Oracle (Book 5)

by Ben Cassidy

  Silvanus arched an eyebrow. “What in Zanthora are those?”

  “Salves,” said Joseph without looking up. “Ointments. They speed up healing, numb pain.” He gave the kitchen table a glance. “And prevent infection.”

  Silvanus leaned back and crossed his arms. “I see. Herbal medicines, eh? Half of that backwoods lore is just old wives’ tales, and the other half is liable to kill you.”

  Joseph looked up from his bag. “I know the difference between a greenrot mushroom and a jacoya root, thank you very much. You should pay attention. You might learn a thing or two about salves.”

  “Learn something?” Silvanus sputtered. “I happen to be an emeritus professor of anatomy, biology, and, and—” He flustered for a moment, his teeth practically grinding.

  “Physiology, dear,” Hetty called from where she was by the fire.

  “Yes of course,” Silvanus said angrily. He turned his face back to Joseph. “But if you think you know more about medicine and surgery than me, than by all means smear whatever kind of forest gunk you want all over your friend. This whole operation is practically a death sentence for her anyways.”

  “Dear,” said Hetty quietly, “do try to calm down. Remember your heart.”

  “Regnuthu take my heart!” Silvanus stormed. He moved around the table and stuck a finger at Joseph. “You’re signing this girl’s death warrant, and you’re dragging me along with you. I can’t perform a surgery here, under these conditions. It’s impossible. The risk of infection is too high. I don’t have any of my proper surgical tools. The lighting is terrible, and I have no assistants—”

  “I’ll be your assistant,” Joseph said. His voice was so low that it could barely be heard over the crackling of the fire. “Once the surgery starts I’ll do whatever you tell me.”

  “You?” Silvanus threw back his head and snorted like a wild stallion. “Ridiculous. Preposterous.”

  “I would do it,” said Maklavir as he put the pail of water down on the kitchen floor by the fireplace, “but I have this thing about blood. Makes me a bit queasy at the best of times, and I’m rather afraid I tend to faint when I see it.”

  Silvanus stared at Maklavir, then back at Joseph. “You’re killing her. You know that, don’t you? And you’re forcing me to participate in her murder. Well, I tell you I won’t do it.”

  Joseph carefully set the last bottle of salve on the counter, then looked up at Silvanus. “We can’t kill her. She’s already dead.” He gestured over to Kara, who was sitting placidly in a chair by the table. “Look at her. What if she was your wife? Your daughter? Would you let her live like that if there was a chance, even the smallest chance that you could save her?”

  “He has a point, Silvanus,” Hetty said. She came up to Kara and brushed the girl’s red hair out of her face. “Poor dear. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

  “Great Eru in Pelos, woman, don’t take his side!” Silvanus thundered. “These two men have taken us hostage and are forcing me to perform surgery.”

  Hetty turned. “But just look at her, Silvanus. If there is anything you can do to help her, wouldn’t you at least try?”

  “Please,” Joseph said softly. “We’ll be gone by mid-morning, I promise. And if she dies then there’s no blood on your hands.” He looked long and hard at Kara. His eyes were bleary and red from lack of sleep. “I would do it myself, but I know that this is beyond me.” He glanced back at Silvanus. “I need a surgeon. Someone to get the last few shards out of her.”

  Silvanus was quiet for a long moment. “You’ve had medical experience?”

  Joseph nodded. “I’ve patched wounds, pulled out bullets, sewn up gashes. Combat injuries, mostly. But I also know a thing or two about forest gunk, as you call it. There’s hardly a disease that I can’t whip up a cure for.”

  Silvanus chewed on his lip for a moment. He looked at Kara, then at his wife’s sorrowful face, then back at Joseph. He sighed. “You know there’s no guarantee that removing the shards will produce any kind of change in her condition?”

  Joseph’s face darkened. “I know. But we have to try.”

  Kara began to chant in her low, sing-song voice.

  Hetty backed away suddenly, her eyes wide.

  “Fangs in the east, shadow in the south,” Kara sang. “A fire rises in the west.”

  The room seemed to grow suddenly chill.

  “What’s she saying?” Silvanus asked.

  Joseph ignored the question. “We don’t have much time. We have to start now.”

  Silvanus shook his head. “We need anesthesia.”

  Joseph reached into the herbal satchel and pulled out a large flask. “Xoma scent,” he said. “Now let’s do this.”

  “Seek the raven lost in the sea,” Kara said, her eyes glazed over. “The raven lost in the sea.”

  Silvanus gave a slow nod of his head. “All right.” He reached for the Xoma scent.

  “You still look positively chilled,” Hetty said. She put a steaming mug of tea down on the table next to Maklavir’s chair. “Here.”

  Maklavir picked up the mug with smile. “Thank you, Hetty. You’re too kind.”

  The woman shrugged and sat down in another chair in the small drawing room. “Just be glad that there was any hot water left at all.”

  Maklavir glanced anxiously at the dark hallway that led back to the kitchen. “Do you think…?” he asked weakly. “I mean, do you suppose…?”

  Hetty leaned forward and patted Maklavir on the arm. “I wouldn’t worry if I were you, Maklavir. No news is still good news.”

  “Right,” Maklavir mumbled. He took a sip of the scalding tea, moving the liquid around in his mouth quickly to avoid being burned. “Look, Hetty…” He paused for a moment, trying to find the right words. “I’m…sorry about all this. Barging into your home, I mean.”

  “And holding my husband and me hostage?” Hetty took a sip of her own tea.

  “Um, yes.” Maklavir took another drink, enjoying the sweetness of the honey. “I know this may not sound like much, but I’m really not a very violent man. Actually, I hardly know how to use a sword.”

  “Oh, I know,” Hetty said with a polite smile.

  Maklavir felt a vague sense of offense. “Really? How did you know?”

  Hetty set her cup down on the side table with a shrug. “I can read people very well. You don’t seem like a thug or a killer to me.”

  “Yes, well I suppose you’re right.” Maklavir cupped his hands around the hot tea mug.

  “Don’t feel too bad,” Hetty said. She took another sip of her tea. “Why, if I really thought you were dangerous I would have poisoned that tea you’re drinking right now.”

  Maklavir stopped with the mug halfway to his mouth. “You…what?”

  “Relax,” Hetty said with a laugh. “There’s nothing wrong with the tea.” She reached over towards some knitting that was lying next to the chair. “Besides, only a gentleman drinks tea, not a brute. In the future you might want to consider a more threatening drink of choice. I would suggest beer or coffee.”

  Maklavir took a thoughtful drink. “Black tea, perhaps?”

  Hetty shuddered. “No milk or honey? Sounds positively barbarian.”

  Maklavir gave a half-hearted smile. He glanced back down towards the hallway again. His foot tapped nervously on the carpet.

  “So,” said Hetty as she began her knitting in earnest, “how long have you been in love with Kara?”

  Maklavir choked, almost spurting his mouthful of tea onto the carpet.

  Hetty waited patiently, her knitting needles clicking together.

  Maklavir finally managed to swallow the tea, then gave a sputtering cough. He looked up at Hetty. “In love with Kara?” He gave his trademarked lopsided smile. “I assure you, madam, I have no idea—”

  Hetty arched an eyebrow and gave a knowing smile. Her knitting needles continued to whir in action.

  Maklavir gave a heavy sigh and collapsed back into his chair. “Grea
t Eru. Is it that obvious?”

  “I told you,” Hetty clucked, “I’m a good judge of people.”

  Maklavir leaned forward in his chair. He clasped both hands together in front of him. “Listen, Joseph can’t know. He—” Maklavir paused, searching out his words carefully. “He adores Kara. Always has.”

  Hetty gave Maklavir a piercing look. “And you never intended to fall in love with the poor girl?”

  Maklavir looked back at the hallway to the kitchen. “Yes. I mean no.” He made a face, tapping the fingers of his hands together. “It just sort of…happened. I didn’t mean for it to, wasn’t looking for it, but then one day I found myself—” He took a breath. “Well, looking at Kara in a totally different way.”

  Hetty pulled the yarn. “And does she share your feelings?”

  Maklavir rubbed his face, his eyes still on the hallway. “I…don’t know. At least I can’t be sure. I thought perhaps…” He stopped mid-sentence, as if realizing that his thought was foolish. “Look, a lot has happened. The Despair came, and Kara was possessed by the Seteru, and she’s been in a coma all this time—”

  Hetty gave an understanding nod. “I see.”

  Maklavir was silent for a long moment. Try as he might, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the dark hallway. “I’ve been with a lot of women in my life. But I’ve never really…” He paused.

  “Cared about any of them?” Hetty prodded. She finished the row on her knitting.

  Maklavir gave a sober nod. “No. Not until Kara.” He flopped back in his chair, his arms splayed out on the rests. “I’ve been busy, you understand. A full life as a barrister and a diplomat. I was in the King’s service. I was travelling—”

  “Oh come now, Maklavir,” said Hetty sharply. “There’s no point lying to me, or to yourself for that matter.”

  Maklavir blinked in surprise.

  Hetty kept her gaze on her knitting. “You’ve been afraid of committing to one woman, afraid of settling down to a dull life of domesticity.” She looked up at Maklavir as if he were an eight-year old boy. “So you’ve kept women at an arm’s length your whole life. It certainly has nothing to do with your career.”

  Maklavir opened his mouth, then shut it again. He stared at Hetty in stunned silence for a long moment, then raised a finger. “Now look here. You don’t know anything about me, and—”

  Hetty gave a lilting laugh. “I don’t need to know anything about you, Maklavir. You’ve already told me enough.” She put her knitting down and reached for her tea. “I’m a woman, after all. I’ve been around a bit myself.”

  Maklavir frowned. “I hardly think that qualifies you to—”

  Hetty pushed a lock of gray hair out of her face. “Love is risk, Maklavir. A gamble. It’s certainly not for the faint of heart. Cowards do not love deeply, or live fully. You treat women the way you do because you are afraid.”

  Maklavir leaped up from his chair as if he had been bitten. “Now see here. I don’t have to—”

  Hetty took a sip of her tea, then put the mug back down again. “Have you told Kara how you feel about her?”

  Maklavir’s face worked for a moment. He paced back and forth, then looked down the hall again. “No, of course not. How could I? You saw her. The woman’s been in a coma for—”

  “Surely you didn’t fall in love with Kara while she was in a coma?” Hetty picked up her knitting and resumed. “So why didn’t you express your feelings to her before?”

  Maklavir tensed, his hands clenching and unclenching in agitation. “Well there wasn’t time. There was a temple, and Kendril’s blasted pendant, and an assassin—” He stopped, strangely breathless. He stared at the ground for a moment. “And—and I was afraid. Afraid she would reject me.” He straightened. “Or worse, laugh at me.”

  Hetty gave Maklavir a sidelong glance.

  “All right,” Maklavir said bitterly. “You were right. I am a coward. I always have been. Happy now?”

  “Cowards do not give up everything they have and break into a man’s home for the woman they care about,” Hetty said matter-of-factly.

  Maklavir sank back down into the chair. “Well, I guess there’s that.”

  Hetty sighed. “Why is it that men are always so ready for action, yet are so comically inept at expressing how they truly feel?”

  Maklavir looked over at Hetty. “You tell me. You’re the great judge of people, remember?”

  “That doesn’t mean I understand them,” Hetty said with a sad smile.

  “Right.” Maklavir twisted his hands together. “I just…I can’t stand the thought of losing her.”

  Hetty yanked on another stretch of the yarn. “My husband may be cantankerous and obstinate at the best of times, Maklavir, but he also happens to be the best surgeon in all of south Valmingaard. You’re in good hands with him.”

  “I hope so,” Maklavir grumbled. He looked up sharply at Hetty. “Not a word about this, please. Not to Joseph, or even your husband. I couldn’t—”

  “Please, Maklavir,” said Hetty with a good-natured laugh, “I’m not some kind of small village gossip. Give me a little credit.”

  Maklavir opened his mouth to respond.

  A loud knock came from the front door.

  Hetty paused, her knitting needles frozen in space. “We’re not expecting anyone,” she said in a whisper.

  Maklavir looked up, suddenly alert. One hand went to the hilt of his sword. “It’s still dark,” he commented with a glance at the drawn curtains. “Who would—?”

  “Open up,” a voice thundered from outside. The knock came again, loud and insistent. “In the name of the King!”

  Maklavir felt his heart flutter like a bird’s wings. He stood quickly, and ducked out of sight of the main hall. He drew his sword with a shaking hand.

  Hetty put aside her yarn and rose to her feet. She gestured questioningly to the front door.

  Maklavir tried to swallow, but his throat was suddenly constricted. Instead, he gave a short nod.

  There was another series of bangs on the doors. “Open up!”

  Hetty crossed into the main hall, and reached for the handle of the door. She glanced back once at the drawing room.

  Maklavir dodged back behind the chair he had been sitting in, pressing himself up against the wall. The sword trembled in his hand.

  Hetty opened the door.

  Two gendarmes, soaked from the falling rain, stood on the doorstep. Their tall bear caps dripped with water, and carbines with coverings over the barrels and firelocks were slung over their shoulders.

  Hetty gave an uncertain smile. “Good morning, gentlemen. How can I—?”

  “We’re looking for three fugitives, ma’am,” one of the gendarmes said roughly. “A woman and two men.” He put a hand on his sheathed sword. “We need to search your house.”

  Chapter 15

  “Take it off,” Kendril said.

  Tomas glanced at Kendril for a moment, then moved over to where Bronwyn was tied to the wooden column. He yanked off the burlap sack that was over Bronwyn’s head.

  The witch glared at the two of them. Her face was bruised on one side, the purple and black discoloration showing clearly on her pale skin.

  “The gag, too,” Kendril said.

  Tomas reached over and undid the handkerchief that was stuffed into Bronwyn’s mouth.

  The witch spat and coughed. She looked up and smiled.

  Kendril sat down on an overturned mill stone. “Hello, Bronwyn.”

  “Kendril,” Bronwyn said sweetly. She tilted her head ever so slightly. “It’s been quite some time. There’s something…different about you.” She peered hard at Kendril’s burned face. “Your hair? You’re growing it out?”

  Tomas raised a hand to strike the woman.

  “Tomas,” Kendril said sharply.

  The man hesitated, his hand still upraised.

  Bronwyn looked over at Tomas with a patronizing smile. “I don’t think I know you. Oh, wait, you’re the one who was in
the cave, weren’t you? The man who was so willing to do whatever I told him?” She gave a mocking little laugh. “Most people aren’t nearly so susceptible to my spells. Your will must be exceptionally weak.”

  “Shut up!” Tomas roared. His hand flashed down and cracked across Bronwyn’s face

  Her head lurched to the side. Tied to the post, she couldn’t avoid or block the blow.

  Kendril leapt up like a flash and grabbed Tomas, pulling him back. “Calm yourself,” he hissed into the other Ghostwalker’s ear.

  Bronwyn spat some blood out onto the wooden floor of the mill. “It’s just the two of you, then?” Her eyes twinkled, despite the obvious pain she was in. “You’re both dead men.” She glanced askance at Tomas. “You, I couldn’t care less about.” She switched her gaze to Kendril. “But you, Kendril….” She sighed heavily. “Such a waste.”

  Tomas reached for the knife sheathed at his belt. “Let me at her for five minutes, and then we’ll see who—”

  “Tomas,” Kendril said between his teeth, “outside.”

  Tomas looked over at Kendril with surprise and anger.

  Kendril kept his gaze steady on Tomas’ face. “Outside,” he repeated.

  Tomas passed a hand over his face. He blinked, then nodded. Without another word, he walked past the central mill stone, the pulleys and gears of the mill room, then out the door.

  The roar of the river sounded more loudly for a moment, then became muffled again as the door slammed shut.

  Kendril turned back to Bronwyn.

  “Well,” Bronwyn said, “you have me tied and helpless. What are you going to do with me now?”

  Kendril moved up towards her, his face hard. “I’m going to ask you some questions. And you’re going to give me some answers.”

  Bronwyn rolled her eyes. “That’s all? Really, Kendril. You have such a lack of imagination.”

  The mill room they were in was large and rectangular-shaped. Windows lined the river side, letting in the pale light of morning. Towards the back and opposite the door that led outside was a flight of stairs leading up to the second story.

  Kendril clenched his jaw, moving over towards one of the windows. He glanced down at the boiling white water of the fast-moving stream.