"It is my pleasure to be here," said Jorj, and to Nicolas' surprise he gave their hostess a small bow. Not knowing what else to do, Nicolas bowed awkwardly as well.
"Your attendant," continued Jorj, "informs me that you have a son in need of a healer."
A shadow flitted across Ms. Beseux's face as she said, "I do indeed. Some weeks ago, my son was stung by a sea jelly while learning to sail in a small bay just east of the harbor. His leg was not in contact with the jelly for long, but the creature's tentacles left many angry marks on my son's skin, and he has been in terrible pain ever since. We have called upon the city's most able doctors, but they have been powerless to do anything for him. The leg has become quite swollen, and the pain is so unbearable my son can no longer walk."
"I am sorry to hear that. It is a terrible thing to have happened," said Jorj with such sympathy that Nicolas wondered if he was hearing the same man he had come to know over the past few weeks. However, as Jorj spoke Nicolas thought he could feel the slightest prickle of energy in the room, and as he looked closely at Jorj's hands he could swear he saw the faintest of tremors.
To his surprise, Ms. Beseux's face fell and all of a sudden she was wiping tears from her eyes. "I know," she said with the hint of a sob in her voice. "He may never walk again, say the doctors, and what kind of life for a child is that? What kind of man could he be without the use of his legs? And his father!" Now Nicolas could detect anger in her voice. "His father left for the Marshlands just yesterday! A month he will be gone, maybe more. How could he leave when his child is so ill?"
Jorj reached out, and patted the woman gently on the back. "Do not worry, Ms. Beseux," he soothed. "Let us see this child of yours. Do not lose hope, for I may be able to help."
"Do you really think so?" asked Ms. Beseux. "And please, call me Eloma."
"Call for you child, Eloma," said Jorj. "And let us see if I cannot ease his pain."
Eloma nodded to her attendant, who briskly walked out of the room and came back wheeling a chair occupied by a small boy of perhaps seven or eight years. A thin white linen was draped over his legs, and his eyes were red and swollen from crying.
"This is Ansen, my son," said Eloma. "Ansen, this man is here to help you."
"Please," said the boy in a wavering voice, "please, I don't want another doctor. It hurts me just when they touch my leg, and the leeches…" the boy shuddered with fear.
"Have no fear, young man. I have brought no leeches to drain your blood, nor will I touch your leg, if I can help it."
The boy seemed a little reassured at this, but his eyes were still wide with apprehension.
"Now," said Jorj, "let us see this leg of yours."
Gingerly, Eloma removed the linen from her son's legs, but the boy still gave a gasp of pain as the cloth slid along his skin. Nicolas almost gasped aloud too, as he saw what lay beneath the linen. The boy's leg had swollen to nearly double the size of his other leg, and all around his foot and ankle the skin was an angry red, except for where the boy's flesh had directly touched the tentacles. There, the skin was gray and cracked, an eerie pattern of necrotic spindles winding along the boy's pulsing red flesh.
Eloma started sobbing again, and had to look away. Then, Nicolas felt the air start to crackle with energy, and he could see Jorj's body start to shake noticeably, first his hands, then his head, then his entire torso. Walking over to the chair, Jorj placed his hands on the boy's head and seemed to concentrate. The boy's eyes slid back into his head, as Jorj began to whisper, "The pain is subsiding. You can feel it fleeing your body. The pain is gone, the pain is gone."
Over and over Jorj repeated these few words, his voice getting louder each time until he was shouting the words. The tingling and crackling Nicolas could feel seemed to grow along with Jorj's voice, until Nicolas thought he could actually feel the energy flowing about him.
Abruptly, Jorj stopped his shouting, and the energy in the room seemed to calm, but did not disappear. As before, everyone in the room was staring at the scene before them, their eyes riveted to Jorj's theatrics. After a few moments of silence Eloma whispered, "Is it done? Have you healed him?"
Nicolas could see no change in the child's leg, but the boy definitely looked more relaxed, and peaceful.
"Mama," he said in an excited little voice, "the pain, the pain is gone."
Eloma started to sob again, and she turned to Jorj to say something, but the healer put up his hand.
"There is more," he said. "Young Ansen, walk."
As if in a trance, the young boy pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. Nicolas winced as he saw the red and swollen leg touch the floor, but the boy gave no sign of pain. He tested his balance, and then took a few faltering steps towards his mother.
"I can walk!" he said, elated. "I can walk again!"
Something is very wrong, thought Nicolas, as he watched the horribly swollen limb drag slowly across the floor. The boy should feel something. Whatever Jorj had done, the leg was not healed to the point where they child should walk upon it and feel nothing. He looked up quizzically at Jorj.
"Now, now Ansen," said Jorj in his most saccharin tone. "That's enough. You must wait for your leg to heal fully, before you begin to walk again. Just because you can, does not mean you should. Another few weeks, I think, before you should try anything like that again."
Eloma was looking at Jorj with tears streaming from her eyes, leaving multicolored streaks of powder all the way down her cheeks.
"How can I ever thank you?" she asked.
At once, the room began to crackle with energy again, and Jorj was saying "Oh, it is enough just to have helped a young boy…"
"No! No! You have done so much for me…for my child…and with such care," said Eloma fervently. "Please, I want you to stay for dinner. I shall have my cook prepare a feast! We must celebrate the miracle you have just given us! I insist, you and your assistant must stay, and we will discuss your payment over dinner."
"Oh, my assistant has pressing business to attend to at the Inn," said Jorj, looking at Nicolas pointedly. "But, I suppose I might be persuaded to stay…"
Nicolas was about to speak up to say they he would like to stay for dinner as well, when Jorj threw him a sharp look.
"Nicolas, be a good lad and go back to the Inn to see if there are any more worthy souls looking for my services. I'm sure Eloma's attendant will show you the way, if you've forgotten."
"But…" began Nicolas.
"I will be back soon enough," said Jorj.
Nicolas gave up, and began to make his way back to the inn, though not before he saw Jorj slip his arm around the waist of Ms. Beseux, whisper some words in her ear, and cheerfully walk with her into another room.
Chapter 23: Isic
Outside the campmaster's cabin, Isic took one last deep breath to calm himself. The Prince, or "King Tobin," as he was now calling himself, was furious, and, as usual, it would be up to Isic to placate the man. It is worth it, Isic had to remind himself. Tobin might be temperamental, but he was not afraid of the smith's designs, and was willing to provide Isic with what he needed for his research. Though the Prince did not understand the true marvel of what had just been discovered in this bleak and forgotten corner of the earth, he was eager to strengthen his military forces by any means possible. Of course, he wanted the might of the gröljum for himself, to use in his petty war, but for the time being, Isic was content to indulge the Prince's obsession with regaining the mountain throne.
Entering the cabin, Isic found Tobin sitting in a chair, drumming his fingers nervously on the bared steel of a sword that sat upon his lap. The heels of his boots rested on top of the campmaster's lifeless body, but he seemed not to notice as he gazed into the distance, his lips curled in a half snarl.
"She is probably dead, Highness," began Isic, hoping to preempt the conversation he knew was coming. "At this moment she is likely lying at the bottom of some icy crevasse, or frozen stiff by a night spent in the bitter cold. Do not waste your th
oughts on some worthless camp worker."
"She knows, Isic. She may have seen everything. The gröljum, the bonding, everything. What if she still lives? What if her story reaches others?"
"Who will believe her, Highness?" asked Isic. "They will think she is just some hapless lunatic, her brain addled by exposure to the cold. That is, if she is not simply dead already. And even if someone does manage to hear her story and believe it, what then? In a few months' time we shall have an army the likes of which Esmoria has never before seen; strong enough to ravage even the stoutest of the Blood Marsh forces. Soon enough the Marshlanders will be devastated by the stuff of nightmares—the gröljum and their powers will be no secret then."
As Isic spoke, Tobin clenched his teeth and twisted his features into a progressively deepening scowl. "Listen, I want that scrawny bitch dead. If she is, if I can know for a certainty that the elements have already claimed her life, then I'll be happy enough, but if I can be the one to take her life from her…I'll be happier still. Do not forget my brother, smith. It was his work that led us to the gröljum."
"Ah," said Isic, with a smile, "but it is my work that has allowed us to control them."
"Do not dismiss him. He may know of your methods, or something like them. He always had his nose buried in some odd book or other, who knows what other secrets he might be privy to?"
"Yes, Highness, but you are forgetting that he is currently a prisoner in…"
"I forget nothing!" barked Tobin. "Eathor has been a thorn in my side ever since I was born. He has made it a habit to balk my plans ever since we were children. If there is a way, he will find it!"
"But he does not know, my King. How can he spoil what he does not even know exists?"
"Exactly!" exclaimed Tobin. "Which is why the girl must be found, and killed if she is alive."
"Highness, I think it very unlikely that she—"
"You have other things to think of," insisted Tobin, his voice now cold and strangely quiet. "I will be satisfied in this matter. How long until the first of the gröljum is ready to surface?"
Isic was incredulous. "You cannot mean to send one of the gröljum? They are far too valuable to waste on such a girl. Send a few men, if you must, but—"
"Are you telling me what I can and cannot do?" asked Tobin, a dangerous gleam in his eyes.
"No, of course not, your grace," demurred Isic, gritting his teeth as he made himself say, "It is only counsel, the power to act is entirely yours."
"Then answer my question," said Tobin, relaxing slightly. "When will the first gröljum be ready?"
"I cannot say, your highness, but I will try and speak to the gröljum, immediately, if that is your wish."
"Do it," said Tobin, rising from his chair and preparing to leave. When he got to the door, however, he stopped, as if he had just remembered something. Wordlessly he walked toward the seat he had just vacated, and then without warning delivered a flurry of brutal kicks to the body of the campmaster on the floor. When Tobin seemed satisfied, he straightened his coat and made his way outside, leaving a trail of bloody boot prints on the cabin's wooden floor.
How human, thought Isic as he contemplated the ruined remains of the campmaster. No beast would abuse the dead so and take pleasure from it. Yet, from the same brain that could spawn such twisted, unnatural thoughts came so many wondrous, miraculous things. The shadow scribes of the Isles of Three with their odd stone obelisks had learned to forecast the time the sun spent in the sky each day. The Curahshena sandburners had managed to grind shards of molten sand into lenses that could cure the blind and make the glittering heavens appear just miles away. The silent monks of Creko's Isle had concocted a cure for the beetle pox, and Isic Magmar…Isic Magmar had outdone them all.
But Isic's work was far from done. He had now found a creature not only capable of complex thought, but able to project its thoughts onto others, and even control the very muscles of a body not its own through the simple bond of physical contact. A whole species of creature that could think as one. The sheer strangeness, the oddness of such concepts thrilled Isic.
And yet, Tobin would have him send out one of these mysterious, magnificent creatures to find a damned runaway camp worker. What a waste. Isic wondered if the gröljum would even consent to such a task. They had offered their cooperation—at a price—but Isic did not have the impression that the gröljum viewed any of their number to be expendable. How inhuman, he thought, smiling.
Chapter 24: Bokrham
To Bokrham's dismay, he found himself straddling a short wooden block, swarmed by a group of busy tailors. One man's head was uncomfortably close to his crotch, and Bokrham had to bite his tongue to keep himself from swatting the man away like an annoying fly. This indignity was, after all, a necessary one; for he could no longer fit comfortably into his ceremonial military uniform, and he needed to look his best for his very large and public wedding the following day. Of late, Bokrham's waistline had the annoying habit of growing when his days became too busy to include a trip to the training grounds or to cut lumber in the woods. This time, judging from the amount of tailoring needed, Bokrham had neglected his physical regimen for far too long. Once, a few weeks of idleness would have meant sliding one notch further down his belt. Now, it meant a whole new suit of clothing. It was an unwelcome reminder that he was not only getting older, but that he had spent the better part of the last few years sitting on his arse, listening to the bitter politics of those around him.
Helster Jogan had kept his composure when Bokrham indicated he would take up the trader's offer. Oh, he had been appropriately grateful; profuse in his thanks and fervent in his promises that his daughter would make a good wife, but Bokrham still had the impression that the man had expected the match to be successful. He had been inwardly irked at the man's presumption, but was mollified when he saw the look of clear shock pass across Jogan's face when Bokrham insisted that the wedding take place in three days' time.
The trader had recovered quickly, however, and Bokrham had to admit he was impressed by the flurry of activity that followed. Jogan seemed determined to make it the most ostentatious event that the Blood Marsh had seen in years, and within hours it seemed that half the city had been employed to cook, clean, decorate, and entertain at the Lord Martial's wedding. Ordinarily, Bokrham would have despised such attention, but in this instance he welcomed it. The wedding was more than a marriage, it was a public declaration of Bokrham's renewed strength, and more importantly, a warning to his rivals for power that he would no longer tolerate their public challenges to his claim to rule.
As expected, putting Dovorst in prison had caused quite a few incidents in the city, but Bokrham had been ready. Those who had been rash enough to actually act on their frustrations had been swiftly overpowered and thrown in prison. Most of those captured had been simple city folk and presented little threat to the Lord Martial or his government. It had been a good show, though, parading the traitors through the streets, their impotence in sharp contrast to the large numbers of well-armed city guards marching beside them. It would get better, too, for Bokrham planned to proclaim after his wedding that in celebration of the occasion any such prisoner who denounced their support for other factions and publicly declared allegiance to the Lord Martial would be pardoned and set free.
Most of the noble houses who opposed Bokrham's rule had not been foolish enough to engage in any open demonstrations of their discontent. In fact, hardly a cry had been raised, nor word been said about the imprisonment. The silence troubled Bokrham, who knew that such powerful families were not so easily scared. But he did not worry too much, however, for after tomorrow, his coffers would be overflowing with gold, and he could prepare for the worst.
One of the tailors slipped, and jabbed a tiny needle into Bokrham's calf. The big lord yowled in surprise, and instinctively kicked out at the source of the pain. The tailors scattered, muttering apologies, and Bokrham was tempted to give up on the whole process. When he thought of what he
had to do next, however, he decided he could endure the annoying tailors a little longer.
It was absurd really, that Bokrham should be so nervous about having dinner with his soon-to-be-bride and her father. Neither Bokrham nor Jogan had any illusions that the match was anything but a political convenience, but they both had agreed that Bokrham should at least meet Ilia before the wedding. Bokrham had said that he wanted a chance to make sure the girl was sane and healthy, but he could not deny that his wish to meet Ilia was motivated by a strange sense of guilt. The girl was young, a newly blossomed beauty, and he was graying at the temples and getting fatter by the month. Though it mattered little to the political engines that had necessitated this wedding, Bokrham wanted to know if this girl knew what she was getting herself into.
The dinner was strictly private, as Bokrham preferred to reserve all the pomp and peacockery for the day of the wedding. As he had instructed, he found several guardsmen posted at the entrance to the dining hall, and only Helster and Ilia Jogan seated at the long table within. Both were quick to rise and greet the Lord Martial, and Bokrham saw that both Helster and his daughter had faint dark circles framing their eyes.
"You look tired," said Bokrham. A tiny frown crinkled the edge of Ilia's smile, and Bokrham cursed himself inwardly. "That is, you, Helster, look tired. Of course, Ilia, you look…radiant." The words felt terribly awkward, but Bokrham was relieved to see an unmarred smile reform on Ilia's face.
"I may have overextended myself making preparations for tomorrow's celebration," confessed Helster Jogan, "but it is nothing that a few cups of wine and a good night's sleep won't cure."
"Just so," said Bokrham. "I do appreciate the great efforts you have made to accommodate my urgent, ah…needs."
The Weight of a Crown (The Azhaion Saga Book 1) Page 23
