Nibbling on the corner of his lower lip, as he often did when he was brooding; Laris began to consider his suspects, shining the light of his scrutiny first on the wizard, Elkar. The name came to his mind easily, and for good reason, mainly because he didn’t like the man. There was something unwholesome about him—those too shrewd eyes and perpetually youthful appearance. Just the thought of it made Laris frown. It wasn’t right for a person to live so long, particularly without showing any outward signs of aging. It wasn’t natural.
Laris shook his head, aware that he was allowing his emotions to cloud his judgment. Must be logical about this, he told himself. His dislike for the man didn’t automatically make him a traitor. No, not Elkar, he thought, brows drawing together. If he wanted me dead, I’d be dead. The wizard, despite his refusal to age, overblown ego, and lack of social niceties, had proved himself loyal a hundred times over.
So, if not Elkar, then who? Fenton, of course, was above reproach, which left Donaven, Jonar, and Lennay. Hmm, let’s see now. Of the three…who would gain the most from my death? With his daughter gone, there would be no clear heir to the throne. He had been in such a stupor this past year that he hadn’t realized just how dire the situation had become. Anyone with enough power and influence could attempt to claim the crown. Whoever gained the most support would then be elevated by the council.
Which of the nobles is most popular right now? He didn’t know, but would clearly have to find out. It had been a long time since the king had concerned himself with such things. As a rule, he found the political maneuverings of the various houses to be about as interesting as watching paint dry. He had never developed the stomach for the verbal sparring which came as naturally to most nobles as breathing, nor the skill, unless the winds of change blew hard enough, to sail his ship of reason across the endless, largely uncharted, seas of deception.
Perilous waters they were, to be sure, the currents of manipulation flowing just beneath the surface, masked by the calculated calm of false intentions, carrying all but the most gifted of sailors far off course. There should be maps to warn the unwary, he thought. Danger. Turn back. Beyond this point monsters lie.
“What treachery,” Laris whispered, his eyes widening at the scope of it. And it almost worked, too. Slowly poisoned until I lost my wits, my will, and my ability to lead. Under those circumstances, death would have been a welcome escape. It was just old age they would have said. It was just the old man’s time. Laris ground his teeth together. How could I have been so blind? With me out of the way, the people would have been easy to influence, eager for someone to step in and take control. Whoever is behind this must be in league with the Lost One. The timing is too convenient for it to be otherwise. But who would do such a thing? Not Donaven. He’s so patriotic he probably sleeps in his armor. Probably rather chop off his own legs than betray Rogar.
That left only Jonar and Lennay. Of the two, Laris thought first of Lennay, his financial advisor. He wouldn’t guess the man had the spine to orchestrate such a diabolical scheme. He had a nervous nature, reserved and quiet. Though perhaps he has reason to be nervous. Perhaps one of the nobles has promised him wealth and power should he secure him the throne. They could both be in league with the Lost One, subverting the kingdom from within.
Laris didn’t enjoy entertaining such thoughts about a man who might very well be innocent, but as much as he tried, he could not dismiss Lennay as easily as the others. There had always been something a little off about the man. It was far too easy, for instance, to imagine him tearing the wings off of butterflies while sitting on the floor in the dark giggling to himself. Indeed, now that Laris thought about it, he was fairly certain that Lennay, if not guilty of treason, was guilty of something.
And what of Jonar, he wondered. Jonar was the king’s foreign advisor, his diplomat, which meant he was both fair-faced and silver-tongued. This alone, as far as Laris was concerned, was enough to make him a suspect. When combined with the fact that he took frequent trips abroad, and had contacts in all four kingdoms, it was enough to make him the primary suspect.
Thoughts whirled through Laris’ head like a tempest. Which one was it? Jonar or Lennay? Did the traitor work alone, reporting directly to the Lost One? Or did he have an accomplice--or accomplices? The king’s pulse quickened. Why, there could be spies all around, he thought. My own bed might be unsafe. He closed his eyes and massaged his temples. Must remain calm, he told himself. This is no time for dramatics. Cool heads prevail. Panic breeds travail.
To catch the traitor, or traitors, he would have to be just as crafty as they were. Craftier. He would have to pretend he was still ill. Maybe whoever was responsible, believing him befuddled and near death, would get careless. A dirty little smile turned up the corners of Laris’ mouth. I might surprise them yet, he thought.
Now that his list of suspects was shortened to two, he stood and walked from his chambers, remembering to shuffle and stoop as soon as he was out the door. A stroll through the winding, flower-lined paths of the garden was just what he needed to clear his head. Without a word, his guards bowed and fell in behind him. He could tell Sergeant Strumbald was relieved to see him up and around, but knew the man was too well trained to speak unless spoken to.
Laris had to work to keep from chuckling as he imagined the various ways in which he would publicly humiliate and execute the traitorous vermin. It will have to be something especially horrid, he thought, to discourage future problems. He visualized heads on spikes surrounded by flocks of crows pecking out the eyes. Forcing down another grin, he tried his best to look incompetent. There will be blood, he thought as he shuffled. By Rodan there will!
Sokerra
The grasslands were vast and beautiful, rolling like an ocean in every direction. Gaven sang a tune about women and whiskey, his voice clear and exceptionally resonant. Jade trotted beside Andaris’ horse, keeping a respectful distance. Not long after leaving Tinar, she had somehow gotten tangled up with Del’s legs. He and Andaris had nearly gone down trying to avoid trampling her. No harm had been done, nothing damaged…except for trust that is.
Judging by the way Jade was slinking along with her head low to the ground, and her ears even lower, she had learned her lesson well. Horses were not to be trusted. Judging by the way Del was swishing his tail and glancing nervously from side to side, he felt the same about dogs.
For the last hour or so, Andaris had been feeling progressively worse. Had his friends turned around, they would have seen his eyes sunken into the sweaty mask of his face, irises fading from dark brown to yellow. Andaris tried to call to them, but couldn’t make his voice carry above a whisper. He gritted his teeth against the pain. The wound in his back now pulsed like something alive. Before long, he was lying forward, feeling like he was going to retch up his breakfast. He really was starting to dislike krikkens. Squeezing shut his eyes, he tried to focus on the sound of Gaven’s voice.
“One more round for my lady fair,
One more drink for Katie,
Come on back to my shady lair,
My intentions aren’t that shady,
I’ll wash your feet with spices rare,
I’ll treat you like a lady,
I’ll buy you silky underwear,
I’ll kiss you and just maybe….
I’ll brush your long golden hair,
And fill you with my baby,
Your wedding dress will bulge and flare,
But you’ll still be my lady,
The years will pass without a care,
And you’ll still be my Katie,”
Yes the years will pass without a care,
And you’ll still be my Katie.”
When Andaris opened his eyes, everything had gone blurry. He shook his head and blinked to try and clear his vision. Jade stared up at him with concern. I have to stop, he thought. I have to tell Trilla. He could feel blood beginning to trickle down his back, which he assumed meant the wound had reopened.
Jade ran to
Gaven’s horse and started barking emphatically.
Gaven and Trilla turned in time to see Andaris slide from the saddle, hit the ground, and not get up. “Whoa!” Gaven yelled, tugging on his reigns.
Andaris felt Jade’s nose against his cheek, and heard her whimpering in his ear.
Trilla dismounted and handed her reigns to Gaven, then kneeled down and propped the back of Andaris’ head against her leg. “What happened?” she asked. “Did you fall asleep?”
Andaris shook his head and opened his eyes. Trilla gasped and turned him over. Andaris tried to speak, but found his throat was now too dry to even whisper. She lifted up his shirt. He felt the material pulling at the wound.
“Oh gods, Andaris. Why didn’t you say something?”
Andaris heard the fear in her voice, which greatly heightened the fear in his heart.
“The bolt must have been poisoned,” she told Gaven. “This is like nothing I’ve ever seen.”
Gaven had witnessed many a grisly sight in his time. This, however, was nearly enough to make him turn away. A growth had formed over the wound. It was swollen and black, and about as big around as the big man’s fist, oozing pus and throbbing like a heart. Thick, corded veins crisscrossed its surface, providing it with a steady supply of Andaris’ blood.
“What is that?” Gaven asked, face twisting with the question.
“I’m not sure,” Trilla admitted, “but it’s feeding off him. That much is clear.”
Gaven shook his head. “It looks…evil.”
Jade began gnashing her teeth and growling at it.
“We’ll have to cut it out of him,” said Trilla.
Andaris again tried to speak. He wanted to tell her it wasn’t her fault. He strained, but couldn’t even turn his head to look at her. Can’t move! he thought.
“I’ll do it,” Gaven said, voice now completely calm.
“I just hope his body can handle the shock,” said Trilla.
Andaris suddenly went rigid. Then, gagging from the pain, he passed out.
When he woke, it was to the muffled sound of softly falling rain. He was tucked warm and secure in a small bed with many sheets and blankets piled over him, in a one-room cottage with two windows and a stone fireplace. The fire burned low. Thunder rolled across the sky, gently rattling the windows. Jade lay stretched at his feet, breathing deeply. Gaven was asleep in the chair to Andaris’ right, and for once, wasn’t snoring. Where’s Trilla? Andaris wondered.
As if in answer, the door to the cottage opened. Andaris shivered at the gust of cold air. The fire shivered, too. Trilla stepped in and quickly shut the door. She had been out in the rain and dark, picking herbs for him. In her right hand, she held a fistful of crimson flowers.
His heart swelled with affection for her, and though her hair was wet and her face was pale, to him she had never looked more lovely. She sat beside the fire, cradled a stone bowl between her thighs, and began crushing the petals of the flowers with a marble pestle, throwing the roots and stalks into the flames. From the pouch on her hip, she pulled a glass bottle containing a liquid that shimmered and changed color from silver, to deepest green, and then back again. After uncorking the bottle, she poured most of the liquid into the bowl, mixing it with the powder until it formed a paste.
He was entranced by her, by her every movement, so exact and precise. As she pulled off her wet clothes, he tried not to stare. He knew he shouldn’t, but her beauty held him captive. She was flawless, every part of her pure and lovely, a breath of spring—a sculpture come to life.
He was almost relieved as she slipped on the oversized nightshirt. Hanging past her knees, it covered all except her ankles. Though now even that was intoxicating, for it was the same milky flesh, the same soft skin that he so longed to touch.
She picked up the bowl and walked to the bed, coming to a stop when her eyes met his. Embarrassment, relief, then embarrassment again flashed across her face. Finally, with a warm smile, she sat down beside him and began to rub some of the crimson paste onto his lips. He tried to sit up. She stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder and, opening his lips, poured a few drops of what remained of the liquid into his mouth. It tasted wonderful, like linberries and vanilla, the flavor exploding onto his tongue with a sharp tang. Soon, a feeling of warmth spread through his body, taking the pain from his joints and soothing his mind.
Cooing softly to him while combing back his hair, she began to feed him the paste, urging him to lick it straight off her fingers. The flavor was almost identical to the liquid, albeit subtler, accented with just a hint of what tasted like…cinnamon.
Suddenly famished, Andaris ate until the bowl was empty. She said something to him, sounding pleased. He tried to concentrate on her words, but found himself drifting away, now aware only of her kind tone. After setting the bowl aside, she smiled sweetly at him, and curled up beside him to go to sleep.
Despite the nearness of her body, or perhaps because of it—her figure spooning into his like a missing puzzle piece—he began to relax. The last thing he remembered as he felt himself slipping under was the delicate bouquet of her hair against his face. It smelled of summertime and dandelions, of sunny afternoons and endless blue sky.
When morning came, sunlight slanted through the thick glass of the cottage’s two small windows, casting a crosshatch pattern over the bed and part of the floor. Andaris stretched and rolled—right into Trilla.
“Oh, good morning,” he said.
She still wore the thin cotton shirt he’d seen her put on last night. It hugged her body, leaving little to the imagination. “How do you feel?” she asked, concern creasing her brow.
Andaris considered the question. How did he feel? “Well,” he began, flexing his arms, “I can move again. My head hurts a bit, but I guess that’s to be expected.” He smiled in a way that was meant to be disarming. “All in all, I’d say you did a fine job.”
She returned his smile…but then looked away, eyes filling with tears.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “I am okay, aren’t I?”
She shook her head no. “I’m sorry, Andaris. The bolt must have been poisoned. The wound won’t heal. I’ve tried everything I know. I worked on it for hours last night after you went to sleep, and still, I can’t get it to fully mend.” She put her head in her hands and started to cry. “I don’t know if I…. I don’t…know what else to do.”
He combed her bangs back with his fingers, lifting her chin so he could look her in the eyes. “It’s okay,” he told her. “It’s not your fault.”
She melted at his touch, falling into him. Their cheeks brushed, and then they were kissing. It was all heat and tears. He could feel her smiling. He smiled too. It was finally happening. Her lips were like honey wine. He felt drunk. She was so soft and sweet and warm. It was so—
The door to the cottage opened.
Trilla and Andaris pulled apart as Gaven and Jade walked in.
“I’ve got breakfast,” Gaven said in his usual brusque fashion.
Did they see? Andaris wondered.
Jade cocked her head to the side, as if trying to puzzle something out. She stood motionless for a moment, then, appearing to come to some sort of decision, padded over to them.
“Hi girl,” he said, bending down. “How you doing?” She licked his chin. He scratched her behind the left ear. She got an apprehensive look in her eyes, tilted her head to the side again, and backed away.
“It’s all right,” he told her, making his voice as friendly as he could. Whimpering softly, she went and curled up in the corner. He clapped his palms against the tops of his thighs, whistled, and said, “Come here, girl!” She peered at him above crossed paws, the definition of discontentment, sighed heavily, and closed her eyes.
What’s bothering her now? he wondered, becoming annoyed. Here he was, struggling to maintain a good attitude in spite of his injury, and she decides to be moody. He knew she was probably just worried about him, but there was something else, too…so
mething unrelated. He could feel it. Regardless of the reason, she could at least try and put on a good face, for his sake. I don’t see why she…. She’s only a dog, Andaris reminded himself, wondering if he was becoming delirious. All she knows is that something’s wrong. She’s merely reacting to us.
After breakfast, they continued at best speed towards Sokerra castle. Trilla knew Andaris wouldn’t have survived the night if they hadn’t found the cottage—if they’d been forced to sleep outside in the cold and damp. Coming across it had been an amazing bit of luck, the sort of thing that made her believe more fervently in the existence of Rodan.
Please don’t rain, she thought, staring imploringly at the clouds, which seemed to be growing darker and more threatening by the second. If they could reach the castle within the next couple of hours, she felt Andaris had a chance for a full recovery. If not…her sense was…well she didn’t even want to think about it. She could feel death hovering over him like a shroud, waiting to drop and smother him out of existence. And in these matters she was seldom, or more like never, wrong.
She hadn’t told him just how tenuous his hold on life had become, though was sure he understood. He was the one experiencing it, not her, conducting himself, at least thus far, with remarkable courage and grace. She was beginning to suspect that, within his skinny chest, beat the heart of a Rogarian.
Indeed, Andaris was proving tougher than she would have thought possible. She couldn’t imagine what must be going through his mind. He was in more pain than he was letting on. Much more. She had seen battle-tested knights, men twice his age, break with less…and yet there he sat, stoic and resolute.
Trilla snuck a sideways glance at him, feeling strangely shy. Somehow, this unassuming, awkward young man had found his way over her walls, through her mazes, right into her heart. Part of it could be attributed to what they’d been through together, the bond created by mutual suffering, as with soldiers during wartime. Part of it, but not all. For you see, what she felt budding in her breast was more than friendship—it was love. She had told him there would be healers at the castle who would know what to do. She prayed she was right. Just hang on, she thought.
The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) Page 16
