it back to grow. It must be grown indoors; it will not withstand the winters, I hear.”

  “So it will be a while until they have a supply.”

  “Yes.”

  Callo sighed. She thought he was relaxing a little. He said, “Be very careful, Kirian. When they have their own supply, or when you run out of yours, I think they will have no more tolerance for the freedoms they have allowed you.”

  “I know.”

  Yes, he had clearly relaxed against the chair. The mellweed was working. She readied herself to check the sword wound in his right arm. He said, smiling, “I would miss your visits.”

  She unwrapped the bandage. As he waited, she checked the condition of the sword wound; then she used cool water from the wash basin to clean it, and slathered more of the brown wound dressing over it. The injury was well stitched and would need only careful cleaning and dressing to heal well; only if signs of infection developed would the other herbs in her bag become necessary.

  He sat in silence throughout, holding still with obvious determination. The mellweed must have kicked in then, because he closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath in relief.

  “Better now, my lord?” she said.

  He smiled and opened his eyes. “Much. But what is this my lord? I thought such formality between us was over long ago.”

  He laid his hand over hers on the armrest. Her pulse quickened. A tingle ran up her arm from the warmth of his touch.

  “Kirian, you have the most beautiful eyes. I have meant to tell you for some time.”

  She wanted to object. His eyes, lit by the golden daylight, were warm and inviting and as beautiful as the light itself. This is just mellweed and gratitude, she told herself. Or more likely, a bored nobleman, amusing himself during his illness. But she could not really believe it.

  She said his name. His hand caressed hers, sending an exquisite sensation up her arm, then lifted to caress her cheek.

  All the longing she had suppressed over the past season rose up to overcome her. All her doubts vanished. Totally charmed, she felt her lips curve into a smile. She leaned forward, eager to taste his lips.

  The kiss was warm and sweet. His mouth had a faint, alluring taste of mellweed. The kiss set off shivers throughout her body. Her heart beat faster. Callo’s breathing came faster as he reached up with his right arm—apparently pain free—and pulled her closer. She smiled up at him. Their lips met again, and she let herself relax into his body.

  Then he jerked away from her.

  She looked up at him, startled at the sudden change. Had she hurt his wounded arm? He was still breathing fast, but his eyes had gone grim. He stared at her, but she could tell he was no longer connecting. His arm released her. He pushed her away.

  “Callo? Is it your arm?”

  He shook his head, frowning. His muscles were tense now. Kirian stood up fast—hurt and beginning to feel angry at his sudden coldness. She tried to calm her breathing as she straightened her robe, which had come loose at the front. In an attempt to regain her dignity, she ignored his gaze on her fingers as she pulled the robe closed. She stood and began to gather the contents of her Healer’s bag.

  “You should go,” he said. His voice was strained. He got up from the chair and moved away, toward the open window, as if he could not bear to be near her.

  She was too shocked to be tactful. “I hope I have provided you . . . entertainment, my lord ku’an.”

  His hand lifted toward her, and he started to speak, but then stopped himself.

  “I meant no insult,” he said. She noticed through her distress that his words were a little slurred, as if the mellweed affected him. Too bad, she thought. He is just like all the other nobles. Inmay was right.

  “What else would you call it, my lord?” she said. She grabbed her bag and stalked towards the door. She opened it on the startled Chiss, who was accompanied by a veiled servant girl holding a tray. She walked past him, head held high. It was not until her chamber door closed behind her that the stinging tears came to her eyes.

  * * * * *

  For the next two days, Kirian lived in a world of her own where everything seemed dull and without life. S
pring had taken hold at last in Las’ash, and golden sunlight poured in her window each day; she walked in the courtyard with the other women, feeling the sun on her back, hearing the other women gossip and laugh, and said nothing, felt nothing. She was not called to check Callo’s progress, and resolutely kept herself from hoping his sword arm was healing without infection. The birdsong in the open courtyard reminded her of spring back home. She wondered how Ruthan was feeling, and the people she knew in SeagardVillage, and her friends back at the Healer’s College in Sugetre. When she thought of her future, all seemed closed to her; she could not stand life here in restricted Las’ash, but could not imagine how to get out of the place.

  She thought back to her flight from SeagardVillage, and of how the chance for adventure in a foreign land had opened her eyes to many possibilities. Now it seemed she had forgotten the first rule of working with the righ: do not trust them. She felt betrayed—not just by Callo, who had followed a moment’s impulse and clearly regretted it, but, even worse, she felt that she had betrayed herself. When had she given up her self-respect to become just another servant in Lord Callo’s dependency? When had she become so sensitive to his opinion of her?

  She tried hard not to think of Lord Callo’s rejection. She had known since she had met him that she had been attracted to him; she had thought him better than his kind, too honorable to toy with her and then push her away. She could not understand it. When she remembered his face at the moment he had pulled back from her, she remembered blank shock, almost a look of realization—and then had come the frown, the silence.

  Sara’Si did not return. Another chaperone made an appearance and followed Kirian around, as ubiquitous as Sara’Si, but not as outspoken.

  On the third day, she was awakened before dawn by a servant calling her to the King’s aid. She collected her bag and went to examine the King, finding him in distress because of a recurrence of his breathing disease. She mixed the curative drink under Yun’lar’s eye and watched the King drink it down, complaining of its taste as usual. After the remedy took effect, the King returned, sleepy-eyed, to his curtained bed.

  Kirian returned to her own room. She sipped her tea and realized it was full daylight now, so she dressed in a loose tunic and veiled herself for a walk in the garden. In spite of herself, her misery of the last two days dropped from her; it was a glorious day, with the earth welcoming Jashan’s return. It made her soul sing. She decided to forget about Callo for the day; the man did not deserve her misery. After spending most of the day outside, she returned to dress in her best for her daily audience with the Queen. Putting on the jewel-toned blue tunic made her remember the day she had purchased it from a seamstress near the market. Lord Callo had been generous with his funds, paying for a wardrobe for her since she had arrived with very little. He never said a word about it, just admired her taste when she showed off what she had bought, and waved away her words of gratitude. She could not reconcile that man with the one who had toyed with her.

  There was a knock at the door. She finished dressing her hair, which had grown long enough to need a traditional comb. Then she pulled the veil over her hair and opened the door. Her chaperone stood against the far wall, watching.

  Chiss stood in the hall, small and lean. At the look on her face he said, “No, don’t close the door, please. My lord sent me with a message, but for myself, I ask how are you doing?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She could see he wanted to ask what had happened. Apparently Lord Callo had not been forthcoming with details. “You are going to the Queen? Will you hear the message first?”

  She nodded. But first, hating herself for asking, she said, “How is he, Chiss?”

  “Improving. The blood broth is helping. He is regaining his strength, but Yun’lar frowns when he looks at the right arm. I hope it has not become infected.” Chiss paused. “Apart from that, he is as ill-tempered as an ice tiger. Even getting out into the sun has not helped.”

  She kept her face expressionless.

  “The message,” Chiss said, as if he had just remembered his errand. “May I come in?”

  “I’m on my way out.”

  “You will want to hear this.”

  She stepped back into the room. Her chaperone made a stifled sound, then subsided. The guard in the hall ignored the man entering her room. She felt a wave of affection for the rotund guard, who put up with her unconventional ways with no criticism.

  “I am the bearer of bad news,” Chiss said. “I am sorry for it. My lord meant to tell you this when he remembered it yesterday, but this morning he ordered me to come here and inform you.”

  “All right. What is it?”

  “Your friend, the fugitive Inmay?”

  “Yes?”

  “He is dead.” Chiss looked at her, his dark eyes sympathetic. “I am sorry.”

  “Dead? How do you know?”

  “We have confirmed it with the ku’an’an. He says it is true. Inmay was executed three days past.”

  “I don’t understand,” Kirian said. She was surprised that she felt no sorrow at Inmay’s passing, but she sensed something was being withheld from her. “Lord Callo has never seen Inmay. How did he know to ask if he had been slain? What are you keeping from me, Chiss?”

  He paused a moment, then nodded to himself. “My lord did not want to distress you any more.”

  Kirian snorted at that.

  “When we brought Lord Callo back after the fight, my lord saw a head on the wall spikes. He recognized it from your description—I think it was the unusual hair. I am sorry, but in the stress of his injury, he did not remember until yesterday. Then he confirmed it with the ku’an’an.”

  Kirian sighed. She did not feel greatly shocked; Inmay had been doomed to a bad end ever since he escaped with Eyelinn. She wondered if the King had ordered him slain to free Eyelinn of any attachments, or if Inmay had actually broken the law in some way.

  “Thank you, Chiss. I appreciate you letting me know. Now I must go; the Queen wants me.”

  He bowed and left, and she collected her chaperone and walked to the Queen’s chamber.

  “At last!” said the Queen. Kirian sank into a bow. The Queen sat near her closed chamber window, red-gray hair once again threaded with glittering gems, powder creeping into the lines on her face. Her ku’an’s eyes were cold and accusing as she stared at Kirian. “What took so long? The King is in distress. He needs the remedy.”

  “Your Majesty? Just this morning . . .”

  “I care nothing for this morning. Get your bag and go to him.”

  “I cannot give him the sart leaf, Your Majesty. He had it just this morning. It makes his heart beat too fast . . .”

  The Queen rose to her feet and flung a bony arm out at Kirian. “Go to him!” she shrieked. “Guard! Take her to the courtyard.”

  A guard she did not know took her by the arm and pulled her from the room. She had never seen a Ha’lasi man take such liberties with a respectable woman’s person. Suddenly she was afraid. She yanked her arm free. “I will go myself,” she said, but the man remained at arms-length behind her the entire way to the courtyard.

  The unmistakable signs of revelry surrounded her the moment she entered the courtyard. Wine jugs and mugs cluttered a stone table. There were several young men present, one in the process of vomiting into a flowerbed. The women who were with them were unveiled; the sun lit their hair and faces in a way Kirian was surprised to notice she found objectionable. One of the women was Eyelinn, who had loosened her outer robe to better display her body. The aroma of Smoke hung heavy even in the outdoor air, and a pipe lay broken on the tiles.

  The King was in distress, bent forward in the effort to breathe. He coughed and clutched at his chest. She heard the rasp of his breathing as soon as she entered the courtyard. Apprehension gripped her. This was a serious attack, and the King had already had sart leaf once that day.

  Lord Yun’lar entered the courtyard after her. “Good! Here you are. The King
needs the leaf.”

  “My lord, you know I can’t give him more.”

  Yun’lar looked grim. “I know this is a dangerous attack. Listen to him.”

  “He has had Smoke. What was he thinking!?” She saw Ar’ok notice she was there. His narrow ku’an’s eyes were on her. “Your Majesty, we must treat this attack in other ways. Using the sart leaf twice in one day is too dangerous for your heart.”

  “Get the ku’an’an,” Ar’ok wheezed to a guard. “You, Healer, I need the tea.”

  “Your Majesty, I cannot. Here, Lord Yun’lar, please order someone to clear the courtyard. The crowd does his Majesty no good.” She watched the King struggle for breath. His lips were not blue, she noticed, so maybe there was time. Thoughts whirled through her mind as she tried to figure how best to treat this serious attack. Yun’lar called for a servant to bring a chair, and asked the King to sit. Slaves drew near, ready to carry the chair indoors. She said, “The air is clean out here. Better out here, Lord Yun’lar.”

  The ku’an’an strode through the gate, authority personified. He took in the disorder in the courtyard in one sharp stare, then ordered, “Everyone out! Everyone but the King and the Healers. And you slaves—we may need you.”

  “I want to be with him,” crooned one of the women—Eyelinn, Kirian realized.

  “Out, I said,” Lord Si’lan snapped.

  Moments later, the courtyard was blessedly free of extraneous babble.

  “King Ar’ok,” Si’lan said.

  “Ku’an’an. This foreign Healer will not help me.”

  Si’lan looked at her.

  “Lord Ku’an’an. The King has already had the sart leaf tea once today, just before dawn. It is very dangerous to give it twice in a day. It is a strain on the heart.”

  “I want it,” Ar’ok rasped. “Can’t breathe.”

  “It could kill him?” Si’lan asked.

  “I doubt it,” said Yun’lar. “But the lack of air may if he continues unable to breathe.”

  “It could, in fact, kill him.” Kirian glared at Yun’lar.

  Fear grabbed her by the throat until she could barely breathe herself. Her hands started to shake. Her teeth chattered. Terror twisted through her mind, and she wanted to run. Forcing her quivering legs to stay put, she gasped, “Your—Majesty!”