Dagnarus barely heard the man’s platitudes. “What would you have me do, Healer?” he demanded, determined to get this onerous task over with as quickly as possible. “Keep in mind that I am a warrior, my hands are callused from the sword, my touch is not gentle.”
“First, Your Highness, I will show you what we do here. Many people have misconceptions about our work.”
This part of the building was actually an entire wing, with different rooms devoted to different forms of incurable illness. The first area housed the lepers, who, except for the most seriously crippled, were able to move about, sit chatting to each other, perform certain small tasks, and lead almost normal lives.
Dagnarus and the Dominion Lords walked the chambers. The healer talked. Dagnarus, keeping fast hold of his courage and resolve, did not pay much attention to what the healer was saying. The healer did catch the prince’s interest when he stated that in his opinion, leprosy was not as infectious as most people feared.
“Very few of us who work among the afflicted contract the disease,” he said. “If it were highly contagious, you would expect that all of us would be infected. We have with us here only those who are in advanced stages of the disease, which affects the bones and so makes it difficult for them to get around. A combination of magic and the application of chaulmoogra oil, which we obtain from the orken realm—it comes from a tree that flourishes in the tropical regions—does much to ease their suffering and, in some cases, has actually helped to restore some of their damaged flesh.”
Dagnarus gave the lepers—their limbs and faces covered in bandages—a wide berth.
“Why is that man screaming?” he asked, interrupting the healer in some learned dialogue on the subject of madness, for they had left the lepers and were walking past several rooms where the insane who had been judged either harmful to others or to themselves were confined in private cells.
The madmen peered at Dagnarus as he passed, gibbering and hooting, reaching through the bars of their cell doors, trying to grab him. They passed one cell where a young girl sat on the floor, staring at the wall opposite. She rocked an imaginary baby in her arms. A healer sat beside her, talking to her in soft tones.
“Can you do nothing to stop that screaming?” Dagnarus asked.
He had heard the shrieks of this poor wretch ever since he entered. He had been waiting impatiently for them to end—probably in death. The screams continued on and on, however, and were wearing on his nerves.
“Alas, no, Your Highness,” said the healer sadly. “The patient is in one of the rooms at the end of the hallway. He has a growth, a cancer, that is devouring his vital organs. Although we can sometimes cure these cancers if the growth is very small, this growth is quite advanced. There is nothing we can do to stop it. As for the pain, we could ease it with our magic and the juice of the poppy, but he will not permit it. He is furious with us, you see, and flies into a rage whenever we come near.”
“Why? What did you do to him?”
“It is not what we did to him, Your Highness, but what we will not do for him,” said the healer. He glanced at Dagnarus speculatively. “This man was a soldier. It is in my mind that perhaps you might be able to help persuade him to let us help him.”
At least, thought Dagnarus, this is better than rubbing oil into the sores of lepers.
“I should think all it would take would be a quick sock to the jaw,” he observed. “He would then give you no further trouble.”
They were coming closer to the room. The pain-filled screams were horrible to hear. Dagnarus was beginning to reconsider. At least the lepers were quiet.
“We do not force our treatments upon patients unless they are either too young to be able to judge their condition for themselves or they have lost the ability to make known their will to us,” the healer replied. “The wishes of the family are also taken into consideration. This poor man has no family, no one to care for him.”
They arrived at the man’s room, a small stone cell with no window, for this part of the building was located inside the inner walls of the Hospital. The healer opened the door to the room and, with an inclination of his head, encouraged Dagnarus to enter.
Conscious of the Dominion Lords watching him, Dagnarus walked inside the room. Magical light lit the room with a soft and soothing glow. But nothing would soothe the tormented man, lying on sweat-soaked sheets, writhing in agony. Dagnarus looked at the patient more closely.
“I know this man. Sarof,” he called loudly, to be heard over the man’s screams. “He was one of my lieutenants. Sarof,” he repeated, kneeling down beside the bed. “I am sorry to see you like this.”
Sarof’s eyes flared open; he stared at Dagnarus wildly, at first not knowing him. Then some sense of recognition came to the man. He cut off a scream with a sharp, indrawn breath, holding the pain at bay, distracted by the sight of the prince.
“Your Highness!” he gasped, and his pallid face was suffused with color. “Thank the gods!” He reached out a shaking hand, grabbed hold of Dagnarus with a crushing grasp. “You understand! You know how a soldier wants to die! Tell them, Your Highness! Tell these bastards to do what I want!”
“And what is that, Lieutenant?” Dagnarus asked, placing his hand over the hand that, for all it was weakened by illness, had the strength of desperation.
“Tell them to end it!” the man pleaded. Foam flecked his lips. He could bear the pain no longer, and, doubling over, he moaned and screamed again. “I cannot stand this! I want to die! And they won’t let me!”
Dagnarus looked up questioningly at the healer, who was slowly shaking his head. “Our calling is to preserve life, not to end it. We cannot do as he asks. It is against our laws.”
Dagnarus turned again to the sick man. “They are healers, Lieutenant. Not murderers. By law, they cannot do what you ask.”
“If this were a battlefield, you would not leave me in such misery,” Sarof said. Spittle drooled from his lips, his face was covered with perspiration. His breath came in painful gaspings.
“This is not a battlefield,” Dagnarus said sternly, rising to his feet. “There is nothing I can do, Lieutenant. Let them give you something to ease the pain…”
“There is nothing!” Sarof snarled. “Nothing in this world that can ease my pain! Only in death! Only in death will I find rest! Bastards!” He moaned and screamed again, tossing from side to side.
And it was then Dagnarus saw that healers had tied the man to his bed, so that he would not hurl himself out of it in his spasms.
Dagnarus walked from the room, the screams dinning in his ears. Lieutenant Sarof had been a good soldier, a brave man. He had served well and honorably. He deserved a death better than this one—tied up like criminal, suffering the torments of the damned. Stepping past the healer, who was doing nothing but shaking his head, Dagnarus grasped hold of the hilt of Lord Altura’s sword and, before the astonished Dominion Lord could stop him, the prince yanked the sword free.
Dagnarus shoved aside the healer—who was making some feeble attempt to halt him. The prince returned to the room of the sick man. He lifted the sword above the lieutenant, looked down at him questioningly.
“This is your will, Sarof?”
“Yes, Your Highness!” the man gasped.
Dagnarus did not hesitate. Ignoring the horrified protests of the healer and the shocked cries of the Dominion Lords, Dagnarus thrust the sword’s blade deep into the soldier’s chest.
Sarof looked up at Dagnarus.
“The gods bless you…” he whispered. His eyes fixed, his head lolled to one side.
The screaming ceased.
Dagnarus yanked the sword free, wiped the blood on the blood-soaked sheets. Leaving the room, he handed the sword back to the astounded and shaken Lord Altura.
“Are there any other patients you would like me to treat?” Dagnarus asked mildly.
The Votes Tallied
The debate over Dagnarus’s acceptance into the ranks of Dominion Lords was
the longest ever held up to that time. As the Most Revered High Magus had stated in his speech at the beginning, the passing or failing of the trials was not as important as the means by which the candidate passed or failed. Means that would, presumably, show something about the nature of the candidate. As it happened, Dagnarus’s trials revealed as much about the current Dominion Lords as it revealed about Dagnarus. Each person saw a different aspect of the prince.
“Almost as if there were four of me,” said Dagnarus, who was secretly listening, along with Silwyth, in a hidden alcove off the Council meeting room. The prince was supposed to be in his cell in the Temple, communing with the gods. “And I standing in the center, looking at each.”
“Your Highness performed admirably, at least so I have been informed by my brethren,” Silwyth said, bowing.
“Ask my brother and he will tell you a far different story. Still, he will have difficulty swaying the vote to his side—as I make the count. Is that correct? What do you hear?”
“The count stands now very much as it stood when you were first nominated, except perhaps that it is slightly better. As you commanded, I saw to it that word of your performance during the trials was leaked out to the populace, who were much taken by what they heard. Public opinion is strongly behind you. The Dominion Lords and the magi will face strong opposition should they vote you down. In addition, the Lord Altura—who had originally voted against your nomination—was much impressed by the merciful act you performed in the Halls of Healing. It seems that her mother had only recently succumbed to the same terrible illness and suffered greatly.”
“Yet my brother terms my actions ‘barbaric,’ a throwback to the days when men embraced the Void.”
Dagnarus and Silwyth exchanged significant looks. No more need be said on that subject.
“And, at any rate, killing the patient ended my tour of duty in that gods-forsaken hospital. The healers couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. What’s happening now?”
The debate had raged for seven hours and appeared likely to go on for another seven. Silwyth had been in the alcove, eavesdropping, the entire time. The prince had just arrived. He had been celebrating his freedom from the Preparations in the hidden bedroom, making love to Valura, who was able to sneak away because her husband—a Dominion Lord—was attending the Council meeting to vote on her lover’s acceptance.
Dagnarus could see into the room, but only by applying his eye to a small hole that had been drilled into the wall and that was concealed by a tapestry on the other side, a tapestry with a corresponding hole punched through the embroidered eye of a unicorn. Peering through the hole for any length of time made his eye water. There was nothing much to see, and so he took his ease upon a tall stool, refreshing himself with a goblet of wine, brought by Silwyth. The two could hear excellently well, particularly because voices had been raised to a fever pitch throughout most of the debate.
“What did they stop for?” Dagnarus asked. A sudden silence had fallen.
Silwyth applied his eye to the hole. “Your royal father has entered, Your Highness. They rise to greet him. Now they are waiting for him to be seated. Your brother goes to attend him. Your father rebuffs him with an angry look.”
“If I’ve done nothing else, I’ve driven a wedge between those two,” Dagnarus said complacently, chewing strips of dried beef to take the edge off his hunger. “The rumor is going around that my father might pass over Helmos and name me as his heir.”
“I have heard that rumor, Your Highness,” said Silwyth, “and I regret to say that I do not put much stock in it.”
“No, I fancy you’re right. My father would never do anything so completely opposed to the natural order of things. Still, it’s given Helmos a few sleepless nights, I’ll wager. Hush, my father is speaking…”
Both Silwyth and Dagnarus leaned nearer the wall to hear.
“What does he say?” Dagnarus asked. “His voice is so low, I cannot hear.”
Elves can hear a wider range of pitches than humans, one reason it is difficult for humans to appreciate elven music.
“The King says that he has heard nothing but rumors about what happened during the trials. He asks to hear the true account. The Most Revered High Magus is now rising to speak.”
“Come, this should be entertaining,” said Dagnarus, drinking his wine and settling himself more comfortably.
“Your Majesty,” said the High Magus, “by your leave, I will read you the report on the outcome of Prince Dagnarus’s Seven Trials of Preparation. This report came from the Dominion Lords who assisted in his trials.
“The first trial—the Preparation of Compassion. The candidate entered the Hospital and killed the patient who had been assigned to his care.”
A growl from the King.
“Yes, Your Majesty, there were extenuating circumstances,” the High Magus admitted. “The patient, who was in excruciating pain, begged the candidate to slay him. The patient gave his consent as the candidate held the sword over him. Four witnesses all testify to this. Two of the four maintain that the candidate acted with true compassion—more than has ever been previously exhibited by any other candidate. Two maintain that the candidate acted barbarously, usurping the role of the gods, whose province it is to take life.”
Loud voices interjected at this point; there was much shouting and confusion.
“What do they say?” Dagnarus asked.
“It is the orken Captain, Your Highness,” Silwyth replied. “He is particularly incensed by the High Magus’s words and demands that the last sentence be stricken from the record.”
“The orken practice ritual sacrifices, as I recall,” said Dagnarus. “Both of their own kind and any others who happen along. They toss them into a volcano as offerings to some god, or so I have been told.”
“I have heard the same account, Your Highness, though I cannot swear as to its veracity.”
After some further argument, the Most Revered High Magus, with exemplary patience, agreed to modify the last sentence so that the part about the province of the gods was deleted and the offensive word “barbarous” was changed to “practical,” which the Captain found satisfactory.
“We then proceeded to the next test,” the Most Revered High Magus continued, first mopping his brow with a handkerchief. “This was the Preparation of Strength. In this test, Your Majesty will recall, the candidate must hold two buckets of sand in his hands, his arms extended outward, for as long as he can. This is difficult enough in itself, but further difficulty is added by allowing water to drip into the buckets, increasing their weight. The test not only shows physical strength, but the ability of the mind of the candidate to push his or her body beyond its limits. Thus length of time is not considered a primary factor.
“Lord Altura held the buckets for only fifteen minutes prior to dropping them, but this showed great fortitude and strength of will on her part, since she was not able to lift the buckets at all prior to her testing.”
“And how did Prince Dagnarus perform?” the King asked, his voice loud now and easily heard.
“The candidate held the buckets suspended for three hours,” said the Revered High Magus, adding, with a sigh, “During this time, the candidate announced that he was bored and asked if we might not combine two of the Preparations. He would be willing to undergo the Preparation of Wisdom at the same time. This, of course, we had to refuse.”
“Has any other candidate shown such strength as the prince exhibited?” the King asked.
“No, Your Majesty,” said the Most Revered High Magus. “None other has even come close.”
“Proceed,” said the King.
“Your Majesty, we come to the Preparation of Wisdom. In this trial, the candidate meets with the ten members of the Council of Magi, who ask the candidate to discourse on various questions, such as, ‘Why have the gods put evil into the world?’ ‘What is the nature of the soul?’ Of course, there are no right or wrong answers to these questions, but exploring them allows us
to gain insight into the deep inner workings of the candidate. I recall with pleasure”—Reinholt’s voice softened—“the trial of Prince Helmos. We spent eighteen hours in discussion and could have spent longer but that we were constrained by the need to proceed with the testing.”
The voice of the Most Revered High Magus deepened with disapproval. “We spent fifteen minutes in the Preparation of the candidate Prince Dagnarus, and ten of those minutes were spent waiting for the prince, who was late.”
“I had to take a crap,” Dagnarus said to Silwyth. “I suppose even Dominion Lords take a crap now and then.”
The elf made no response, pretended he had not heard. The mention of bodily functions is not permitted among the elves, even among close family members, who resort to polite euphemisms if for some reason they are forced to refer to them at all.
“The first question asked was, ‘Why did the gods put evil in the world?’The candidate replied, ‘I do not know. I don’t suppose anyone does.’ ”
The Revered High Magus paused for effect.
“I see,” said the King testily. “Is that true?”
“Well, yes, Your Majesty, but the point—”
“Do you know why the gods put evil into the world?” the King persisted.
“I could speculate—”
“I’m not asking for any of your damn philosophical speculations!” the King rasped. “Do you know why the gods put evil into the world?”
“No, Your Majesty,” said the Most Revered High Magus stiffly. “I do not.”
“Your Majesty,” Helmos intervened. “Forgive me, but that is not the point. The point is—”
The King ignored him. “And there are, as you said, no right and no wrong answers?”
“No, Your Majesty,” said the Most Revered High Magus, sighing again.
“So Prince Dagnarus’s answer is perhaps the clearest, most honest answer to that question that exists.”
“True, Your Majesty.” Reinholt knew defeat when he saw it.
Well of Darkness Page 39
