Limits of Power, Page 3

  Arian nodded without answering, stroked her father’s face one more time, and folded her hands in her lap.

  “Very well,” Kieri said. “Know that you take my sorrow as companion—for the Lady’s death and for the deaths of these others. Will you at least tell me the name of this one?” He gestured to the other elf. “I want to honor them properly when I tell of this day.”

  “Silwarthin,” Amrothlin said. “I have known him since my own childhood.”

  “I am sorry,” Kieri said. He could not think of more to say that would not diminish the moment.

  He and Arian rose and moved back as more elves came into the salle carrying frames of branch and vine. Though Amrothlin said the elvenhome had passed away, a similar silvery light brightened around them as they lifted the bodies onto these biers and then the biers onto their shoulders. Four each carried Dameroth and Silwarthin, and eight carried the Lady, with more elves before and behind. Kieri and Arian followed this procession out of the salle and across the palace courtyard to the gates and there halted, seeing the glow of it vanish into the trees across the way.

  Now only Tolmaric’s body remained in the salle, a single King’s Squire keeping watch. “Now,” Arian said, facing him, “you will take off that mail and let us see if indeed you have no wound.”

  “It’s only a bruise—”

  “We do not know that, and you have looked more exhausted every moment. I insist.”

  Kieri looked at the King’s Squire watching over Tolmaric’s body. “I will send another to relieve you,” he said. “I must go.” The stench of blood on his clothes sickened him suddenly.

  “Of course, sir king.”

  He gave orders on the way through the palace for the nightlong vigil by Tolmaric’s body and asked after his Squires. The physicians and Kuakkgani were still with them, he was told.

  “Send one to the king’s quarters,” Arian said to the steward.

  “Arian—”

  “No, Kieri. We have had treachery and mortal danger in this palace; I take no chances with the king’s life.”

  “Your baths are ready,” the steward said. “And a hot meal will be sent to your chamber, sir king—or would the queen wish to eat in her own?”

  “With the king,” Arian said. She leaned a little on his arm as they went.

  Upstairs, Kieri found Aliam and more Squires waiting for him.

  “Estil will be with the queen,” Aliam said. “And we have plenty of Squires; no assassin will get past all of us.”

  Kieri grinned in spite of his fatigue. He hung his sword on its rack beside the bed, then Squires helped him off with the blood-stiffened clothes and the mail. He could feel that his arming shirt had stuck to his shoulder.

  “That’s a notable bruise,” Aliam said. “And you’ve bled, too. Might have cracked a bone as well. I’m surprised the padding didn’t protect you better.”

  “I could fight, once I caught my breath.” Kieri frowned, trying to remember every detail of the day, but his head felt stuffed with old wool.

  Aliam chuckled. “Kieri, you could fight if you were half dead. Go take your bath; it’ll need a poultice and bandage after.”

  When he was finally bathed, bandaged, and clothed again, he found a meal laid on the table. Arian came across from the queen’s chamber. “So you were wounded after all,” she said. She looked pale, violet shadows around her eyes, and Kieri wondered if she’d also been hit. “I didn’t have any breaks in my skin,” she said. “But you—are you sure that poultice is enough? Remember what the Kuakgan said.”

  Kieri nodded without speaking, though he didn’t remember; his concerns about the Lady’s death, about Amrothlin, filled his mind now. He felt almost too weary to eat. As often with injuries, his shoulder hurt more now than it had when it was hit; the poultice stung, and the bandage itched.

  “At least we found out about the poison,” Arian said after her first swallows of soup. “That pin-pig—”

  Kieri put down his fork. “The Kuakkgani,” he said.

  “What about them?”

  Kieri told her about his conversation with the Kuakgan. “I was supposed to meet with them—I forgot. You know what I told you about Midwinter. I think they should visit the ossuary and perhaps the mound in the King’s Grove as well.”

  “Perhaps. But not tonight. Tonight they need to see to your wound; I’m not satisfied—”

  Kieri shook his head but then agreed. He felt more than simply tired, he realized, and the Kuakgan had said—something—about iynisin and injuries. Was it fever coming on? Had the iynisin poisoned him, or was this an effect of the poison they had all eaten at the feasts?

  When the Kuakgan Elmholt arrived, he looked keenly at Kieri. “You are injured, king—I thought you said the blood was not yours.”

  “I thought it was only a bruise.”

  “I will be back shortly,” Elmholt said, and left as swiftly and silently as he had come.

  Arian looked at Kieri with wide eyes. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” Kieri said. He shifted in his chair, trying to find a comfortable position. Then Elmholt returned, his hands full of greenery, both the other Kuakkgani at his heels.

  “It’s been poulticed,” Kieri said, eyeing the greens.

  “That is well,” Elmholt said. “But as I said before, we have some skills your physicians are not like to have, and with the Lady’s death no elves are here to aid. Would you permit?”

  “Yes,” Arian said before Kieri could say anything.

  “But what about my Squires who were wounded worse than this?” Kieri asked.

  “We spoke to the physicians, sir king, but it was too late for one; the other we hope will live, and we will continue to give aid.”

  Kieri nodded to the Squires who had come in with the Kuakkgani and tried to stand, but his knees trembled and he had to lean on the table. Arian slid her arm around him while his Squires helped him shed the robe and the shirt under it.

  “You should lie down,” Elmholt said.

  He lay facedown on his bed; Elmholt cut the bandages and lifted the poultice. “This poultice was well done,” Elmholt said, “but not enough. Look: the poultice is black, the leaves withered. That is kuaknomi evil the poultice drew out.” Kieri felt the poultice being pulled from his shoulder.

  Kieri turned his head; Elmholt showed him what looked like rain-rotted leaves. “How?” he asked. “The kuaknom’s blade did not touch my skin—the mail held—the arming shirt wasn’t ripped.”

  “It’s full of holes now,” one of the Squires said from across the room. “And they’re spreading.”

  “The shirt was once alive,” the Kuakgan said. “Wool, linen, silk—all were once alive, and on anything alive the touch of a kuaknom’s finger or blade or curse has deadly power. Once you bled, your blood was tainted by that same curse. If it is not properly treated, you would slowly wither and die.”

  “Can you heal—?” Arian began.

  “Yes. This wound is not deep, and it has not been that long. Pearwind, you know what herbs we need: gather a good amount.”

  Kieri heard Arian give the orders for a basin, for hot water, her voice steady. He thought of the blood on her clothes—was she in danger? He tried to ask; she put her hand over his. “My clothes were riddled with holes like yours,” she said, “but I had not so much as a scratch.” She took her hand away and moved back as the Kuakkgani went to work.

  He felt peculiar lying there and doing nothing, but he found it hard to summon the energy to speak. He could not feel whatever the Kuakkgani were doing to his back and shoulder. Shadows crowded his mind, as they had at Midwinter, visions of death and dissolution. Then Arian’s living face appeared in his sight, and her warm live hand touched his face, stroked his forehead. As before, he clung to her—the hope of her and the reality of her. A sharp, clean smell came to his nostrils, the scent of a forest in winter, firs and spruce and pine. Some errant current of thought wandered from firs to Paksenarrion—from Three Firs, he
remembered—and he remembered how she had healed him … after a Kuakgan healed her.

  The dark shadows and portents faded, replaced by visions of a crackling fire, Arian’s face, Paksenarrion’s face, and the sound of humming. Humming? He felt his body now, felt the bones within, the blood running through his veins, his heart steadily beating, the air moving in and out of his lungs. The humming seemed to be within and without, and his awareness of himself moved outward through sinew and muscle to his skin. Now he could feel the pressure of hands on his shoulders and a sensation rather like the direct touch of the sun on a spring day.

  “That’s better,” a voice said. Aliam, he thought.

  Kieri opened his eyes. The familiar coverlet, a slice of vision that included Arian’s face. He tried to smile at her and speak. She laid a finger on his lips. The feeling of sunlight went away; he felt a sudden chill on his shoulder, dampness exposed to the air. Quickly, something warm replaced it, almost too hot for comfort. He watched Arian; her gaze shifted to someone above him, someone he could not see without turning over. He had no desire to turn over, though he felt stronger and more awake every moment.

  Finally the humming died away. He felt no pain.

  “Help him rise,” a woman’s voice said. Larchwind, he remembered after a moment. He tried to push himself up; Arian’s arm slid under him, helped, as did Larchwind herself. Larchwind leaned close. “I must see his eyes,” she said; someone brought a candle close. Then she moved back. “His eyes are clear; the kuaknomi poison never reached his center,” she said to the others. Then, to him, “You must drink this infusion tonight and thrice a day for two hands of days. I have already told your servants to burn every garment you and the queen wore in that room. None can hold your weapons, but they must be cleaned again as well, ritually cleaned.”

  Kieri nodded. He took the cup she handed him and drained the bitter brew; his mouth tingled when he had finished. “I feel well,” he said to her. “Need I stay in bed?”

  “No,” she said. “Though as it is after the turn of night, sleep would not harm you. Tomorrow is soon enough to talk about this.”

  “Thank you,” Kieri said. It was not enough, but all he could think to say. She smiled.

  “One of us will be nearby, and the queen will stay with you. Rest well, king, and rejoice in the morning to come.” With that, she took the cup and turned away. Others in the room—Aliam, Dorrin Verrakai, his Squires including Garris, the steward, the other Kuakkgani—filed out by ones and twos. At last he and Arian were alone.

  “They burned my clothes, too,” she said. “And those of the Squires with you, and Dorrin’s. The touch of iynisin blood, even after death, could carry the taint. I did not know that. We are all to drink the same draft—I’ve already had one cupful—because you and I and Dorrin wore our bloody clothes so long and touched that thing’s blood with bare hands, cleaning our blades.” She yawned. “I am tired, Kieri. Too much happened today.”

  “I wonder if it was an iynisin who brought the poison that killed the unborn,” Kieri said. He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and stood. He felt perfectly steady. He snuffed the candles still burning, all but one. Together they turned down the covers. Arian put off her overrobe and climbed into the bed. Kieri followed. “I don’t think I even told you how glad I was to see you and Dorrin come rushing in, swords out,” he said. “That was a bold stroke. I should perhaps scold you for outpacing your Squires, but on the whole—you saved my life, beloved.”

  “I was very scared and very angry,” Arian said.

  “They often go together,” Kieri said. He blew out the last candle. “But at this moment I am neither scared nor angry. Quite the contrary.”

  Next morning, he woke feeling perfectly well, but—mindful of the Kuakgan’s warning—he drank down his medicinal draft before breakfast. He asked Elmholt if he could carry his sword as usual, and the Kuakgan handed him a jug of sharp-smelling stuff.

  “If there’s any hint of kuaknomi blood or taint, this will cleanse it. I heard from others that both sword and dagger might have some healing properties, so this should take care of any residue.”

  “Thank you,” Kieri said. “What about my mail?”

  “Kuaknomi have no power over metals,” Elmholt said. “Only the blood on it could make it dangerous. Nonetheless, it must be dipped in the same infusion of herbs you drank and then pulled through a fire. The carpet and any other cloth or leather that touched the kuaknomi or its blood must be discarded entire. Your steward is even now removing the carpets in the entrance hall so that the one in your office can be removed without risking any contamination of others. Only one chair need be burned.”

  “You wanted to visit the ossuary,” Kieri said, changing the subject. “I agree you should, but first I must tell you what happened at Midwinter.” He told the tale; Elmholt listened with full attention. “I am sure there’s something under the King’s Mound, something human: bones, I suspect, dead of some treachery. But I am not sure what to do. Be wary. I would not have you trapped in death.”

  Elmholt chuckled. “Lord king, we are as trees, whose roots extend beneath the ground. It is not death to us there, but the source of nourishment and connection. We will ask the trees what is there and whether Kuakkgani can help. I suspect, though, that as you are both king and half-elven, you are the one to cleanse any evil there. Do you think kuaknomi were involved?”

  “I have no idea. The Lady held it to be a sacred place; the Oathstone there is where we both swore oaths and where I was crowned. If kuaknomi had done whatever was done, would that invalidate the oaths?”

  “No … the lords of all hold all true oaths in their keeping,” Elmholt said. “If you swore truly, then your oath holds until you break it. We will seek what answers we can from the taig and the roots of the trees. When we have done that, we will await your convenience.” He smiled. “I know that kings are busy men.”

  “Thank you,” Kieri said. Elmholt bowed and left the chamber.

  Breakfast was subdued. Kieri felt naked without his mail. He wore his heavy quilted gambeson under his clothes—poor protection against an iynisin’s blade—and his heaviest doublet over it, hot as that was on a spring day, and went to the salle to ask Carlion about armorers. There he found Maelis, who reported that Lady Tolmaric was calmer but wanted to know if she could take Sier Tolmaric’s body home for burial.

  “I must talk to her,” Kieri said. “I do not want her leaving without some understanding of what I intend for her and the children. She will need help on the journey, as well. Do you think I should visit there, where the children are, or ask her to come here?”

  “Here,” Maelis said. “If the children are in the room, she will break down again, and then they will cry.”

  “Then, since she knows you, it would be better if you were her escort. I will speak to her in Garris’s office, mine being unusable at present.”

  “I heard you were injured after all, sir king,” Carlion said. “You must not train today if you were.”

  Kieri nodded. “I need to ask you for advice on new mail,” he said. “If I face such an enemy again—and I expect I will—I don’t want to be left without mail while a damaged or tainted suit is being purified.”

  “Your father’s mail is in the armory,” Carlion said. “And other pieces from earlier. It’s all kept sound, cleaned regularly. It would be quicker to modify that, I’m thinking, than to have someone make you a new suit.”

  His father’s mail did not fit as well as his own, but he could wear it. When he came back into the palace, he found Lady Tolmaric already there.

  He could see the effort she made to stay calm, and she answered his questions about the estate, about the children. Clearly she had been involved in management of the steading; she knew how many farms they had, the harvests of each, and how much land had been lost to the scathefire. Dealing with practical matters like this, she seemed much more competent than she had the day before.

  “Much of our steading is
swamp forest, you see,” she said. “It is large, I know that, but not all can be farmed, and the products of the swamp, valuable as they can be, are scattered and time-consuming to harvest. I would ask, sir king, if you find it in your power to extend our grant, if we might have some higher ground, not just that along the river to the east.”

  Into Kieri’s mind flashed the proposal made by Master-trader Geraint Chalvers. Some of the land he’d proposed for a port overlapped Tolmaric land. “I will certainly recompense you for land lost,” he said, “and grant you good land, suitable for farming. But I have a thought—would you be interested in a venture, you and the Crown together?”

  “A venture?” Her brows furrowed.

  “Master-trader Chalvers, who is now on my Council, suggested digging out a harbor in that swamp and trading directly with the coastal cities and all the way south to Aarenis, as Pargun and Kostandan do. No more need to transport goods by land across Tsaia, paying their tolls. His best estimate of location included some of your land. If he is right, a town or even city there would bring income from the trade—and you, as part owner, would have money to improve your new lands.”

  “I don’t know anything about making a harbor.”

  “Nor do I, but Chalvers seems to. I am not asking an answer now, but only that you consider it.”

  “If it brought a way to pay for a new house for that family the Pargunese burnt out … cattle … farm tools…”

  “Those you will have from the Crown,” Kieri said. “But such a project as this could profit us both.”

  Her back straightened. “I … I think it might be a good idea.”

  “Good. I will talk more to Chalvers. It cannot be done in a day or ten hands of them—perhaps a year or two—but it seemed a good idea to me.” He reached out and laid his hand over hers. “Now … you can of course take Sier Tolmaric’s body to bury in your own burial ground, but we have a ground here where he could be laid with all honor, and when his bones are raised, you could take them instead.”