by Cat Bruno
“What are you keeping from me?”
His words had been sharp, as if he still did not believe her.
Yet, calmly, Caryss answered, “Tell me of your father. All that you can remember. When he first grew ill, what symptoms he showed, what improvements he has made.”
Crispin seemed as if he would argue further, for she had not heeded his question. Yet, after a moment, he explained, “I do not believe his illness to be a natural one, yet the mages can find no source for it, nor can the healers. He sleeps nearly all day, and when he is not sleeping, he shakes and mumbles. He can communicate in a way, but few can make sense of it. If you seek to question him, I shall be there to aid you in understanding what he says. He eats little, and only then it must be mashed and fed to him, and barely resembles the man he once was.”
With a long sign, he added, “I am not sure how much you know of my people, but we are not prone to illness or sickness. Our lives are usually blessedly long, which only makes my father’s health more difficult to understand.”
“I would like to see your father as soon as possible.”
For another long moment Crispin was silent, as if he might not allow it. Then he simply nodded. “As it is, I think your arrival was timed well. If any ask, you have not come as healer. Rather, you will see him as uncle, kin from Eirrannia to visit. Is that understood?”
Trying to fight the smile that curved her lips, Caryss nodded. She did not tell him that she knew little of the North.
*****
After a meandering walk through the back hallways of the palace, the group turned onto a mage-lit hall, one that had thick, textured silver paper glued smoothly to the walls and lush, wine-colored carpeting beneath their feet. The room that Crispin had led them to first was nothing like where they found themselves now, and Caryss reached a hand out to touch the swirling pattern on the walls around her. She let her hand trail against the wall as she followed a quick-stepping Crispin.
The mage-lights, encased in sconces along the walls, cast a gentle haze across the hall, and the silver paper reflected it back, creating a shimmer of light over the long corridor. Caryss continued to follow, as did the others, hurrying after the prince, who had not glanced back at them.
As she watched him, he turned sharply and ascended a narrow set of stairs, serving stairs, she thought, having heard of such. When they reached the top, Crispin paused, still without turning to them and instructed them to wait.
While he was gone, Aldric approached Caryss, and looking about nervously, whispered, “I must remind you once again to trust none, not even the prince. We are no longer at the Academy, and little here is what it seems. The palace itself is like its own country with its own set of laws and its own factions and divided loyalties. Do what you can for the King, then let us be gone.”
Knowing that the warning was fair, she nodded, and, as Crispin had yet to return, asked, “He seems troubled, does he not? Or has he always been this way?”
Breathing sharply and looking around, he quietly told her, “His father is near death, which for a man of his line and his age is a rare thing. And he has not yet mentioned his brother, who contests his reign, I have heard. He is troubled indeed, but it is not for you to fix, Caryss.”
Shivering at his words, she looked down the hall, listening as footsteps neared. For a moment, the hallway stilled.
The walls shifted, and the patterned paper that covered them seemed as if it rippled, sending shards of light throughout the hall and across the silent faces that waited for Crispin’s return. Suddenly, it was as if she looked at him, at herself, at Aldric, Sharron, and the guards, from a different angle, as if she was not quite there with them, but watching them from a distance.
Crispin, his boots heavy and laced high, walked toward the group, tall and broad, like most of the royal line, yet he was no longer alone. Behind him walked a boy, not yet into manhood, with a face that was not quite childlike. The boy’s face was serious and controlled, and his eyes held captured sea and sky. Even though he was lanky and thin, he still showed signs of his father: his eyes were rimmed in gold. Eyes that expressed nothing one moment, and, then, a moment later, Caryss could read the boy’s story written in the gold and blue that swirled there.
As she continued to stare at the boy, he looked past his father and his fierce eyes, sheltering his story once more, locked with hers. In size, he was a boy, but his sky eyes were older than most, Caryss thought.
Breathlessly, with a hand to her chest, she asked, “What is your name, child?”
When he did not answer, she looked toward Crispin. The prince’s brow was creased and his mouth turned down as he stared back at her. Quickly, she glanced back at the boy, only steps behind his father, and when their eyes met, he gently nodded to her, but still did not speak.
“What did you say about a child?” Crispin demanded, looking behind him then back at Caryss.
“I asked your son his name,” she explained, not understanding the prince’s anger.
“My sons are not permitted in this area, and the hallway is now empty. Describe the boy that you saw.”
Pointing, she told him, “He stands just behind you. The one with the blue eyes and fair hair.”
Turning quickly around, Crispin searched, and, moments later, replied, “My sons all have dark hair.”
Not giving up, Caryss exclaimed, “Does no one else see the boy? Child, speak up! What is your name?”
When she looked again to him, the boy’s image shook and wavered, solid one moment and misty the next. Dropping her head, Caryss closed her eyes. A moment later, she raised her head, glancing at the boy once more. He stood quietly, close enough to touch his father’s back, yet his hands remained at the sides of his loosely-fitted pants. Across his face was a half-smile, as if he could not contain his glee at fooling all but her.
Inspecting him again, Caryss suddenly realized that he was not dressed in the manner the Rexterrans favored. In place of the snug pants and high boots that Crispin wore, the boy’s pants were thick, simple linen, hanging loosely from him. On his feet, he wore low boots of hardened leather, not as supple or as fine as the Rexterran boots, nor as costly. His tunic was also loosely fitting, as if it was too large, woven with a wide thread, a subtle pattern of stripes running from side to side. Crispin’s tunic, in contrast, was plain, yet finely made, tightly woven with an expensive fabric. The boy looked a pauper next to the King’s Heir.
Caryss turned away from the boy then, and looked to the mage, pleading, “Aldric, do you not see the boy, the one with the dirty boots and oversized tunic?”
“I see no boy, Caryss. You are overtired, I imagine. Perhaps we should delay your meeting with the King,” he gently told her.
“So you believe that I am imagining the child?” she asked, stepping toward where the lanky boy stood.
With steady hands, she reached up and tried to hold the boy’s face, as a mother might. Her hands went through him until they touched, a loud clap echoing around her, proving her folly. Again she tried, and, again, her hands glided through the air as if the boy had never been there at all. Yet, he lingered still, fading, but present. When she lifted her gray-green eyes, his own ones watched her, the shadow of his smile hovering on his sun-touched face.
He wants me to see him.
Addressing him, and doing little to hide her annoyance, Caryss scolded, “So you are like the girl then, is that it? What games the two of you play! I will warn you as I have her: do not dabble here long! When you time-walk, you risk becoming trapped. Take heed and rush off.”
She followed him as he glided further down the hall and whispered, “He is not ready to meet you, but do not despair. Walk the path you find yourself on, and it will lead where it should. Hone your craft. Master the sword. Ready yourself.”
Once Caryss had spoken the words, she knew them to be true, even if why she had said them made little sense. She knew with certainty that the boy was Crispin’s son, and understood that the boy was not in Rexterr
a, which meant that Crispin had not seen the boy in many moon years, for her description of him had not caused any reaction from the King’s Heir.
When full comprehension finally came, she again looked to the boy, who was now nearly invisible. He bowed to her, shimmering and fluid, and with more grace than Caryss had ever before witnessed. His eyes, bluer than any she had seen, brighter than sea and sky, were ancient ones, yet thickly lashed with youth. He would become a fine man, she thought, and smiled, with a fondness that caused her to ache.
How the gods play with me, she thought, shaking her head and sighing loudly, the noise jarring her out of the daze that had fallen over her as she spoke with the boy.
Behind her, raised voices brought her back.
“What is this about, mage? Is the healer a half-wit?”
“She is tired, prince. We have hurried to get here, and the travel has taken a toll on all of us. The girl is as talented a healer as the Academy has to offer. Willem would not have sent her had it not been so.”
Caryss paused, trying to find the words to explain what she had seen. And then she knew. Just as Crispin was not ready to meet the boy, she knew, too, that the boy was not ready for his father to see him. Not yet.
It is not my story to tell.
Turning back to the prince, she said, “Forgive me, sir, Aldric is right. I have had little sleep, and perhaps dozed off while we waited. But I would still see the King.”
She let her eyes meet his, and she saw that he did not believe her. Finally, he gestured for the group to follow him, and, within moments, they were outside his father’s door, which appeared no different than the other doors that had lined the long hallway.
“There are still guards inside. Say nothing until the men leave the room,” he whispered before placing his hand on the center of the metallic door.
After resting his hand on the door, Crispin stepped back and waited for the door to swing open, which it did, slowly, revealing a large, dimly lit room. Caryss could see little else, but trailed Crispin as he entered. She kept her head down, unsure why she did so, but she could sense a large amount of mage-work throughout the room, and the idea of so much power made her uneasy, especially as she had seen so little of it at the Academy. Without looking up, she tugged at her dress, knowing that it fit snugly across her midsection.
Crispin was speaking to the men still inside the room, four in total, positioned at each corner of the large, carved bed frame. What he said, she could not hear, but the men departed, although she knew they would not go far.
When the door was once again closed, she raised her eyes, letting them quickly scan the room, before resting them on the man lying asleep on the massive bed, dark wood shaped into spiraling turrets. He was draped in a finely woven blanket, covering him entirely, except for a pale, spotted face that was thin and drawn, eyes closed and mouth slightly open. The king looked ill, yet he did not appear any worse than many men of his age that she had treated at the clinic.
Her voice low, she asked, “Can you tell me of your father’s pain and what seems to worsen it? Also, I will need to know what the other healers have done for him, as well as what they have suspected him of having. And what medicines he has been given and takes now.”
Shaking his head, Crispin answered, “I will have the Palace Master prepare a list. You need to understand that as far as any healer can say, my father’s illness is not treatable, and, had it been, they would have healed him by now. Truth be told, there might be little that you can do, but I had to try.”
With no further interruptions, Crispin hurriedly explained how, over the last few moon years, his father would spend hours in bed, unable to speak. But, often, he would recover enough to emerge, ruling once again. At other times, he would have moments when he seemed well-healed, weak, but sound. Yet, those moments were few of late, and his father had rarely left his room over the last few moons.
As Crispin talked, Caryss watched the sleeping man, noticing the rash that covered much of his body. With one hand on her healer’s belt, and the other on the King’s blanket, she asked, “Might I examine the King?”
The prince moved toward the bed and gently uncovered the King. “Father, there is a healer here who wishes to look over you.”
The king did not respond, nor did it seem as if he had heard his son’s words. Yet, Crispin stepped back, allowing Sharron to take his place across from Caryss.
Rubbing her hands together to warm them before she laid them on him, Caryss bent forward, placing her fingertips against Herrin’s neck. Next, she placed them on his wrists, feeling for his life pulse.
Turning to Sharron, she stated, “Rapid beating, much too fast for a man at rest as he has been.” Just before she lifted her fingers, Caryss hesitated, pushing them against the man’s thin skin once more.
“His life pulse has slowed now and barely beats. His hands are cold, as well, although his chest is warm. Blood movement must be checked. No fever or signs of infection, although his skin is irritated, and there are numerous areas of mottling.”
As she worked further down his body, Caryss continued to call out observations to Sharron, who had at some point taken a thick pad out of her own healer’s pouch and was writing down what Caryss was saying. The other four men in the room did nothing to interfere, nor did they speak. After she had finished examining the King’s body, Caryss addressed Crispin.
“I must try to wake your father. First, I will try to rouse him as if he were only sleeping. But if that does not work, then I will try to do so by other means.”
“Other means?”
“Yes,” she distractedly told him, “I have a few mixtures that I have brought with me, and I believe that I should be able to wake him for a bit with one of them. It is very important that I speak with him.”
“Are you mage-trained as well then?”
Without looking in the King’s Heir’s direction, she answered, “No, I have no talent in that area, but I have long been interested in the herb garden at the Academy, as well as investigating those used in other parts of the world. I do not believe there are many who could rival my knowledge of herb lore.”
When he did not argue, she slipped her fingers into a pouch and drew out a darkly colored bottle. The glass itself was clear, but the liquid inside was a dense, deep purple, nearly black.
“Before I open this bottle, I will try a few more times to wake your father. But, if I am not able to do so, I will need to have him drink a few drops of this mixture. Is he able to swallow?”
“What does the bottle contain?” Crispin asked.
Holding up the small bottle, Caryss explained, “Mostly it is peppermint, grown at the Academy. However, the dark color you see is a result of a combination of two things. The kola nut and a coco leaf, although there is a bit of licorice in there as well. All four work together as a stimulant, and, in your father’s case, should increase his life pulse enough to wake him. His heart beats too slowly, although, it often jumps and speeds up as well. If I am to help him, then I will need to try to regulate both his life pulse and his beating heart. The herbs themselves are harmless when used as I will use them. The kola nut and the leaves I must get from the Southern Cove Islands. Not many know how to use them effectively, so I understand your concern. I should add that there is a touch of hemlock as well.”
She looked back at him then, knowing that even he would know how deadly hemlock could be, and asked, “Do you know the Healer’s Oath, my lord? I seek to do no harm here.”
“If my cousin had not sent you, then much would be different. For now, you can proceed.”
His words were enough, and Caryss set the bottle on her lap, returning her attention to the King, softly calling his name and rubbing his shoulders, then gently moving her hands about his chest in a circular motion. A few times, Herrin stirred, yet his eyes remained closed, and Caryss shook her head.
Toward Sharron she said, “He sleeps as if he has been sipping poppy milk or lavender tea. What more would you try?”
Across from her, the other woman answered evenly, “If you had time, you could wait until the effects of the herbs wore off, but as we have little to waste, I think we must see what the tonic will do. He should have woken by now.”
Had Caryss been watching, she would have seen surprise cross Crispin’s face as Sharron spoke. For she was as Northern as Caryss herself, although her dark hair and eyes did not make it seem so. The room quieted as Caryss uncorked the bottle, the scent of peppermint filling the air. Behind the crisp smell of the mint was a bitter stench, strong and energizing. Deftly, she placed a dropper into the bottle, filling the clear tube with the dark liquid. When she moved nearer to the King, Crispin walked toward the edge of the bed and a hand grabbed him above his wrist. Hesitating, he looked up to find the Sharron holding him tightly.
Quietly, she scolded him, “Let her work. We have traveled over a moon to be at the King’s bedside. Do no stop her now.”
Caryss looked up as Sharron spoke, noticing how she held onto the prince. Sharron, of a similar height to Caryss, wore her hair tied tightly at her neck, in a healer’s knot, the dark strands pulled away from her pale face. Her cheeks were flushed, as they often were, and her full lips red. Sharron was often quiet, yet Caryss was growing fond of the woman, who she had not known well before they departed the Academy. Like most Eirrannians, Sharron had a touch of mage-sight, although she spoke of it rarely.
Trusting Sharron to prevent Crispin from interfering, Caryss refocused on the King, telling him, “I am a healer from Tretoria, newly arrived from the Academy and I am here to see you well. In a moment, I am going to give you a few drops of a tonic that will rouse you.”
She knew that Herrin would not yet hear her words, but still she said them, as she had done many times at the clinic. Once she had finished, she nodded toward Sharron, who placed her hands beneath the King’s head.
With smooth and steady fingers, Caryss opened the King’s mouth, holding it ajar. Then, with her other hand, she dribbled the nearly black liquid onto his tongue, rubbing at his cheeks until he swallowed.
