White Prodigal

By Tamara Brigham

The path spred before Kavan, to undo an ancient wrong and cleanse away the primordial evil seething at the heart of Enesfel, at the heart of an Teren-Elyi conflict that had boiled for centuries, meant going back. Going home. Facing the pain he had tried to forget. Facing the adoration the healing of his hands would certainly generate.

Faci

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tamara Brigham
• Release date: Jan 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781733670814

Book preview

Chapter 1

Kavan!

Wortham Delamo was too far away to catch the pale man when he snapped backward away from the window sill he had been leaning on, thrown by an unseen force, hand clutching the small of his back, and then spun sideways before collapsing against the wall of their room in the best inn the sea-side city of Pa’aliaka had to offer. There was agony etched on the bard’s unaging features, though there was no sign the captain could see of physical injury. The pupils of his emerald eyes were dilated, full of unshed tears, the witness to something far away that Wortham could not view.

Lifting the slender man in his bearlike arms, Wortham carried him to the bed, thinking to settle him there and fetch a physician, but Kavan clung to him with incredible strength, whimpering like a terrified child, and though the Elyri’s unusual behavior was disconcerting, it was reassuring to know he was not lost. He was present enough, aware of his surroundings and not sucked into some distant place, to seek the comfort of his dearest friend’s company. Such an occasion was so rare that the captain felt obliged to accommodate Kavan’s wishes, though at the first hint of physical distress, he would find a way to summon a physician with or without Kavan’s permission.

Pregnant, volatile clouds pushed towards the coast from across the eastern sea, blanketing the horizon. Thunder crackled in the distance for the first time that evening, charging the hot night air. There had been no trace of an impending storm all day, and when the four travelers took rooms for the evening, it was with the expectation of a night’s rest in decent beds and a calm start for their journey north at the first light of dawn. Watching the clouds roll closer as he cradled Kavan against his broad chest, Wortham released a shuddering, frustrated sigh. k' Ádhá and Saint Kóráhm might look favorably on Kavan Cliáth, but the events of his life were rarely simple, regardless. While such happenings, such a lifestyle, did little for the captain’s nerves, it prevented his life from becoming boring.

Kavan moaned and grimaced as he shifted in Wortham’s arms to press his face to the man’s chest. How could this be? Not Ártur. Kavan had wanted a brief mental contact with the cousin he had not seen in many months, wanted to know the source of Ártur’s sudden vexation, but he had not expected this. There was too much pain, burning through every muscle, pulsing through his blood, crawling across his skin. He was trapped in it, powerless to push past it to formulate clear thought or make any effort to undo whatever had been done. Unable to break the link between them, uncertain he would if he could, Kavan could only share whatever torment his cousin was suffering. He had been through a very similar pain not long ago; those memories of torture seared him like quicksilver and made every nerve, especially those in his hands, throb and sting in recollection. But there were more assailants facing the healer, it seemed, and Ártur was ill-equipped to stand against them. He was a physician, not a warrior. He could not survive such an attack alone.

My Lord? Kavan? What about Ártur? What has happened?

Lifting his head to face the throaty voice, the bard did not see him. All he saw was crimson pain. Ártur should not be in the streets of Rhidam alone in the middle of the night. This attack should not be happening. Kavan should be there to protect his cousin…or someone should be. Killing was not something Kavan favored, but it was something he could do, something he had done more than once in his life. It was something Ártur could not do, however. He lacked the training and his Oaths would not permit it.

There would be no one to punish him or strip him of status if he did so, but his conscience would surely suffer.

The thought of death, of killing, sparked an idea. Could he be of such use from so far away? Would any effort he could make succeed, or would he damage…possibly kill… Ártur in the attempt?

The familiar sensation of a blade slicing into his flesh made him convulse. Biting his lip, he buried his head in the crook of Wortham’s neck, the man’s dark curls and beard serving as an emotionally secure shelter. Despite the pain, despite his distaste for death, he knew he had no choice. If he did nothing, Ártur would die painfully. At least if Kavan failed, his cousin’s end would be mercifully quick.

He reached into his center, gathered as much energy from within and without as he could harness, focused it through the mental link binding him to the man several thousand miles away…and let it go.

Chapter 2

Gaelán had given no thought to his actions, but he intuitively knew that pursuing the older healer was something someone had to do…and he was in the best position to do it. Nor had he given thought to what he would do when he reached the destination pulling him across the sleeping city. As he and Asta fled past one dark home and shop after another, the feeling of terror deepened in his belly. No one else knew where Ártur was heading, no one else, as far as he knew, was aware of the threats on the healer’s life. If Gaelán could not find him, no one would find him until it was too late.

He stopped abruptly mid-stride, bringing Asta to a halt since her small hand was clutched in his, and then, without a word, turned down an unlit side street.

The Boar’s Garden is this way, Asta started.

I know where I’m going.

It was partially true. He knew where Ártur had been heading, but something was leading him in a different direction. He did not know where he would end up, or what he would find when he got there. The sounds of chaos, a brawl in progress, resonated where there had been silence moments before, and the sense of fear he carried grew nearer, deeper, until he stopped. There was, as he stared at the sight in front of him, a hot, hard knot in his middle where his stomach should be.

He could not count the number of assailants; there were too many. They weaved about too much in the shadows and it was too dim to distinguish their dark-clothed figures clearly. But there was only one victim. It was Ártur’s healer’s bag thrown away from the skirmish as if a discarded bit of rubbish. Gaelán knew he should intervene, but what could he do? He was a child; any delusions of adulthood he had carried before were gone. He could not hope to confront so many armed attackers. Though he opened his mouth to shout, in the vain hope of distracting them from their assault, perhaps draw them away into a chase, no sound emerged from his constricted throat.

Asta’s hand slipped free. Before he could stop her, she disappeared into the shadows of the alley ahead. A second, unexpected, form followed her, larger but no less stealthy. k’Ádhá, Gaelán thought with horror. We were followed! Asta’s life was now in danger too. Too terrified to take a step, he listened to the screams of confusion in front of him and the running steps behind him. Thinking the screams to be Asta’s finally propelled him into action, but he went only a few steps before a violent surge of energy erupted from the midst of the melee, radiating outward in a powerful psychic wave, knocking Gaelán and others off their feet as a hand caught his shoulder.

There was silence. Everything ceased to exist at that moment except for Gaelán’s psychic senses. His head began to pound but his focus on the energy at his center felt stronger than it ever had, allowing his mind to withstand the worst of that burst. More footsteps thundered up the path, running past him towards where the melee had been.

Lachlan guards.

But there was no more movement where there had been fighting. Gaelán pushed stiffly to his feet, grateful to be by the man who had grasped his shoulder. Justice Corbin, as it turned out.

Once steady, the young man started forward again.

Master Cáner…

I’m a healer; Ártur needs me… He had to hope it was true, that the older healer could be treated, was not dead from whatever had just thrown Gaelán off his feet.

Having reached the same conclusion as the words were spoken, the Justice had already released him.

Though his feet no longer felt leaden, Gaelán found it more difficult to close the distance of the alley than expected. His stomach churned, alternating between fire and ice, with fear. Fear for Asta, fear for Ártur. But Asta stood beside her father, wiping her bloodied knife on the black trousers she wore. His relief that she was safe allowed Gaelán to turn his focus to where it was needed the most.

When he saw Ártur’s twisted, bloody form on the ground in the middle of several exploded corpses barely recognizable as men, he knew what had happened. Not just to Ártur, but to his attackers as well. And he knew what he had to do.

But there were too many injuries, more than he, as a novice thought he could heal in time to save Ártur’s life. Broken bones, lacerations, internal bleeding, and cranial damage of a sort outside of his experience. His young hands shook as he swallowed the bile at the back of his throat. It was too much for an apprentice, perhaps too much for any healer to fully tend before death came. And Ártur was slipping. There was a powerful third presence that Gaelán could feel when he put his hands on his mentor, a presence keeping the healer from death, a presence Gaelán did not have time to identify or recognize. He was certain, however, that presence was the only hope Ártur had.

He divided his attention long enough to say, I can’t…I need Syl…I will do what I can…then we carry him, get him to the keep…but there’s too much. I cannot do this alone.

He turned his focus to healing, losing track of those around him, trusting them to act, to protect healer and patient, without instruction.

***

There was no simple, immediately available explanation for the sensation of searing heat inside his skull, that spread down his neck, along his stooped shoulders, and into the muscles of his back. It was something that had never happened to him in all of the centuries of his life. There had been a mind-numbing surge of power in the eye-blink before the heat came, and a building discomfort and weakness shortly before that, the culmination of which left him psychically blind for the span of several gulped breaths. Thankfully, that blindness, and those sensations, subsided quickly and were gone now, leaving this uncomfortable throbbing in his head and overall weakness in his body that frightened him.

Balancing on the nearest stool lest he fall, he shuffled to the side, collapsed at his desk, and took up a quill from the inkwell. On the nearest blank sheet of parchment he found, he began to write of this event, to record it for posterity. bhydáni Tíbhyan did not know what this experience meant, but he knew it was important.

He wondered if anyone else, anywhere in the world, had felt it too.

***

The bard had grown still long ago, a stiff calm that might have been mistaken for death if not for the shallow rise and fall of his chest and the pounding heart that Wortham could feel against his breast. The captain continued to hold him, afraid of losing him, hoping that his mortal, Teren strength was enough to pull Kavan through whatever he was enduring. The smoky gray crystal the bard wore about his neck had glowed as if lit from within for several moments before the bard’s collapse into stillness, but Wortham did not know what it meant. It no longer glowed, and other than a faint redness on Kavan’s chest where the crystal rested against his skin, there was no visible indicator that anything unusual had happened.

When he did release Kavan, it was to reassure himself that the Elyri was breathing. He wiped blood from Kavan’s lower lip, where it appeared he had bitten himself, wrapped the man in the sheets with the hope that it would prevent shock, and then settled back to keep watch, with one milky white hand clasped in one of his rough, battle-scarred ones.

That something had happened to Ártur, Wortham had no doubt; the bard had muttered the healer’s name repeatedly before lapsing into silence. That Kavan’s state hinged on that, the captain also did not doubt. Whatever had occurred had not been good, and he prayed the healer was alive, that this would pass. But would it pass soon enough? They had a ship to catch in the morning, if the encroaching storm did not delay their departure. Wortham knew they needed to reach home as quickly as possible; they could not afford delays. If Kavan did not regain consciousness by morning, what were they to do then?

That question Wortham answered for himself once the flood of doubt and panic were banished from his thoughts. His lord had a duty. Kavan would return to Rhidam, would cleanse that ancient chapel and reset Enesfel onto its proper path, even if Wortham had to carry him the entire way home.

***

Something jolted Syl abruptly from her sleep. A quick check on the children revealed that Chethá was awake sucking contentedly on her fingers. Llucás was curled around his pillow, sleeping soundly, though the corners of his mouth and eyes and his fingers were twitching as though in a dream. She could not dismiss the waking premonition of trouble, of danger, and as it did not fade after rising, she made the rounds of her home. Elyriá was safe. Her doors and windows were closed. Bhen slept on the divan in the sitting room with a book across his chest, breathing deep though even his expression was restless and uneasy. There was no storm outside, the wind was calm, and she could see no movement in Bhryell’s pre-dawn streets.

Yet none of the seeming calm, none of the reassuring rightness of things, displaced the disquiet that gnawed at her nerves. Wrapping her pale beige wool shawl around her shoulders, she leaned on the sill in her infant daughter’s room, trying to focus on the source of alarm.

It was not the first time she wished she possessed some small measure of Kavan’s incredible gifts. If she did, she might be able to uncover the answers she sought.

Tonight, she could only wait and worry.

***

The young man’s hands fell away from his patient and he collapsed back against the sturdy legs of Caol Dugan. He was grateful, for his own sake as well as Asta’s, that the inquisitor was there.

His healing efforts were far from complete; he had barely succeeded in staunching the life-threatening internal bleeding. There was still so much damage to his mentor’s body that he could still feel though his hands were no longer splayed over the man’s torso. Despite his previous focus, the boost of power that eruptive burst had provided, his pool of energy was again too quickly spent. There was nothing more he could do until he rested and replenished his strength.

The Healer’s fate was no longer in Gaelán’s hands.

He nodded to the nearest guards who lifted Ártur on a cloak between them and started carrying him to the castle as quickly as they were able. Supported by Asta and her father, Gaelán intended to follow, hanging his head as he struggled to his feet, to stay upright so that he could walk on his own. He grabbed the discarded healer’s bag, refusing to leave it behind, but the weight of it seemed a terrible burden to bear. Tears streamed down his now dusty cheeks despite his attempts to wipe them away, stop them from falling. Ártur would die and it was his fault.

I have matters in hand here, Lord Dugan, said Darius Corbin with a wave. "Send General Agis; I will keep trespassers out of the area until you have the chance to look it over.

The inquisitor grunted, not expecting to find anything that would tell him more than he already knew. No one seemed suspicious of his early arrival at the crime scene, no one yet aware of what he had been doing this night, and Caol intended it to remain that way. The Justice shrugged off the non-committal sound as he circled the scene, seeking clues and evidence beneath the flickering light of the torch he carried.

Shifting most of Gaelán’s weight away from his daughter as they began the long walk back, Caol said, You have done what you can…

But it isn’t enough…

If you hadn’t followed him, no one would have found him until it was too late. Pulling a kerchief from her pocket, Asta gave it to him as she spoke, not finding his crying to be unmanly or improper. When she noticed her father’s questioning glance over Gaelán’s head, she shrugged. You gave him a chance to live. It is better than no chance. By the time we get back, you’ll be able to do more.

His tone puzzled and pensive, Caol asked, That wasn’t you, was it? Did you have anything to do with what happened to those men?

The younger man lifted his teary face. You mean the ones who exploded? He briefly considered that perhaps the inquisitor was implicating him in the attack. No, sir. I felt it happen…I mean, I felt the power of it…but I didn’t cause it. I can’t do anything like that.

Ártur?

I don’t think so. His oaths wouldn’t allow it.

Asta interrupted with a tug on her father’s arm, eagerly trying to interpret the confusion on his face. Do you think it’s important?

Could be…

I’ve seen this before…one other time…back home…

Caol’s breath caught. Gaelán’s words brought back the memory of decimated corpses in Levonne, after the attack on Kavan. He shook his head. But Kavan wasn’t here… he muttered. Not Kavan, perhaps, but someone else. Perhaps someone else had been present both times.

Gaelán shook his head, guessing at the man’s train of thought. No one else was there…no one who could have done…that… Caol’s mention of Kavan’s name confirmed something that Gaelán had not recognized in his rush to save Ártur’s life. He knew that power signature now. He knew who was keeping Ártur alive.

In the distance, the bailey walls loomed into view. Caol stopped walking, his expression thoughtful. Can you make it the rest of the way? If they were further away from the keep, if it was anyone other than his daughter, he would have stayed with them the entire way. But his daughter had proven her merit tonight, and child or not, she would make sure both were safe. I want to get back…

He had an idea and wanted to pursue it, while it, and the evidence, was still fresh.

Asta nodded, her chest puffed with pride as she pulled Gaelan’s weight against her. We will be alright, father. The sun is coming up…and it’s not that far.

Straight there…nowhere else…and wait for me, he warned, watching the two stumble and stagger towards the castle. If either was to be a target, it would likely be Duke Cáner’s half-Elyri, half-Teren healer son. But he trusted his daughter’s instincts, now more than ever. She had entered that fight unprompted, emerged unscathed after killing two of the nine assailants, which spoke volumes about her skill. Asta still had much to learn, but he believed he had chosen his successor wisely.

Turning back towards the scene of the crime, he hoped Healer MacLyr had done likewise.

Chapter 3

Waves slapped the wooden sides of the single-masted cog, a sound that soothed the captain’s agitation as he took another moist towel from Zelenka’s hand and replaced the now warm one on the bard’s forehead. The woman’s brown eyes were sad, her expression scared, but after the initial glance at her once they had Kavan settled, Wortham had not been able to look into her face again.

He should, he knew. She had given up her familial home because of a cultural superstition that seemed like nonsense to him, but she had left the southern lands, the world she knew, chosen to be on this boat now, to follow him. There was as much courage in that action, stepping off into the unknown, as there was the fear of being alone. It was courage similar in nature to Wortham’s own blind willingness to follow Kavan wherever the bard traveled. It would be considerate of him to show sympathy, understanding, and gratitude, to try to explain their situation to her better than he had, but his attention, his concern, were focused wholly on the comatose Elyri.

When Zelenka came before dawn to tell him that their chartered boat was prepared to depart as soon as the worst of the night’s storm passed, Wortham was forced to carry Kavan and most of their belongings to it. Urian, the blind monk who had traveled with them during Kavan’s southern pilgrimage, could not carry such a burden, though he did his best to help, and while Zelenka too carried more than was her share, she could not manage more and there were few coins left with which to hire help. The Elyri’s condition had not changed since slipping into this trance-like state. He breathed, occasionally twitched and muttered unintelligible syllables, but his eyes did not open and he did not shift in his apparent sleep. He could not carry anything. The choice was for Wortham to do it, making multiple trips, or else to miss their boat and await a change in Kavan’s condition.

Wortham would rather die than fail Kavan that way.

The cog pushed away from the dock not long after the four were settled. It was a merchant vessel, not meant for passengers. A corner of the cargo hold was cleared for the four and their belongings, and hammocks had been strung for them, but that was all. No luxuries, no beds. Passengers meant fewer goods that could be carried, hence the significant fee the cog’s captain had charged.

It had been necessary to sell the horses and the mule, which had to be done anyhow, and now Wortham fretted about how they would proceed once they disembarked in the port town of Yashir. He could not carry everything they owned. Particularly if Kavan failed to awaken. Urian, however, was confident that they would find what they needed, that k’Ádhá would provide for Kavan’s needs, whatever those were, as he always did.

Yes, Wortham thought glumly, listening to Zelenka move away as he toyed with the damp strands of the Elyri’s hair; k’Ádhá would provide for Kavan. But would he provide for the rest of them?

***

Try as he did, Gaelán could not stop weeping. He did so in silence, but the tears continued to fall until his eyes burned and his nose hurt from wiping it. By the time he reached the room where Ártur had been taken, he had recovered enough strength to heal the multiple fractures in the man’s skull, but that was all. Any more effort would have to wait until he had the opportunity of a good night’s rest. One of the Lachlan guards had been sent to gdhededhá Tusánt to bring Syl from Elyriá before it was too late to save her husband. Before Ártur died.

She had come, as Gaelán had known she would, and had been in that room ever since. He had been unable to look her in the eye.

The thought of his uncle’s death brought a renewed outpouring of tears, the weeping expending the energy he was trying to gather. Not even Asta’s arm around his shoulders helped. The King stood at the end of the corridor outside of the Healer’s room with his sister, the two speaking in hushed tones. Why were they not yelling at him, Gaelán wondered, demanding to know what had happened? Why did no one ask why Gaelán and Asta were out of the castle in the night? Why did no one inquire about why Ártur had left the grounds unguarded and alone?

They’re too worried about Lord MacLyr’s life to ask questions, Asta whispered. Gaelán looked at her in sorrowful surprise, knowing that he had not voiced those questions aloud. The girl’s shoulders shrugged as if to say she did not know why she had said those words, before looking at the Healer’s closed door. What is taking so long?"

Feeling another rush of tears, Gaelán wiped his face again on his long-ago soaked sleeve. There was much damage…and it can take a long time to find some of the smallest…I should have told them…this is…I did this…

Told who what, Gaelán? He met the princess’ worried and yet somehow stony gaze before hurriedly looking away. He was spared the need of responding by the opening of the chamber door.

Syl, her pale features more ashen than usual, stepped through the arched doorway, followed by the gdhededhá, her expression as weary as Gaelán felt. Princess Diona turned towards the sound, not waiting for the door to close again before asking, Will he live?

The King left his doorway sentry post to hear the conversation more fully.

I…cannot…it is too early to say. Syl’s voice was small as she wiped her hands on her healer-yellow smock. I’ve repaired as much as I can…as much as I found. There is swelling in his brain…which will either diminish and heal or… She swallowed hard, unable to continue. He must not be moved until he is stable, to give the head trauma time to heal. I will stay with him until I am certain he’ll live.

Thank you, began Diona.

Pressing on, Syl tried to hide her frown as she continued. I humbly request, Your Majesty, that he be released from service, to return to Bhryell where he will be safe. His life is not worth this…

Of course, King Hagan replied hastily, unable to deny the woman who had raised him, after his mother’s untimely death, anything she wanted. The royal house needed physicians, but putting Ártur at further risk was not what the King wanted either. Please do not hold me responsible for this, Lady MacLyr. I have encouraged him numerous times to go to Elyriá, to get out of Rhidam before something like this happened…

She nodded grimly. But he would not go. I know, My Liege…but I think he may change his mind after this…if he survives. He has children to think about…a family… Pausing again for breath in an effort to level her emotions, she murmured, How did this happen? Why was he out in the city at…?

My fault… Gaelán stuttered, bracing for a backlash of negative words and emotions.

Your fault? By her tone, he knew she found his claim difficult to believe.

But Asta interrupted protectively and put her hand on Gaelán’s knee. It is not his fault. He…there was a written threat…that Lord MacLyr ordered him not to speak of…

Believing she understood his guilt now, Diona squeezed his shoulder gently. He told us about it, Gaelán. None of this is…

Footsteps undercut her words as a soldier strode towards them from the nearest stairwell, a familiar face that was comforting to see.

What is it, Yorick? asked the King.

The soldier bowed and then straightened. Lords Dugan, Corbin, and Agis are on their way to the Stateroom if you desire a briefing on the matter of last night’s event. They sent me ahead to tell you…

Good. Excellent. Tell them I shall join them shortly. The King looked at each of those around him. Gaelán, Asta…since you both seem to know something of this matter, you will attend as well. I want to hear what you have to say. They were his friends, despite his jealousy over the relationship building between the two, but he could not extinguish the small sliver of hope that whatever part Gaelán feared he had played in this might be enough, not to punish him, but to prompt the apprentice healer out of Rhidam so that Hagan might have Asta to himself. Lady MacLyr, I will share the details with you later, if you prefer to remain here with…

Tusánt touched her arm gently. Go with them, if you wish, my lady. You said yourself there is little more to do than wait now. I will stay with him until your return. Go…hear what is said first hand. It will give you a moment’s rest.

And perhaps, his words went unfinished, prove some degree of comfort or peace of mind as well.

Taking her fussing infant daughter from the dedhá, cradling Chethá against her shoulder, Syl accepted the hand of the Boy-King to accompany him to the Stateroom. There was blood on Asta’s clothes, as well as Gaelán’s. Neither had taken time to change or eat. Syl did not question them yet; the story would come out soon enough. But the vision the two made as they rose from the hall bench, hand in hand, Gaelán refusing to lift his gaze from the floor, strengthened the feeling that despite Tusánt’s hope for peace of mind, Syl was not going to like what she learned.

***

Why have you invited me to your palatial home, cousin? Or, Prince Kjell set down his cup of wine and wiped his mouth on his napkin, a habit most of the de Cormick line did not share, is it something we should not discuss in the company of your guest?

Prince Harcourt of Hatu raised one brow but did not address the question. It was not his to answer. He had not come to Prince Owain’s home with any expectations and had certainly not anticipated meeting the Nethite heir-apparent, a name barely heard outside of Neth’s border, a man rumored, when he was spoken of, to be a simpleton. This man before him was no simpleton. Prince Espen was not confident in his position as a statesman in this place; if Owain asked for privacy to speak with his cousin, Espen would not be offended. But Prince Kjell’s boldness in bringing up some covert matter in his company gave Espen hope that he would be included.

Prince Espen is here on behalf of Princess Diona; it is she who will be most interested in the outcome of our meeting. Including Espen will remove messy communication problems. Owain lay his fork down and studied his kinsman evenly. Unless you feel that his presence might jeopardize your safety?

Both men knew, if Kjell feared that risk, he would not have brought up the possibility of including Espen in their dialogue. Kjell leaned back in his chair, pushing his plate away, and folded his arms across his chest. Little Prince Harcourt can do that could put me in any more jeopardy than I am already in. Unless, he eyed the dark-haired prince curiously, you have some direct access to my brother I do not know about and intend to inform him of my visit here?

If there was a threat or challenge in that question, Espen chose not to take the bait. There is no need, or wish, for that, I assure you. Nor can I imagine having a direct connection to Merkar and not having already made use of it. Please dispense with formality; Espen will suffice.

I shall, if you do likewise, Espen.

Motioning for his guests to follow him from the dining room, Owain sighed with relief. When he had invited Kjell to Fiara, he had not expected him to come. Hoped, yes, but not expected. Nor had he expected any discussion between them to include anyone else…just two kinsmen talking hypotheticals by the fire over glasses of brandy.

But Espen’s arrival at this time was fortuitous and Owain wondered if he should invite the Valdis King or heir, Renfrid or Govert, the High Mother, and Gabrielle, to join them. Such summit talks would be an ambitious undertaking but it was too early to press that advantage. He needed to gauge Kjell’s standing and intent before including anyone else in a united stance…against Merkar, against anti-Elyri violence, against certain leaders of the Faith.

He smiled as they stepped onto the back promenade. If this conference was the success he hoped for, he would see to such a meeting of like minds that included the other rulers at a future time.

Foremost, Kjell, I offer assurance that I did not invite you here to place your life in danger. Nor did I do so on behalf of King Hagan. What I seek comes from myself. My proposition could be of great benefit to all of us, but what we say here stays between us, unless…until…we jointly decide to include others. As such, Espen, I ask you to swear you will not share this with Diona, and definitely not Hagan, until we three decide upon a course of action.

While Espen did not want to hold secrets from Diona, he understood the diplomatic necessity of doing so at this moment. He nodded, settling on a bench as the others chose seating nearby. Diplomats in negotiation. Nothing more. I cannot speak on Diona’s behalf, nor on Noreis’, but I offer what assurances I may. Nothing leaves the table of this deal until we are certain of its arrangement.

A schooled diplomat, grinned Kjell. I like you Espen. I welcome you to hear these negotiations…such as they are. Whatever you wish to say, continue, cousin. I will hear you out.

Owain nodded with a long measured breath. I must stress, though I do not speak on the Crown’s behalf, that I assure you the Lachlans have no desire to destroy Neth’s sovereignty. We desire peace, desire for things to stand strong and fair between us, and I believe that is your desire as well, Kjell. A diplomatic accord that can guarantee continued peace would be to the good of all kingdoms.

You are aware that peace for Neth…with Neth…could result in our increased might, if things stand as they are. That might not prove to be so beneficial to Enesfel or Cordash…

It was the one thing, perhaps, that had kept Neth from overrunning their neighbors to the west and south. As long as the country was subjugated by a tyrant and kept from thriving, Neth posed no significant threat to anyone outside of its borders. He did not believe Owain was suggesting that particular status quo remain in place.

I do not believe renewed hostilities would have to be a necessary result. It has been many generations since the people of Neth have known stability…freedom from fear. The man who could deliver that would not be easily dismissed…or challenged, Owain said pointedly. I don’t think most would be interested or eager to leave that behind. If we…the three of us here, do our duty properly, there should be no reason for our kingdoms to be at odds any longer.

A lofty goal…but you are assuming that Neth’s ruler is open to negotiations…and is a reasonable man. Peace is the farthest thing from Merkar’s mind…as it was for generations of de Cormick kings before him. Or are you suggesting I claim the throne?

Have you any interest in it? countered Owain.

Grinning, Kjell slid from the bench onto the grassy ground. He did not object to looking up at his cousin, felt no need to be at eye level to be on equal standing with him. Would I be a de Cormick if I didn’t? If there was a way to overthrow Merkar without being responsible for his death…literally or in part…I would take it without hesitation. I do not want his blood on my hands. I do not want to be that sort of king. It’s the only reason I endure his unchecked nonsense and stupidity. I try to temper his actions without giving myself away…without letting him know I understand much more than he believes I do…

Espen fingered the edge of his tunic. It cannot be easy to play the fool, he murmured, hoping Kjell did not find the comment offensive.

Kjell shrugged. It was precisely what he did in the company of his family or anyone else at home. It had worked thus far. Worth the effort if it keeps me alive. I wonder sometimes why General Glucke does not prompt me to action or has not tried to kill Merkar on my behalf with the expectation of controlling me on the throne. I doubt he believes I have a master plan to act when the time comes…most believe me too simple for planning. Maybe he is waiting for Merkar to kill me, so that he, in turn, can murder Merkar and take the throne. It is an uneasy truce, but I doubt it will last much longer. Disliked kings rarely last long here…and Glucke is an old man. With his second, a fellow named Barre, firmly in my control, fortunes will swing in my favor…but perhaps not quickly enough.

Never quickly enough, not while he sends spies into Enesfel. What does Merkar want? I have executed three of his elite agents and turned away countless others at the border. Elyriá is fending off military units braving the mountain crossings. What is he after?

I do not know. There was undeniable honesty in Kjell’s tone. I know he is interested in the nature of your internal unrest. Perhaps he is hoping to take advantage of it. It would explain the spies. As for military exercises against Elyriá, only Merkar knows. Gluck says he wants a path into Enesfel at any cost, but will not tell me why. Yet even I know that trying to pass through the mountains is expensive, tedious, and ultimately futile. If there is a reason beyond typical de Cormick mulishness, Merkar has not disclosed it to me…or to Glucke.

For Neth’s top general to be intentionally excluded from the planning and purpose behind a royal command of the men beneath his leadership, it was not a good thing. For Neth, or for Glucke.

Not quite any cost, or he would simply throw troops at Enesfel or Cordash and attempt to force his way in.

Espen nodded in agreement with Owain’s words. He may assume that Elyriá is easiest because they lack a standing militia and thus are unlikely to produce trained soldiers? I would think that failing to find them such an easy target must be humiliating…

Which fuels his eagerness to succeed. He blames failures on the usual excuses…collusion with evil powers, the incompetence of his soldiers, his generals… Kjell shrugged again.

Which feeds directly into our current troubles, muttered Owain.

Then the rumors are true?

Espen smoothed his beard as he sighed. Anti-Elyri violence is rampant…throughout Enesfel. The King is working tirelessly to rectify the situation, but I do not know how he can be successful against prejudice and fear.

Hence our need for peace…at least between our kingdoms. Enesfel needs it. We have the capacity to protect ourselves, should Merkar’s efforts continue…and perhaps having a common, external enemy would distract the public from their current bent long enough for it to die down. No one wants war…except maybe Merkar…

Running footsteps interrupted his words moments before Owain’s son Piran erupted around the edge of the hedges. Father, I heard that… The boy stopped at his father’s stern expression and bowed his head after quickly looking at first one guest and then the other. I am sorry, Father. I did not know you had business.

Owain motioned the child closer, the apology gaining the boy immunity from immediate chastisement. You know Prince Espen, Piran. He paused, wondering how best to introduce Kjell, but the Nethite resolved the issue for him.

I am Madron. It is a pleasure to meet you, Prince Piran.

The little boy laughed. I am not a prince…am I, Father?

Your father is a prince, Espen answered for Owain. That makes you one too. My lord, if you need to tend your son, we can resume this business later…if Madron has the time to remain for it.

Eyeing both men skeptically, not wanting to detain either to humor his son, Owain asked, Are you certain it is not an imposition?

A boy needs his father, and a father should give his attention when he can, Kjell replied, with a melancholy note of longing. If it is acceptable, perhaps Espen can show me your grounds and we can…talk… Time alone to familiarize himself with the Hatu prince would be a benefit regardless of their topic of discussion. He wanted to know who he was preparing an alliance with, what sort of man his cousin trusted.

Owain, relieved, smiled. Of course it is. Shall we gather for the noon meal?

I will be here, agreed Espen.

As shall I. Kjell bowed and waited to speak again until after Owain departed with his hand gently, but firmly, on Piran’s shoulder. Madron is my mother’s family name, and my middle name, common in central Neth, he added, addressing the question he would have asked if he was in Espen’s shoes. A false claim, even a necessary one, needed to be addressed before it established an unfortunate pattern. It could be traced to me if Merkar wished to dig, but it would take more time than he would care to give me, I’m sure. My mother’s family is quite prolific I am told.

With so many Madrons to choose from, uncovering Kjell’s subterfuge would not be an easy task.

Will you accompany me on a tour of my cousin’s home, Espen?

Espen bowed his head and clasped Kjell’s extended hand, amazed at how much trust the Nethite was willing to extend to him. I would be honored to welcome your company. There is much we can learn from one another…that I think will be to both our benefits.

Kjell smiled. I agree.

***

If there had been any inkling of what lay in store for her and her brother, Princess Diona would not have sent Espen to Fiara. Without him, she had no one to confide in, leaving her anxious and uneasy. Kavan had fled Rhidam because of her impetuousness, Espen had been chased away by her inability to commit to what she wanted most, k’gdhededhá Tythilius was dead, and Ártur MacLyr was hovering on the brink behind him. Too much to bear alone, and yet not a burden she could easily share with her brother, the King. There had been a time when they had served as confidante to one another, a simpler time when their father was still alive, but that had evaporated with Hagan’s ascension to the throne. Nervously twisting her long black hair around her fingers, a habit carried over from childhood, she watched Gaelán’s distracted face on the opposite side of the Stateroom, Asta’s smaller hand clutched in his, both blood-splattered and dark-eyed and trying not to yawn. They had been awake too long, but at least it appeared that the novice healer had reined in his unchecked tears.

The story had come out in bits and pieces, at least as much of it as could be revealed to the King. The healer had received a message claiming Kavan was in need of healing at the Boar’s Garden on the northwest outskirts of Rhidam. No one at the table questioned why Ártur would risk going alone to aid his cousin in the dead of night without considering the dangers. Gaelán had found the message in Ártur’s room, and aware of the previously made threat on the healer’s life, deduced the letter to be a ruse and went after him, leading Justice Corbin and the guards on their search for the missing healer. Without Gaelán, they would not have found Ártur until he was abandoned, dead. Without Gaelán, the man’s internal bleeding would have been too long untreated and he would have no chance of survival. Gaelán was the hero of the night, even if he did not feel as though he was.

There were unanswered questions, however, as no attackers lived to give useful clues. Caol had killed one, Asta had killed two others, and the rest had been obliterated. The three bodies they had would be identified if possible, but the inquisitor had little hope of learning much about them, particularly since King Hagan demanded that the Association be kept out of the matter. Caol left the room in an angry huff, much to Hagan’s astonishment, but the young king did not have the nerve or experience or will to demand his uncle’s return.

The King, his sister, Justice Corbin, General Agis, Gaelán and Asta remained in the Stateroom after the others departed, Syl returning to her husband’s bedside. Hagan discussed at length what should be done with the Justice and General after sending a messenger to Levonne requesting Bhríd’s hasty return. The two youngest people, not yet dismissed, were ignored as if forgotten.

Taking pity on them, the princess rounded the table and joined the pair on the bench where they had been seated for the entire conference.

Gaelán?

My lady? he mumbled, trying agai not to yawn.

Always the gentleman like your father. Diona forced a light smile though she felt no lightness within. You look weary. You should sleep.

He shook his head, his stubborn expression looking much the way his father’s did. I cannot…Ártur might need me…

She resisted stroking his hair. That was a gesture for a child and he had proven that he was not that. Lady MacLyr is with him; she will summon you when you are needed, I’m certain. You will be of no use if you are exhausted. Come, I will escort you to your room. Asta, will you fetch a tray for him, please?

Happy to have some way to help, though she did not want to leave Gaelán, Asta nodded and chirped. Of course.

There was an unspoken exchange between her and Gaelán before she hurried out of the Stateroom at an unladylike run. Once she had shared her affections evenly between Gaelán, his brother Tayte, and Hagan, but Diona could see that, after last night’s adventure, the pair had bonded in a way unlikely to be easily broken. With a wave to her brother and a bow when she received his acknowledgment, Diona guided Gaelán out and up the stairs. They did not speak the entire way up, and when he paused in front of the healer’s door, trembling, his gaze riveted on the barrier between him and Ártur, it took force for the princess to steer him gently towards his room.

It is little comfort to say that you have done everything you can for now, that you are a hero for giving him the opportunity to survive, she murmured warmly, but if he lives, he will owe you a great debt.

And if he dies…

You did not do this to him, Gaelán…

But I did not do enough. And I think… He sighed and glanced over his shoulder, if he lives, it will be someone else who deserves the credit.

Thinking he meant Syl, she nodded. Of course Lady MacLyr will be credited…

I don’t mean k’aene. Someone else. Someone intervened, stopped the attack; someone is protecting him, keeping him alive.

With her hand on the latch to his chamber door, Diona paused with a sharp breath. His expression revealed his beliefs and his apparent certainty, visible even if his words were less confident, made her knees tremble. You believe Kavan is…?

I do not know how it could be possible…he is too far away…but I am certain it is true…he is there…inside of Ártur.

He caused those men to…? She had not seen the carnage, but Caol’s description of the scene was vivid enough for her to imagine it.

Gaelán shrugged, his eyes troubled and mournful as Asta appeared with a tray of food faster than any servant could have brought it up. He might not have answered Diona’s question, but the princess knew what he had not said.

Asta followed Gaelán into the room and closed the door behind them after a half-curtsey to her cousin.

Diona did not know how Kavan could have done anything, how he could know Ártur needed him. But if Gaelán believed it, that meant it might be true. There was an embarrassed, anxious pain in her chest; perhaps this attack, and Ártur’s condition, would bring the bard home.

She wondered what she would do if she ever saw the harper again.

***

Any change, Captain?

The burly man sighed, barely lifting his gaze from the rise and fall of the bard’s chest to look at the blind man who had stumbled back into their traveling corner. None. He mutters in his sleep, but there have been no changes. He neither wakes nor moves.

Is he dying?

Wortham choked at the thought and clutched Kavan’s hand tighter. I do not believe so, but I am not Elyri and my knowledge of them is limited to him. I have no idea what his condition truly is.

From deep inside the haze of his mind, from across the thin threads that bound him to Ártur and tethered him to his body, Kavan heard the words, heard the emotion in Wortham’s rough voice. He disliked causing his dearest friend pain, but feared that pulling his focus away from his cousin for even a moment while Ártur’s hold on life was so fragile, would be an irreversible mistake. He knew the results of his previous efforts from those who touched Ártur’s skin, his mind. He knew that many men had met a mysteriously grisly death, knew that his efforts, in combination with Gaelán’s and Syl’s, were keeping the healer alive. And though the physical injuries had been treated, there was still significant danger. The power Kavan had forced through the psychic link into Ártur’s unsuspecting mind, while driving off the attack, had also done its share of damage and compounded the head trauma. Maybe there was other damage too that Syl had yet to heal, but Kavan feared if Ártur died now, it would be his doing.

He could not accept that. Given enough time, the healer’s internal rhythms would recover from the shock of power and regain their proper balance. It was the Elyri way. Kavan intended to maintain his connection with his cousin until that balance was struck, holding death at bay. Or he would hold it until his center of energy was depleted, which would cause the link between them to fail.

He did not know which would come first.

But he also felt a strong need to reassure Wortham. This man, more than anyone else, remained faithful through intervals when any lesser man would have turned away. Kavan had behaved abominably during their journey south, had caused the captain unspeakable anguish and frustration, and still Wortham’s love remained strong, steadfast, and pure. Kavan owed him this…and so much more.

Though it was difficult to split his attention, he did so for the briefest of moments, long enough to force his hand to contract and squeeze the one that clung to his.

Wortham felt it, felt the shiver it produced that traveled along every nerve ending in his body. Grateful, he kissed the man’s fingertips, feeling a shudder at the intimate gesture though he was not certain it was real or imaginary. He looked over his shoulder at Urian with a faint smile. The dedhá could not see Kavan’s small gesture, could not see that smile, but Wortham suspected he did not need to.

I think dedhá, he is going to be fine.

The squeezing hand was reassurance enough.

***

Once Syl resumed watch over her husband, gdhededhá Tusánt returned to Hes á Redh Náós, wringing his hands the entire way. The King would not allow him to leave the castle without several soldiers, for which Tusánt was deeply grateful., but once they reached the náós gate, Tusánt sent the men back. He was safe here, without Claide to trouble him, and he wanted to be alone. Restless and ill at ease, he spent hours pacing the length of the náós, praying for everyone he could think of, everyone touched by the long, grueling night that had just passed. Everyone except gdhededhá Claide, and he felt no remorse for leaving that man out of his prayers. Claide may not have traveled to Fiara as he asserted, but at least he was not present to be a distraction, to worry Tusánt with trifling matters that paled in comparison to what they had just endured.

Is it true? dedhá Rankin’s strained voice echoed against the walls of the náós from the far end where he burst in at an almost run. Sweaty and red-faced, having been out on some errand that Tusánt had given no thought to, he stumbled to a stop at the altar steps and gasped, Has Lord MacLyr been killed?

The Elyri rubbed his aching eyes, wondering who had started that rumor and when. It had only been a matter of hours. How quickly the truth became distorted, he thought bitterly, particularly when it came to anything Elyri. He is not dead…or he was not when I left him with his wife. But his condition is not good. Whoever his attackers were, they meant to kill him.

Hands thrown up in a gesture of frustration and despair, Rankin collapsed onto the nearest bench. The hem of his robes was dusty, his boots scuffed from his outing, and his untonsured mouse-brown hair was disheveled and swept haphazardly out of his eyes. This is absurd. Why must the innocent be abused…for what? A matter of race?

Tusánt made no effort to hide his surprise. I did not know…this issue…troubled you…

Of course it troubles me! The Faith teaches love, tolerance, peace…we preach it every day…and yet this violence springs from where our words fall and spreads despite our efforts. It is ludicrous. Despite our differences, I do not believe any one of us is more or less equal in the eyes of divinity…except perhaps Lord Cliáth…

The insult in his tone melted when Tusánt embraced him and held him to his breast for many moments. After his initial surprise, Rankin returned the embrace without hesitation. You feared I dislike you?

I feared our differences were cause for discord, yes…or apathy at the best. We can never assume our allies…and we cannot have too many…cannot be too careful…

Rankin pulled back to look into his fellow dedhá’s face, clasping Tusánt’s arms in friendly reassurance. Please count me among those allies, Tusánt. I have always been thus. I would have it no other way.

Thank you. It was a touching relief to know that he was not alone within the walls of his Faith. I…feel I must pray…and I fear I have left the Royal House alone too long as it is, but I must also draft word of these things to Claide…wherever he is. If you are available…would you be willing to offer Lady MacLyr…and the others…a sympathetic ear while I tend these duties?

I will go at once. Not a vain man, he felt no need to make himself presentable for the doing of duty, not even when attending nobility. Is there anything you require before I go?

Not unless you know of some way to ensure my safety in this time of day to day violence…

There is but one thing I can do. His square face set with determination. I will make certain that Claide continues to believe I am as apathetic to anti-Elyri violence as you believed I was and serve as your eyes and ears in his presence as much as I can…act as a buffer between you until we find the k’dedhá and this matter is put right.

Find the k’dedhá. Tusánt had almost forgotten about that other grisly subterfuge he held secret. How much longer would that take, to find Jermyn, to make the truth known, to reveal the inevitable that might make Rankin’s promises mute?

Until then, he thought with a nod and a murmured word of gratitude, accepting Rankin’s offer, and taking up Princess Diona’s offer of a guard or two, might be his wisest course of action.

***

What is it, Lord Justice?

After being kept awake most of the night by the unexpected chaos, the King was aggravated to be roused from his afternoon nap for some purpose other than dinner. From the look that passed between his Justice and Inquisitor, he suspected that whatever news they were bringing, it was not going to improve his mood.

Have you learned something about the attack? Or… The words stuck in Hagan’s throat but he forced himself to ask, Is Ártur dead?

Not to my knowledge, My Lord. The men have discovered…

What?

The King’s impatient interruptions, justified in their worry as they were, chafed on Caol’s already raw nerves but when he opened his mouth to continue, his annoyance gnawing at the back of his throat, the Justice spoke first. It spared Caol the indignity of uttering some remark he would later regret.

The men have uncovered a basement door in the storage building where the trunk of… The Justice shuddered at the unpleasant memory of those dismembered children. Where the trunk was found. Lord Dugan aided in gaining access. There is a room there, below the building. What we found…we thought you should know of it before the news becomes public. He paused, cast a sidelong glance at Caol in the hopes that the Inquisitor would be the one to speak the words, but when he said nothing, Darius continued, We discovered the body of k’dedhá Tythilius and have taken him to the náós for burial.

The King’s face paled. The body? His body? He is…dead?

With the condition of his corpse, there is no way any man or woman could live through the brutality of the torture he must have endured, My Liege. He is barely recognizable as anything other than a man. It is not a pleasant sight. The strangled, sickened measure of the Justice’s voice supported his words.

Barely recog…then how do you know it is him? Perhaps it is someone else… The King hoped it was anyone else. The murder of k’dedhá Tythilius, if murder and torture it had been, would be a crippling blow to the Faith, to Rhidam, and the stability of Enesfel.

This was on his finger. Caol held the ecclesiastical ring of the man’s office in the palm of his hand, the ring the portly clergyman had worn during his entire tenure in Rhidam. King Hagan reached to touch it but jerked his hand away before contact was made, bumping Caol’s hand, knocking the ring to the floor, where it clattered before coming to a silent stop, its crystal blue stone popping from its setting and cracking upon impact. The inquisitor retrieved both the ring and the stone with a grunt as the King lurched to his feet.

I want to see him at once.

Knowing his nephew’s weak constitution well, Caol asked, My Liege, is that wise? He is…as Justice Corbin says, a gruesome sight.

With a dismissive wave, the King replied, "How bad can it