by Cat Bruno
Beside her, Crispin was serious and grave, as if he believed the words that he half-growled. Caryss cared little for talk of gods and men, even less so the last few moons, and she nearly told him so. Nor did she think he to be very god-like, seated beside her on a narrow cot. Others, Rexterrans perhaps, might fear him, worship him even, but, to her, Crispin was no more than a man with gold-kissed eyes. And another man claiming allegiance to a god unknown, she thought, believing it to be madness.
But he was next in line to be king, and, across the hall, his father lay dying. It would not serve her well to make an enemy of the next Rexterran king. Still, she fought to stay silent. For Jarek, she remained so.
“The next morning, we departed with aching heads and rough-spun clothing. Nicoline had been given her own room, as often is the case for anyone from the Temple of the Moon. When we rode out, she was nowhere to be found. Moons later, I saw her once again.”
“In the King’s City?” asked Caryss.
With a quick nod, Crispin told her, “She was there with others from Planusia, from the temple. I was, well, I was no longer the horse trader whom she had met.”
“Was she terribly angry that you had hidden who you were?”
“It mattered little to her who I was.”
“What happened next?” she asked him as he rose from the bed, walking again to the curtained window.
Pushing aside the heavy, draping fabric, he stared into the darkness, flecks of orb-light sprinkling over him, coloring his dark tunic with bits of silver. For a moment, he glowed, as a god might.
When he next spoke, it was of Nicoline.
“I convinced her to stay in the King’s City even though she could no longer be an acolyte. For a moon year and a half, she stayed, living in a house near the piers that Willem had arranged for her. My father suspected as much, but he did not intervene. Not until later. After Delwin got involved.”
The prince’s hands were tightly clenched against the wooden frame of the window. His next words, deep and edged, cut across the room.
“Delwin and I had begun to argue more then, and he no longer accepted without complaint that I would be King’s Heir. He began following me, or had others do so, and, soon, knew of Nicoline and where to find her.”
Caryss remembered most of what Willem had told her of what had come next, but, without interrupting, she allowed Crispin to continue.
“Once Delwin knew of her, everything changed. Nicoline had told me of her life before the temple, of her mother, although she knew not who her own father had been. Did Willem tell you of her, Caryss? Of her past?”
For a moment, she hesitated, uncertain how much to admit.
“I know little of her and knew nothing of your son.”
Half-truths, Caryss was learning, helped one to survive in the King’s City.
She did not know if he heard the lie on her lips. “Before she entered the temple, she lived with her mother, who had once been a brothel worker. It was there that Nicoline was born and her father unknown,” his words trailed off.
“And Delwin learned of that?”
“He told my father of it all,” Crispin hissed, shaking his head as if he could change the past.
When the prince pulled back from the window, Caryss nearly gasped. Moments before, he had been rimmed in the soft silver light of the orbs, yet now, just steps from her, Crispin burned bright. Red and flaming, etched with fire.
When he spoke, the words no louder than a whisper, her skin burned, until she feared it would blister. His breath was fire hot, his eyes edged with flame.
“Delwin knew Nicoline was with child before I did.”
In the center of the room, where the prince was now standing, the air grew warm and smoky, a cloud of gray rising from his feet.
“My father tried to have her killed. Before the boy was even born, he had her house, the one that Willem had purchased, burned to the ground. When that did not work, his men tried to drown her,” Crispin choked, emotion thickening his words.
With a hand to her mouth to block the smoke, Caryss watched the prince as he closed his eyes, hands tight at his sides. For how long she could not tell, he said nothing, standing as still as a courtyard statue. Slowly, the smoke cleared. When she dropped her hand, her eyes stayed on Crispin. His own eyes, when he opened them, stared back at her, gold-rimmed, but flameless.
“Both my father and brother had learned much about Nicoline. But not enough. You have seen the boy, Caryss, and know there is more in him than the blood of Cordisian gods. It was the same with Nicoline, although she begged me to say nothing of it. Had I told my father of her skill, he might have relented and let me marry her. Or he might have tried to kill her sooner. I had played the game and lost. He made me choose.”
“Choose between what?”
“The throne and my son,” he cried.
Later, he whispered, “I am King’s Heir still, and my son knows nothing of me.”
“Your son knows you, my lord!” she exclaimed, jumping up from the bed, “He has mastered the skill of time-walking so that he might know you.”
“Why were you able to see the boy if I could not?” he pleaded to her, stepping back as the air once again warmed around him.
Time slowed.
Crispin, moments before blazing and bright, dulled to a faded shade of white, and Caryss fell back onto the cot. With shaking hands, she felt for the dagger, discovering it under the blanket that had fallen from her when she had risen in haste. Tightening her fingers around its worn hilt, she brought it toward her until the blade was hidden once again beneath her leg.
In a voice that she did not recognize as her own, Caryss said to him, “I am with child, Prince Crispin. And the babe is a god-touched, although no kin to yours.”
Had Aldric been in the room, he would have stopped her from speaking, and, she knew, he would have been right to do so.
When Crispin looked at her, she bit her lip until the bitter taste of blood seared her tongue, forcing her to confess no more.
“Does Willem know?” Crispin finally asked.
“Yes, but not many else do,” she answered softly.
“Did he advise you to tell no one, including me?”
Her only answer was a quick nod.
“You should have listened,” the prince fumed.
When she said nothing, he asked, “What was he thinking to send you here?”
Again, she said nothing, recognizing her error.
“He has become a fool since I last saw him!” Crispin hissed, striding back to the window.
With a sigh that deepened as she breathed, Caryss explained, “I am here to heal your father, naught has changed. I am a healer, prince, with oaths and training. The babe does nothing to change that.”
Her words, she sensed, mattered little. And when Crispin faced her again, Caryss was not surprised to see the fury on his face.
“As king, one of my first acts will be to see to the instruction offered at the Academy,” he told her, with disdain. “You have been here less than a day and already you admit to me that you are with child. And not just any child, but one with the blood of gods in his veins! This is not Litusia! I just told you of how I cannot even trust my own brother, and, within minutes, you tell me what few know. You will not last long in the King’s City, Caryss.”
Before she could reply, Crispin had crossed the room, stopping in front of where she sat. “You have the body of a woman grown, but the mind of a child,” he yelled. “Was I not clear when I requested a healer come in secrecy? Was I not clear when I warned that none could know your purpose here?”
“Tell me of whom you’ve encountered and spoken with since being here, Caryss,” he demanded, drops of warm spittle falling onto her bared legs, uncovered by the too-small robe.
“If you seek to scare me, my lord, you should not waste your time,” she told him, more calmly than she felt.
Faster than she thought possible, he grabbed her, his hands pulling at the loose sleeves of her
underdress as he yanked her up to face him. In her hand, she gripped the dagger, letting her arm fall just behind her hip, knowing he could not see what was hidden there.
“Who have you told about the King?” he hissed, his breath hot and wet against her forehead.
Spitting words at him, with a defiance that was unfeigned, Caryss answered, “I am not the fool you think I am, prince. None know that I am here, and only a whore that I helped at the piers knows I am a healer.”
Without releasing her, he said, “My cousin sent you into a pit of snakes that will curl about your legs and climb up your body until they wrap themselves about your neck. They will squeeze the light out of you, Caryss, and they will kill you, laughing as they do so. You should not be here. You are not fit to live among the snakes and rats.”
Feeling his hands relax, she stumbled away from him, nearly tripping over the edge of the cot. With her back to the window, she looked to him, realizing she had misjudged him, and, she could admit, now feared him. He was right, she now knew, the King’s City was nothing like Litusia.
“If I leave, your father will not live.” she called to him, letting her eyes fall upon his. Let him know my words for truth.
“If you stay, I fear that I will be unable to keep you safe. If any find out about the babe, you would become little more than food for the vultures.”
“You make little sense, Crispin. I am a healer! Few would even think to threaten one such as me.”
“Aye, you’re a healer. A beautiful, quick-witted one. But, you are a fool nonetheless. You trust too soon. And ones whom you should not. Have you thought that I might be lying to you, Caryss? That I didn’t see the boy because he did not want me to? That he does not want me to see him because he knows that if I do, he will soon be dead?”
When he stepped closer to her, she pressed her back into the window, all color fading from her face.
“You would not kill your own son,” she gasped.
Again his hands were on her, pinning her to the window. Behind her eyes, the room began to darken, tinged in red.
“Over ten moon years ago, I chose the throne over him. If I must do so again, I will.”
Shaking her head, Caryss gazed at him. She did not believe his words, yet questioned why he had spoken so.
“You sent for a healer,” she mumbled, trying to make sense of what no longer did.
“If my father dies now, I will have a fight ahead that I am not yet prepared for. Nearly all is a game in the King’s City. All! And all you have brought is a fallen mage, a woman, and two guards who were bought. You have lost before the game has even begun,” he railed at her.
“You know nothing of me, prince,” she hissed, anger burning hot as the babe finally woke.
The prince was so near to her that she could feel his life pulse as it thumped against his tunic, his chest against her own. She could have pushed him from her, Caryss knew, feeling the strength of the babe growing, yet she did not.
“Tell me of the babe’s father, Caryss,” he whispered, the words suddenly soft and sweet against her ear.
Caryss paused, then turned her face until his lips were near her own. With a half-smile across her face, she told him, “I will tell you nothing more.”
Her words were so close as to be a kiss, yet neither moved.
Finally, the prince pulled his head back, slightly, and asked, “Who is he? If the babe is god-touched, she will have both friend and foe. I might be able to help.”
Feeling as if her legs were near to collapsing beneath her, Caryss struggled to stand. The prince’s words, his last ones, only added to her unease.
I will not tell him of Conri, she vowed.
“How do I know which you are?” she breathed.
Laughing now, the prince’s eyes were light and glimmering, as if nothing had changed. “You are learning, girl,” he told her, stepping back.
“How fares my cousin?” he added, from across the room.
Hesitatingly, Caryss replied, “He is the same as when you last asked, I would guess.”
As if she had said too much, Crispin clapped his hands together, the sound clanging around the room until Caryss thought that Aldric and Sharron would wake. No knock came.
With a suddenly throbbing life pulse and a cool air around her, Caryss asked him, “What have you done to the ward?”
His smile bright, his teeth straight and white, Crispin teased, “The student continues to learn.”
“What have you done to the ward?” she screamed, now knowing that none could hear.
“It has been strengthened. You need not worry.”
“What is it that you want from me, prince?” she asked, her voice low, as if her screams had left her throat raw.
“Is the babe Willem’s?”
When she did not answer, he said, “Why would he send you here alone like a bone to the dogs?”
Again, Caryss did not answer.
“Did he truly think you would be safe here? That his child would be safe? He has been gone for over ten moon years, but Delwin hates him still and would see him dead. I had thought him to know better. He has forgotten the ways of Rexterra.”
“You speak of him as if he did not sacrifice his own life for yours!” she scolded.
“Is that how he tells it?”
“You are here, and he is not. That is story enough.”
The prince’s laugh was harsh when it next came. “How well you play your role as healer. Tell me who you really are, Caryss,” he said to her, roughly.
It was her turn to cross the room in long strides, closing on him with the dagger still clutched in her pale fingers, the black blade shining and sharp against her hand.
When Caryss was within reach of him, she cried, “For half of my life, I have trained as a healer. You will find few who know as much as I do. I play no role, other than the one I have since I first entered the gates of the Academy. I am a healer, no more. I have little interest in these games you speak of, and less in what you think of me. I am here to do as I must, as my oaths bind me. I am here to heal the King. Nothing more.”
“Sent here by a man who was too afraid to come himself!” Crispin retorted angrily.
“Your memory is faulty, prince, and you forget that you are the reason he can’t return. I thought Willem to be more than cousin to you, and, now, you speak as if he is more enemy than kin.”
“I had thought so, too, but he makes me doubt his good sense by sending you here, as if in sacrifice.”
Caryss let him believe the lie, having realized that it was safer for Crispin to believe the babe to be Willem’s than the daughter of a Tribesman.
“Did Willem think none would know the babe as god-touched? Blood is blood, and the babe will have enough to be fire-kissed.”
“I know not what Willem thought,” she huffed, growing increasingly weary of the prince’s questions.
“If the babe is born in the King’s City, will you keep it hidden? Was that the plan?”
“Write to your cousin and ask,” she curtly told him.
Watching as his eyes brightened, Caryss stepped back, now able to recognize the streaking of his power as the flames in his eyes flashed.
“It will not be long before my brother learns of you, despite my efforts. As a healer, you would be offered protection. As the mother of a traitor’s son, you will get none. As the man who brought you here, I will have to answer for that. No good can come of you being here, Caryss.”
“No good? Is the King being healed not what you sought?”
His eyes, gold and orange, scanned her. Standing in the thin dress, Caryss shivered under his gaze. Suddenly fearing that he would see the dagger, she backed away from him, keeping her hand behind her. His next words made her stop.
“What I seek is the throne.”
“Then why send for me?”
“I need my father to remind the people of Rexterra that I am his chosen heir. He needs to be well enough to do so, and, these last few moons, he has not been.”
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Her mouth falling open, Caryss exclaimed, “How easily you admit to being the snake you warned me of, Crispin.”
“My father took my son from me. I will not have him take the throne as well!” he roared.
In less than a day, Caryss had come to understand that in the King’s City, power reigned and deceit rewarded.
As if her own gray-green eyes were aflame, she looked at him, her life pulse flittering. Her back straight like a Northern pine and her eyes as clear as the rivers of Eirrannia, Caryss cried, “Your son is better off without you.”
By the time he reached her, Caryss saw him through a haze of red. Her hands steadied as she shifted the dagger.
When his hands reached for her, she raised her own, striking at him with the dagger’s hilt. The blade, black and sparkling, was gripped taut in her hand.
Blood dripped from Crispin’s cheek, just below his eye, where the dagger’s handle had sliced open his skin. Looking down at her fingers, she saw that she, too, was bleeding.
Wiping the dagger on her tunic, she calmly stated, “If I had used the blade, you would be dead.”
As Crispin reached to feel the wound, Caryss walked to the cot, squeezing by as he stood stunned and silent. Once more she wiped blood from the dagger before sliding it into the sheath that lay on the cot. Throwing the dagger onto the small side table, Caryss examined her fingers, quickly realizing that only the middle two had been cut, and neither was as bad as it could have been.
From a pouch that lay near the thrown dagger, she gathered bleached cloth, wrapping it tightly around the middles of her fingers. They burned, but she paid little heed to the pain, reaching for another pouch.
Without turning toward the prince, she commanded, “Sit on the bed.”
She thought he might argue, but was surprised when he said nothing. Stumbling, with a hand still to his cheek, he fell onto the cot.
“I have misjudged you,” he whispered to her as she sat beside him.
