“I’d like to make sure that I have enough coin,” Quinn said.
“Your rooms have already been taken care of,” she replied.
She took him to a set of rooms that were small but well furnished. There was only one window and it was high above the street. One look and Quinn knew that even though the wall could possibly be scaled, it could not be done in secret.
“This is very nice,” he said.
“Thank you, sir, please make yourself at home. If there is anything you need, simply ring this bell,” she said, showing him a tasseled velvet rope. “I can have cool water brought to your room, or you may go down to the bathhouse. I can have one of our discrete companions join you, if that is your wish.”
“No, thank you. I’m waiting for a friend. If you could have some water brought up, that would be fine, thank you.”
“As you wish, sir,” she said, backing out of the room and closing the door behind her.
Quinn set his bedroll and saddlebag on a small bench. There was a large bed in the main room, with a well padded chair near the window. There was another small room with no windows and only a table carved from exotic wood and four matching chairs as furnishings. The entry room was small, as well, with a long, padded bench and hooks on the wall for clothing and hats. Quinn hung his new straw hat on one of the pegs and got his clean clothes out of his saddlebags. Then he stripped off his shirt, which was stained with sweat. It took him a while to get his boots off, and then there was a gentle knock on the door.
Quinn opened the door and found a young woman, perhaps Brianna’s age, carrying a large clay pot of water on her head. Quinn stepped aside and the woman moved easily into the room and then lowered the pot onto a small table next to a porcelain washbasin.
“Thank you,” Quinn said.
“It is my pleasure to serve,” she replied before walking back out of the room.
There were thick towels folded neatly by the basin, and Quinn first poured the cool water into the basin, then splashed it over his head and face. Then, after pulling off his pants, he wet one of the towels and scrubbed his entire body. He splashed more water over his face and head, finally feeling cool for the first time since leaving the Nightingale.
Once he was satisfied that he was clean, he pulled on his clean pair of pants before scrubbing the sweat out of his old clothes. He hung the wet garments outside the window and then sat on the bed. Fatigue came over him suddenly, and he wanted nothing more than to lay down on the soft bed and sleep. But he knew that he had work to do. It seemed like the counselor he had met earlier was already aware of the dire situation the Prince faced. Of course, it could also be that he was merely being honest and that Prince Wilam was simply a spoiled playboy. Somehow Quinn doubted that was the case. Either way, he would soon find out what was going on, and then he could formulate a plan to help Prince Wilam. He hadn’t traveled all this way to sleep on a soft bed and neglect his duty. He had given his word to King Felix and he would see it through.
He pulled on his boots, and although he didn’t buckle on his sword, he did arrange his knives in his belt. He had a special sheath in his boot for the third knife. He hadn’t used that sheath in a long time, but now he slid the weapon into its secret slot. He pulled his shirt on and then sat down by the window to wait. There was very little traffic on the street below and Quinn guessed that it was an alley. There was trash and debris littering the narrow space and only the occasional pedestrian walked through. There was a slight breeze blowing into the room, just enough to tickle across his skin.
He was trying not to sweat when the door opened and two men entered. One was tall and broad shouldered. He was wearing civilian clothes, but it was obvious that he was a guard. The other was the high counselor who Quinn had met earlier.
“I’m sorry for the clandestine maneuvering, but I’m afraid the Royal Residence is not a safe place to talk these days. My name is Pavic and I serve Prince Wilam as his chief counselor.”
“I’m Quinn,” he said, extending his hand.
“If the letter you showed me is true, the Prince is in even more danger than I thought.”
“It’s true,” said Quinn. “We need to get him out of the city. He won’t be safe anywhere, but he certainly isn’t safe in Osla.”
“Yes, but the Mezzlyn aren’t the only ones we need to worry about. The Torr leader, a man called Offendorl, is set on detaining him at the Council of Kings.”
“Why?” Quinn asked.
“The Torr is using the rumors of a dragon in Yelsia to move against us. He’ll convince the other kings to take up arms and march against us.”
“You mean war?”
“Yes. I think the Torr must have been plotting this move for a long time, just waiting on an excuse to rally the other kings against us. I know it sounds ridiculous, but sometimes rumors can be very useful.”
“The dragon is no rumor,” Quinn said. “I’ve seen it. Once at Brighton’s Gate, and then again south of the Northern Highlands. It wiped out over half of a King’s Legion of cavalry in one attack.”
“You can’t be serious?”
“I am,” Quinn said sternly. “It’s destroying villages and towns all through the north. The central cities are full of refugees, and unless my son, Zollin, can stop it, there is simply no telling how high the death toll might reach.”
“Your son?” Pavic asked.
“Yes, Zollin is a wizard,” Quinn said, his mind buzzing with new ideas. “He discovered his powers last year, and the Torr sent three wizards to capture him and take him back to their tower. We evaded them, and Zollin has killed two. The third joined with Prince Simmeron and he is the one that sent the Mezzlyn to kill Prince Wilam. Zollin defeated this third wizard, but the man escaped. Now King Felix is back on the throne, and Zollin has been sent to deal with the dragon. My guess is this Offendorl is more interested in capturing Zollin than in defeating Yelsia.”
“That would make sense, although I can’t see why the Torr would care so much about your son.”
“I can’t say for sure, other than the Torr has tightly controlled all the wizards in the Five Kingdoms for centuries.”
“Surely not,” said Pavic.
“Can you think of one? Can you think of a single wizard apart from the Torr that isn’t from a story or legend?”
Pavic thought for a moment and then shook his head.
“No, I can’t, but why do they care? Why do they need to control every wizard in the Five Kingdoms?”
“I don’t know,” Quinn said. “All I know is that they were violent in their efforts to capture Zollin.”
“Well, that news will help me with the council, but how can we help you?”
“I need to get Prince Wilam out of Osla. Let me take him back to Brimington. We’ll take a ship from there straight to Yelsia. It’s our best chance to avoid the Mezzlyn.”
“It would be, only the King’s soldiers patrol the road between here and Brimington. There’s simply no way you could go unnoticed. King Belphan is in Offendorl’s pocket. You’d be arrested and the Prince would be locked away in the Torr’s tower.”
“Oh,” Quinn said. “I hadn’t realized things were that bad.”
“I have spies who have told me their plans. Of course, the Prince can’t be seen leaving the city before the Council of Kings. Everyone would know he was privy to the Torr’s plans, and his flight would give them just cause to detain him and accuse Yelsia. I’ve built up a cover story that Wilam is a philandering sot. Anyone who knows him well would see it as a ruse, but the ambassadors here during Wilam’s term are all self-centered, egotistical men, with no thought except for how to elevate themselves at court. If you can sneak away and I can keep up the ruse, at the very least we can buy you some time to get out of the kingdom.”
“How will you keep up the deception once the Council of Kings begins? I mean, if Prince Wilam isn’t there, won’t everyone think he’s fled the kingdom?”
“I’ll cover for him, make excuses and do my bes
t to delay the council. At the least, it buys you time.”
“But won’t that put your life in danger?” Quinn asked.
Pavic smiled sadly. He didn’t speak for a moment, instead he just looked Quinn in the eye.
“You’re a brave man,” Quinn said.
“No, I’m not. But I’ve served Yelsia for a long time. I’m old and my dream has always been to make a difference. I think this is my last chance.”
“You don’t have to do it. You can leave with us,” Quinn said. “Come back to Yelsia and make a difference there.”
“No, I’m too old for that kind of adventure. Politics are the only skill I have. Besides, the three of us would be too easy to find and if I leave, someone else would have to pay the price for my life. Better that I stay and deal with things. I can live with that.”
“If you live.”
“It doesn’t matter. Live or die, I will have saved my Prince. I will have given my kingdom the best chance of meeting the future with success. I cannot ask for more than that.”
“I’ll say it again,” Quinn said. “You’re a brave man. I respect you commitment and your honor. Your sacrifice will not be forgotten.”
“Enough about me,” Pavic said. “We have plans to make if you’re going to escape the city unseen.”
Chapter 26
Mansel was hot, his mind reeling. He hurt all over and the darkness around him seemed alive. It reminded him of being underwater. He struggled toward the surface, but the best he could do were glimpses: a strange room with a thatched roof overhead, a woman’s face, voices he didn’t recognize. It felt like years were passing in a blur, but in truth it was only days.
He had almost ridden to the next village before he passed out. Somehow he managed to stay in the saddle as the horses moved slowly along the road. When they came to a small homestead, they wandered over to the well, but the water was too deep for them to drink. They were found by the owner of the home, a woman, older than Mansel but not by much. She was a widow, and her husband had been a fisherman. They had no children, and the woman had become something of a recluse, even though there was a village nearby. She found Mansel and helped him out of the saddle, but he was too big for her to carry into the house. He was already burning up with fever, so she cleaned and dressed his wounds, covering him to keep the sun from burning him further.
Once she had seen to Mansel, she turned her attention to his wounded horse. She cleaned and stitched the horse’s wound, but she knew they both needed healers. The village had a healer, but there were few animals and she didn’t know an animal healer. She went into town and brought the healer back to her home. He helped her move Mansel inside, and then he gave her herbs to boil while he checked the warrior’s leg. The wound was infected and festering, so the healer used leeches to suck out the poisoned blood. He gave strict instructions for her to places leeches around the wound several times each day and to dribble some of the broth she had boiled into his mouth. He also set the broken bones in Mansel’s hand, and wrapped it tightly with a long strip of fabric.
It took five days for the fever to finally break. The woman spent time everyday searching for leeches in a nearby stream. The ugly, discolored area around the wound in Mansel’s leg slowly returned to normal and although he was dehydrated, he wasn’t in danger anymore.
When Mansel finally woke up, he opened his eyes and looked around. He was lying on a narrow bed, the sheets damp with sweat. He didn’t recognize where he was or remember how he’d gotten there. Waking up confused was something he was used to. He often wound up in a strange place and sometimes with strange people when he was drinking. But he hadn’t been drinking, he remembered. He had been wounded. He flipped back the flimsy sheet that was covering his legs and inspected the wound on his calf. It had been lightly bandaged and there were strange marks up and down his lower leg.
He sat up, his head spinning a little, and his arms felt weak. He was hungry, but there was no one in the small house. He noticed the wooden floor was made of roughly hewn planks and the ceiling was made from thatch instead of wood. There was a fireplace, but it was dark and empty. There were two chairs and a small table in one corner with a large water pot and a wash basin.
“Hello,” Mansel said in a weak voice. He’d meant to say the word loudly, but it came out barely above a whisper.
“Is there anyone here?” he asked.
There was no reply. He decided that whoever owned the home must be outside. He struggled to his feet. His leg ached, but the pain was tolerable. His bandaged hand was sore, but not throbbing with pain the way it had been after the fight. He held the wall with his good hand while his lightheadedness passed. Then he staggered to the door. The effort took all his strength. He couldn’t remember feeling so weak, not even after days of seasickness on the Nightingale.
He pushed the door open and looked across the small yard. There was a stone-lined well and a large oak tree with spreading branches casting a long shadow across the yard. There was no one about, so Mansel staggered back into the small home and found a pitcher of water near a set of carefully carved wooden cups. He poured water into a cup and then drank it down in greedy, slurping gulps. The water was cool and tasted sweet. It rushed over his parched tongue and down into his dry throat with a delicious sensation that made him want more.
He drank and drank, his stomach stretching as it filled with liquid. Finally, when the pitcher was empty, he staggered back to his bed and fell asleep. He woke an hour or so later when the woman who had nursed him came back inside from her garden and began preparing her supper.
“Hello,” he said, his voice a little stronger.
“Oh!” the woman shouted. “I didn’t know you had woken up,” she explained as she hurried over and placed her palm on his forehead. “Your fever has broken, thank goodness. I was worried I might lose you.”
“Who are you?” Mansel asked.
“I’m called Nycoll. I found you passed out on your horse. Your leg was infected, but the healer leeched out the poison.”
“You mean, he used leeches on my leg?”
“Yes, to get out the infected blood. It worked quite well, but the fever was harder to break. Here, let me get you some broth. The healer said it would help you.”
She already had a pot of water boiling over a small fire in the hearth. She poured some into a cup, along with some of the dried herbs the healer had given her. She stirred the potion and carried it to Mansel, who was struggling to sit up in the bed.
“Where is your husband? I’d like to thank him,” Mansel said.
“I have no husband, he was lost at sea.”
“I’m sorry,” he said earnestly. “Well...thank you so much for taking care of me. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t.”
“It was nothing, neighborly kindness. Anyone would have done as much. I guess you killed the outlaws on the coast road?”
“Yes, I killed a few. They didn’t give me much choice, and I guess they almost returned the favor.”
He sipped at the broth, which seemed medicinal, but he was hungry and drank the potion anyway. He looked up at Nycoll. She seemed older than she was, more deliberate and certainly not carefree. She wasn’t beautiful, her face showed too much toil and sadness for that, but there was an elusive comeliness that Mansel found as he watched her. He wondered why any woman who could have a husband would choose to live alone. He had seen no other homes or any sign of a village when he had peered out of the doorway. Then again, she had known a healer, so there must be other people living close by. So why did no one come to her aid, he wondered? Surely there were men who would marry her and provide for her.
“Well,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone, “they’ll not be missed. They were harassing and robbing almost everyone who traveled this way. I can’t believe you killed three of them by yourself.”
“Actually, my horse trampled one.”
“The wounded horse? The one with the sword cut?” she asked. “We don’t have an animal h
ealer. I’m afraid the poor thing is going lame. I did all I could for it, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Mansel said, shaking his head. “Where are the horses?”
“I have a small stable. We had a horse at one time. I had to sell it when Mal died. I put your saddles and supplies in there as well. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Please, you saved my life. You don’t have to keep apologizing.”
“I’m not really used to having someone around. I’m afraid I’ve grown used to having everything my own way.”
“Why are you alone?” Mansel asked. He knew it was on the verge of being rude, but he just couldn’t understand why a young widow would not have remarried. He thought of Brianna; she was a widow, but she had moved on when Todrek was killed by mercenaries in Tranaugh Shire. Of course, she had only been married one day, but still, there was no reason why someone couldn’t move on and start a new life. He certainly would have, he thought.
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