Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy Page 4

  “Well?” he roared.

  The men flinched and their leader stepped forward. “My Lord, he was too quick. We couldn’t reach him in time. He was out of bowshot, so I thought the tangwyr was our best chance. I never thought he’d … ”

  “You never thought?” raged Sonten. “That’s about right, Perik! Thinking was never your strong suit. Well, you’ve made your last mistake. This is a disaster and someone has to pay for it. Guess who it’ll be?”

  He stared menacingly, knowing he was being unfair. Perik had done his best. His frustration at the man’s escape was deepened by the knowledge that he had used the Staff instinctively, whereas it had taken Jaskin many sweaty days to learn how to influence the thing.

  The thought of his nephew’s body lying on the blood-soaked ground made Sonten seethe. All that risk and effort wasted, all their plans thrown away. And now his own position—indeed his very life—would be forfeit when the Duke discovered the Staff’s disappearance.

  Terrible fear swamped Sonten. He trusted these men, they had been picked for their loyalty, but if one of them should mention …

  Panic overrode reason and his sword whipped from its sheath. Fat he undoubtedly was and not as skilled as some, but Perik never saw the steel that punched through his ribs and heart. He was dead before his reproachful eyes fastened on Sonten’s face. His dying gaze was ignored, his limp body allowed to slump to the ground.

  Sonten turned his back on the dead man and stared at the rest.

  “Let that be a lesson to you. If even one of you breathes so much as a word of this … I won’t tolerate fools and I won’t stand for failure. Do you understand?”

  They shuffled uneasily, murmuring assent.

  “You all know what that murdering bastard looks like. He’s trespassed on my lands once, he may do so again. You’re all charged with watching for him. Constantly, do you hear? I want no slacking, no matter how exhausted you get. I want to know instantly of any Albians in my province and I want them detained alive.

  “Galet, you’re now leading huntsman. Think carefully about Perik’s fate and make damned sure you don’t suffer the same. Am I clear? Good. Now pick that up, get back to my nephew’s body and follow me back to the mansion. I have to speak with Commander Heron before I return to his Grace, and on top of everything else I now have a bloody damned funeral to arrange.”

  Still swearing, Sonten clambered onto his mount. Viciously, he kicked its stocky sides. The beast flung up its head and grunted. Lumbering into a canter, it bore its angry rider back to his estate.

  “Feverbalm, boneknit, willow. Oh yes, and serraflower. Hmm, those are looking a bit old now, I could do with a fresh supply.”

  Sitting at the wooden table in the small cottage kitchen, Rienne regarded the packet of dried flower heads she’d taken from her medicine bag. Bright cerise pink and heavily scented when fresh, they had faded to a ruddy brown, their aroma all but gone. Frowning, she picked one up and gently rubbed it under her nose.

  “Definitely past their best,” she murmured, replacing the tattered flower head among its fellows. She reached into the bag beside her but stopped as a strange noise reached her ears.

  Was that a scream?

  Instantly, she was on her feet and turning toward the kitchen door. Her hand closed on the latch but again she froze.

  “Rienne. Rienne!”

  No, it hadn’t come from outside. It had come from the cellar. Her blood chilled and her heart thumped as she recognized Cal’s voice. He sounded strained—frightened—and fear sped her steps as she raced toward the cellar.

  She wrenched the door open and a draught of dank air hit her face.

  “Rienne!”

  “Alright, alright, I’m coming.”

  As swiftly as she could, trying not to twist her ankle on the barely illuminated stone steps, Rienne hurried down. When she reached the bottom, she rushed to Cal’s side.

  “What is it? What’s wrong? Oh, good gods …”

  She fell to her knees, staring at the tall, slim body writhing in Cal’s arms. Weirdly flickering light from the ball of Earth force threw Taran’s sweat-soaked face into harsh relief. His short brown hair was plastered to his head and he was moaning and twitching. He was also unconscious; Rienne could tell that much, even if she couldn’t yet see why.

  “See to him, Rienne. I have to shut this thing down.”

  Cal leaped to his feet and Rienne took his place, wrapping her arms around Taran. As soon as she touched him, she could feel the intense heat radiating from the trembling Journeyman. There was blood on his clothes, some on his skin, yet the only wounds she could see were superficial. Had he been poisoned? Was it some kind of fever? If so, it had taken hold swiftly; he’d been gone less than a day.

  “Gods damn it!”

  Cal’s expletive drew her attention away from the man in her arms. Raising her eyes, she saw him staring at the portway in anger.

  “What is it?” Her voice betrayed her fear. Rienne was no Artesan; she didn’t understand the power the two men possessed.

  “It’s resisting. I used the right sequence but it won’t close.”

  “Perhaps you forgot something …?”

  “No. There’s something wrong.”

  Rienne was about to speak again when Taran’s body suddenly bucked. She gave a shocked gasp and clutched at his arms. “Cal … !”

  “Sod it. Maybe I’m being too subtle. He’s always telling me I’m being too subtle … ”

  “Will you hurry up? I can’t hold him much longer.”

  Taran’s moans were increasing in pitch and Rienne suddenly remembered their neighbors. She’d left the cellar door open; what if one of them heard something and came to investigate …

  “Cover your ears, Rienne. This might make a bit of noise.”

  “No, Cal. Remember what Taran said … ” But she was too late. Too late even to cover her ears. She didn’t see what Cal did but there was a grating squeal and suddenly pressure was building in her head, wind rushing across her face. The pressure became unbearable and she opened her mouth to scream.

  Then the portway vanished and the cellar was clear.

  She sagged with relief and Cal sank to the floor. There was a moment of blessed silence before a rasping groan dragged their attention back to Taran.

  “What’s wrong with him?” asked Cal, his dark gaze traveling over Taran’s many wounds.

  Rienne didn’t bother speculating, her priorities lay elsewhere. “Help me get him upstairs. I can’t do anything for him down here.”

  Cal took Taran’s shoulders and Rienne grabbed his feet. Together they just managed to lift the Journeyman’s dead weight. As his body came up, there was a metallic clang and Rienne saw a glittering rod roll across the floor. The sound made her jump and Cal frowned at the thing, clearly not liking the look of it.

  “What in the Void is that?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care,” she gasped. “Get up those stairs Cal, before my strength gives out.”

  They struggled up the narrow stairs, barely managing to carry Taran to his bed in the little front room. The Journeyman’s body was jerking, he was radiating heat and his skin was sheened in sweat.

  They laid him down and Cal stood helplessly, staring at his Master’s writhing body. “Don’t stand there,” snapped Rienne. “Get me some hot water and my medicine bag.”

  By the time Cal returned, she’d removed Taran’s filthy, bloodstained clothing. It was as she’d thought; his wounds were not life-threatening. The convulsions, however, alarmed her because she could see no reason for them.

  Grabbing her bag, she fumbled through it and emptied the contents of a herb pouch into the hot water Cal had brought. Then she used the infusion to sponge Taran’s body. He still showed no signs of waking and his moans were growing louder. Cal stared at her in confusion.

  A louder groan escaped Taran and Cal gasped.

  “What’s happening? Why won’t he wake?”

  Despite her experience
and talents, Rienne could only shake her head.

  Suddenly, Taran’s body thrashed, nearly casting him to the floor. Cal threw his arms across his Master’s body, desperately trying to pin him to the bed.

  “Help me, Rienne,” he urged. He failed to subdue the frantic movements. Taran’s violent lunging dislodged Cal’s hold and he had to grapple for the cartwheeling arms. “Please, Rienne, do something.”

  Although she was nowhere near as strong as her lover, Rienne had dealt with delirious patients before. Swiftly gathering the folds of the rumpled coverlet, she threw it over Taran’s body. Together, she and Cal just managed to secure his jerking arms within its clinging folds. They wrapped him, kneeling on either side, securing the coverlet tightly.

  Another raw groan escaped Taran’s throat. It was a dreadful sound filled with deep distress, and it tore at Rienne’s heart.

  Cal gave a whimper of fear. “You must have some idea of what’s happening to him. Isn’t there anything you can do?”

  Rienne stared at her lover, gray eyes wide. “I don’t think this has a physical cause, Cal. I only deal with the body, not the mind. Isn’t that your territory? Can’t you … get inside him somehow, see what he’s seeing?”

  Cal shook his head. “I’m only an Apprentice, Rienne, I’m not that skilled. I can hear him if he speaks to me, but I can’t reach out to him. Gods, I feel so useless!”

  They both watched with growing fear as perspiration continued to drench Taran’s body. Without releasing the coverlet, Rienne used the herb water to cool his face but nothing she did calmed the thrashing. His wounds were being aggravated by the jerking but there was nothing she could do about it.

  She frowned. Taran’s breathing was becoming ragged and his skin had turned gray. Cal had also noticed and he stared at her. She met his anguished eyes, seeing the blood drain from his face.

  “What’s happening? He’s getting worse. Is he going to … ?”

  Suddenly, Taran screamed. The raw sound echoed about the chamber and Rienne’s blood froze. Tension abruptly dropped from Taran’s muscles and his body collapsed as if boneless.

  Cal leaped to his feet, his eyes wild. “What the … ? Why has it stopped? Rienne, is he alright? He isn’t moving. Rienne!”

  “Shut up, Cal, let me concentrate.”

  Carefully, aware that her hands were trembling, she placed two fingers on the artery in Taran’s neck. Relief washed through her when she felt a faint and frenetic pulse. Nodding to reassure Cal, she took up the herb-infused cloth, sincerely hoping the pungent smell would revive the stricken man.

  The silence was loud in the small chamber and Rienne prayed none of their neighbors had heard Taran’s cries. She was well aware of the villagers’ suspicions and knew that arousing their anger could have serious consequences.

  Cal was hovering in concern and she glanced up at him. “It’s alright, Cal. His heartbeat’s beginning to slow. I think he’s coming out of it.”

  Cal’s breath hissed through clenched teeth. He slumped to the bed and passed a hand across his brow, brushing lank hair from his eyes. Rienne saw he had been sweating almost as much as the Journeyman. Anxiously, they both watched Taran’s face as their friend struggled slowly back to consciousness.

  Saner images began to displace the madness in Taran’s mind. He had remembered red eyes boring into his and a numbing heat pervaded his every sense, as if his body had been scorched. The fire threatened to overwhelm him again, tip him back into the nightmare of his desperate escape. Then coolness touched his brow, soothing his aching mind, and relief washed through him.

  He could feel smooth sheets beneath him and thought he was in his own bed. He forced his sore eyes open. The room was dimly lit but familiar. He was in his own house, in his own bed, and he could even tell that his wounds had been tended.

  A figure was stooping over him, holding a damp cloth. Taran saw it was Cal, and his dark-skinned Apprentice’s face was lined with worry.

  Taran tried his voice. “Cal?”

  It came out more like a croak than a name. He tried to moisten his lips with no success.

  “Taran?” said Cal. “Oh, thank the gods. We thought we’d lost you. Do you want some water?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he slipped an arm beneath Taran’s shoulders and raised him just enough to sip at the cool water in the cup he held. It was steeped in herbs and Taran really hoped that some of them would dull the dreadful throbbing in his head. He drank gratefully and Cal gently laid him down. Then he strode to the door and Taran heard him calling for Rienne.

  The healer entered through a glimpse of firelight, dark hair falling about her shoulders. She bent forward and placed a cool hand on Taran’s brow, smoothing back his hair.

  “Are you feeling better now? We’ve been so frantic for you. What on Earth happened?”

  Taran felt weak, quite unequal to the task of explaining himself, but they deserved no less. They had both tried to dissuade him from going into Andaryon, and now they had probably saved his life.

  That thought brought horrific memories flooding back and he turned his eyes to the ceiling, his face burning with shame.

  “Gods, but I’m a fool,” he groaned. Cal snorted and Taran glanced at him. “I wish I’d taken your advice. I never should have gone.”

  Cal frowned and Taran paused before adding, “Cal, I killed someone.”

  He heard Rienne gasp. Cal’s dark eyes widened and he slumped to the bed, staring in disbelief.

  “How the hell did that happen?”

  Taran saw Rienne retreat to the foot of the bed. The healer looked anxious. She might be confident and knowledgeable when dealing with medical matters, but she was shy and uncomfortable when out of her depth.

  He tried to reassure her with a smile but her expression didn’t lighten. As he pushed himself higher on his pillows, Taran took a steadying breath, trying to force down the humiliation he felt. So much for reversing his run of bad luck, he thought. Now he was a killer as well as a failure.

  He forced himself to tell his tale, beginning from when he had found himself alone among the parched Andaryan hills. Cal and Rienne listened, sympathy and horror in their eyes, not even interrupting when he described the noble’s killing. But when he related the tangwyr’s attack and his desperate use of the Staff, Cal gasped in understanding.

  “So that’s why I have the ancestor of all headaches. I thought it couldn’t just be the effort of bringing you through the Veils.”

  Panic engulfed Taran. “You did remember how to close the portway, didn’t you?”

  Cal nodded. “Of course I did, I followed the procedure you showed me. But … it didn’t work quite right. There was … resistance.”

  “Resistance?” Taran felt himself go cold. What lengths might the noble’s companions have gone to in order to find him?

  “Don’t worry, I handled it,” said Cal. Taran shot him a look and he added, “No, it’s alright. Really. I dealt with it. But … there might be a problem.”

  “What problem?”

  “Well … you brought something back with you.”

  Taran groaned, guessing what it was. “Oh gods, it’s the Staff. Where is it?”

  “Still in the cellar. I didn’t like the look of it but we had our hands full trying to stop you battering yourself to death. It was all we could do to get you up the stairs, so we left it. Why did you bring it back?”