A light rap sounded at the door, then it opened.
“Good day, Sir Dualas,” Geradon Kinsey greeted him. Dualas noted that Geradon carried a covered pot, a ladle, and a cup.
“Indeed, Brother,” Dualas replied, “it is a good day, thanks to your ministrations of last night.”
“Thank you.”
“How is our wounded Morticai this morning?” Geradon asked.
“Still sleeping, though apparently in some distress.”
“Yes, I fear he shall be uncomfortable for several days, until the burn heals and I remove the thread that holds his wound closed.”
Geradon moved to where Dualas had sat and, setting his armload down on the nearest table, bent over the sleeping Morticai. Geradon felt his forehead and then, brushing the corryn’s hair aside, gently grabbed his shoulder.
“Morticai,” he said, “wake up. You must wake up, for just a little while.” Geradon shook his shoulder.
Morticai moaned and finally opened his eyes into a painful squint. “Uugh. Oh … gods …” he uttered. He moaned and then promptly attempted to roll into a ball.
Dualas and Geradon both moved to keep him flat, which proved easy to do. Dualas found Morticai’s weakened state frightening. The knight glanced at Coryden. It surprised him that Coryden was sleeping through this much noise—he certainly would not have done so while on patrol.
“Stay flat, Morticai,” Geradon said in a soothing voice. “I know it hurts, but you should lie flat as much as you can. Easy, easy. That’s it. Take it easy. The less you move the better. I have brought something to help with the pain. I have also brought something to help you regain your strength.” He went to the table and ladled a thick, dark liquid from the pot into the cup.
“Raise him up, Sir Dualas,” he said. “Be very careful. Do it slowly. That’s good. Morticai, this is a special broth. I won’t lie and tell you it tastes good, but it is not terrible either. I have added something to it that should ease the pain. Here.”
Geradon held Morticai’s hands in place around the cup and helped him drink. Dualas noted that Morticai did not seem to notice the taste. He drank very little of it, however.
“Come on, Morticai. Just a little more. The more of this you can manage, the better.”
He repeated the process, and this time, Morticai drank deep.
“That’s good. I think that will be enough for now. Easy.”
Geradon set the cup on the table and then gently grabbed Morticai’s hands. “Morticai, can you hear me?”
“Yeah.” Morticai said. “My ears usually keep workin’ when I’m in pain. Don’t seem any different now.”
“I am sorry we had to hurt you so last night, but you must understand that you would not be alive now if we had not done what we did.”
“Yeah, I know. When’ll the pain stop?”
“It may take a couple of weeks.”
“O-oh, Glawres!”
“Easy. In a little while, you should feel a bit better. I want you to squeeze my hands as hard as you can—that’s it. Can you squeeze any harder? Good, good—that’s enough.”
Dualas had seen dying men with greater strength.
“Is the pain easing any?”
“Uhh … yeah, maybe.”
Morticai appeared to be slipping back into sleep.
“Good. Rest now. Get all the rest you can.”
Geradon then carefully loosened Morticai’s bandage and looked beneath it. “Ah, good,” he said. “It appears the bleeding has truly stopped. I am certain there will be some difficulty with the healing, but it does not look unmanageable.” He carefully retightened the covering.
Dualas noted that retightening the bandages did not elicit any moans from the sleeping Morticai.
“Later this evening I shall cleanse the wound and redress it,” Geradon said. “Could you be here then, Sir Dualas?”
“Yes, Brother.”
“Good. Lay him back down. That’s good. You have been trained in the healing arts?”
“Yes.”
“Here in Watchaven?”
“In Dynolva.”
“Well, you have the touch. I have seen men die for no other reason than that they were handled too roughly. Could we make it warmer in here? I fear this draft will not be good for him.”
“I shall start a fire.”
Dualas moved to the closer fireplace and began laying the wood. Geradon followed him over and sat on a footstool beside the hearth.
“I have never seen a wound so difficult to manage,” Dualas observed.
“Well,” Geradon replied, “to my knowledge, few men ever fought Luthekar and ran away to tell of it, let alone survived a wound given by Luthekar’s sword, Ducledha. Morticai shall be the first.”
Dualas stopped and stared at Geradon.
“Luthekar—Prince Luthekar of abomination?”
“You did not know?”
“No.”
“I thought not. Everything fits, however—the physical description, the difficulty with the wound, the fact that he met Morticai inside a tunnel but was carrying no light.”
Dualas laid the last log in the fireplace and struck sparks into the tinder.
“But I must ask you to give me your word not to tell anyone,” Geradon continued, “to include Morticai and Coryden. The situation is delicate. It would be disastrous if this became general knowledge at Northgate.”
“You have my word.”
“Tell me,” Geradon said, “why is Morticai obsessed by the Droken? Is it because of his parents?”
“I had not known about his parents until you told me two days ago, but I suspect that is at the heart of it.” Dualas shrugged. “Yes, he harbors a great hatred for the Droken—but unlike most, he is not afraid to try and bring them to justice. I know you disagree with Morticai’s involvement, but you must admit he has uncovered a great deal of information.”
“That cannot be denied, but he may die for it yet.”
“Perhaps. But then, any of us might die on our next patrol.”
Geradon nodded. “I wondered how much of this was due to the Northmarch. So, you see this as not different from the risks you run during your patrols?”
“No, I did not say that. This is more dangerous, to be certain, but is it more dangerous than the prospect of war between Dynolva and Watchaven? I think you must agree that war seems to be the inevitable goal of this … conspiracy. And, if war is the goal, then is investigating it, trying to expose it and stop it, actually separate from our Northmarch duties? The Northmarch was created to maintain the safety of the borders and highways of both Dynolva and Watchaven. Even from Droken.”
Geradon smiled. “You argue a good case, Sir Dualas. When is Coryden’s patrol scheduled to leave again?”
“The day after tomorrow. Brother, if I might ask, did you visit Burnaby Manor this morning?”
“Yes, I did. All we found, however, was an old, abandoned manor house.”
“I feared that would be the case.”
Coryden coughed and, apparently unable to shift positions into one more comfortable, woke up. Straightening, he stretched before climbing out of the chair to check on Morticai.
“Damn, it’s hot in here,” he complained. Turning, he spotted them and nodded curtly at Geradon.
“Good day, Captain,” Geradon said. “I am sorry, but if you will touch Morticai’s hand, you will see that he is quite cool—that is our reason for building a fire on this warm Light-Season day.”
Coryden did lightly touch Morticai’s hand. He then lifted the cover of the nearby pot. “Yucchhk! What is that?”
“That is a broth for Morticai. It contains a few special ingredients. Yes, it smells horrible, but it honestly does not taste as bad as it smells. Taste it, if you like. It serves two purposes. It contains belladonna mixed with vallemo to ease h
is pain so he can sleep, and minced beef liver, beef heart, and scurvy grass to bring back his strength.”
“I think I’ll just eat in the mess hall, thank you. Belladonna, did you say?”
“Do not worry—it is a very small quantity. I promise you it will do him no harm.”
A knock sounded on the door, but before Dualas could reach it, Kirwin and Phillip entered. Kirwin eyed Coryden’s rumpled clothes disapprovingly, but spoke to Geradon.
“Your things have been moved into Captain Coryden’s quarters, Brother Kinsey.”
Coryden’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Thank you, Commander,” Geradon replied.
Kirwin turned to Coryden. “You can sleep with your men in the barracks until you leave on your next patrol, Captain.”
“Ah, Commander,” Geradon interrupted, “I am afraid that Captain Coryden must remain in Watchaven.”
Now it was Kirwin’s turn to stare. After a moment of stunned silence, Kirwin muttered between clenched teeth, “For how long?”
“I am afraid I do not yet know,” Geradon replied smoothly.
“And I don’t suppose Sir Dualas will be able to go either, eh?”
“I am afraid you are correct.”
“That means the entire patrol stays!” The volume of Kirwin’s voice was gradually creeping upwards.
“I must apologize for the inconvenience, but I have not even begun to investigate last night’s events.”
Kirwin made an obvious effort to remain calm. His second in command, Phillip, shifted his weight from foot to foot several times before he finally cleared his throat.
“Sir,” Phillip suggested, “perhaps this would be a good time to have the west wing of Northgate painted. You’ve talked about assigning a patrol to do it.”
Kirwin glared at Phillip a moment before he spun toward Coryden.
“So be it! Coryden, your men can report to Phillip for assignment.”
With a final glare at Geradon, Kirwin spun and marched out. Phillip followed, albeit reluctantly.
“Dear me,” Geradon said softly, “I do believe I’ve upset him.”
* * *
The angry crowd packed tighter as the doors to the Guildhall opened. The meeting had at long last ended, so now they would learn how their grievances had been received. Several of their senior masters emerged, their faces grim and set. A space was secured at the top of the stairs and it became obvious that an official announcement would be made.
The crowd’s bitter shouts diminished to a soft growl as a sharp-featured, dark-eyed nobleman emerged to command the attention of those packed before the building. He appeared ready to begin the announcement when his eyes focused on something beyond the crowd. His eyes widened in fear, and as he opened his mouth wordlessly, he spun as though to flee into the building.
A few in the crowd had turned by then, and some in the back could hear the pounding hooves. By the time those still emerging from the building realized the nobleman was trying to reenter it, the corryn horseman was even with the door, releasing the arrow that sped unerringly to its target. Shock, followed by shouts, ensued as Lord Aldwin crumpled into the arms of his still emerging delegation.
The rioting lasted far into the night. It would be a night the corryn of Watchaven would always remember.
* * *
Udall waited nervously outside the High Priest’s office. Finally, the priest’s aide emerged, holding the door open.
“Enter,” he said.
As the door quietly closed behind him, Udall noted that the High Priest sat behind the desk, while Prince Luthekar sat before it.
“Udall, please, be seated,” the High Priest said.
Udall carefully made his way to the chair. He noted, with a good deal of relief, that Luthekar’s eyes were normal this time. Luthekar’s mood also seemed better than when Udall had first met him. He feared that the dark prince’s mood would soon worsen.
“So,” the High Priest began, “what has transpired at Northgate since Morticai’s unfortunate demise?”
“I f-fear I have grave news to report, your Eminence.” Udall inwardly cursed his trembling voice. The masked priest and unmasked Luthekar both stared at him intensely. He found the courage to continue. “M-Morticai still lives.”
“Impossible!” Luthekar snapped.
“How?” the High Priest asked.
“Th-the Inquisitional priest has moved into Captain Coryden’s quarters and has been tending to Morticai daily. Captain Coryden has moved in with his men. Coryden’s patrol has been ordered by the Inquisition to remain in Watchaven.”
“The man is a curse to me,” Luthekar muttered.
Relieved not to be the object of Luthekar’s wrath, Udall took a deep breath. Luthekar was not as enraged by the ill news as he had expected.
The High Priest slowly shook his head. “What have you learned of the Inquisition’s investigation?”
“It is at a standstill. Kinsey is waiting for his master, the Inquisitor, to arrive.”
“I believe it is time we make certain the Inquisitor is disappointed when he arrives,” Luthekar said to the High Priest.
“I agree,” the High Priest replied, rising. Without another word, he left the room. Udall studied his clasped hands, and prayed that his nervousness was hidden from Luthekar by his hood and mask.
“Have you heard anything about the present condition of Morticai’s wound?” Luthekar continued.
“I have heard it said that he is healing very slowly. It is said that the priest brews a special potion each day and makes Morticai drink it. I talked with some of those who have taken it to him, and they say that the brew smells more of sorcery than of the Faith.”
“Good,” the High Priest interrupted as he re-entered the room. “That should help us, then.” The high priest produced several small jars, each containing a different colored powder. He pushed them across the desk to Udall.
“Udall,” he said, “when you have completed this new assignment, you shall return here and never again have to patrol with the Northmarch.”
Chapter Ten
The main hall was filled to capacity. To the displeasure of more than a few Northmarchers, the bar had been shut down. Kirwin McFerrin walked easily through the crowd. As he reached the far end of the hall he gestured to a table. Four men grabbed it and placed it before the main hearth.
He climbed onto the table and surveyed his men. As a hush quickly spread through the room, he noted that Brother Kinsey stood near the door. Kirwin had actually begun to look forward to the Inquisitor’s arrival. The quicker he showed up, the quicker Kirwin could get the Inquisition out of his fortress. He had enough worries without the Inquisition meddling in Northmarch affairs.
“May I have everyone’s attention,” he said … needlessly, for the sound of a dropped needle could have been heard in the large hall. “I have recently received important orders from Mid-Keep. All patrols are canceled until further notice.”
A loud rumble of exclamations swept through the crowd. Then, silence fell again. Kirwin smiled. Considering the magnitude of his announcement, his men were reacting with a good show of discipline.
“Those patrols which are still out will be informed of the situation as soon as they return. To answer some of your questions, let me state a few basic facts as they currently stand. We are not at war. We do not know if war will occur. The Northmarch does not and cannot side with either Dynolva or Watchaven. And no, I do not know what we will do if it comes to war—that is a decision for High Command. However, we will not bear arms against fellow Northmarchers under any circumstances.
“You are free to enter the city. The following rules are now in effect: anyone entering the city must have at least one companion; before leaving Northgate you must tell the gate guard where you are going and at what time you expect to return; we are on alert status—the
refore, no one is allowed to stay out longer than four hours.
“I strongly suggest our corryn Northmarchers refrain from entering the city at all. I shall pass on information as I receive it from Mid-Keep. Some of you may be assigned to special courier squads to carry messages from here to Mid-Keep. Questions?”
A corryn close to the front waved a hand.
“Yes, Serlias?”
“Sir, my wife and son live in the city and … well, sir, I’ve become concerned for their safety. What should I have them do?”
“I wish I could tell you to bring them here, but as you realize, we just don’t have the room. I understand that the embassies of Dynolva and Menelcar, as well as Grandhaven Sanctorium, are taking in refugees. Phillip will set up escort units. Any of you who wish to have your families escorted to safety in any of those locations may let Phillip know, and we’ll assign them an escort unit. Yes, next?”
“Sir,” began a burly human, “I’ve heard that people in the city are starting to stockpile food—that the shelves are as bare as at the end of Fading Season. Will we have supply problems here?”
“I have also heard that people have begun hoarding. However, I anticipate no difficulties maintaining our supplies.”
The questions continued for several minutes. Finally, Kirwin climbed down from the table, allowing himself to be swallowed up by the crowd. A group was beginning to cluster around Phillip, while others wandered off, talking softly among themselves. Kirwin suspected there would be much more talk at Northgate this night.
* * *
It was time for Morticai’s mid-morning serving of broth. Having heard Grandhaven’s clock, Morticai was gingerly working his way back to his bed. Geradon would be furious if he discovered that he’d been getting up every day to throw knives. He had just made it onto the bed when the door latch began to turn.
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