And So It Begins (11 page)

“We were not informed of your coming, my lord, so I’m afraid preparations have not been made. But I will send a summons to the Leader to let him know you have arrived, and I will personally see to your lodging.” He spoke with the slight burr born in the southern mountains, and though he maintained the deference due the prince, it was tempered with more than a little quiet concern as he added, “Our healer is in the city, but he will be summoned immediately.”

Kherin fought to keep from scowling. “I’m here to see my brother, Prince Adrien Rhylle.” His throat was scratchy, and a deep cough rattled in his lungs with the effort of speaking. Derek’s hold kept him steady, and both the trader and Ronel were watching him when he recovered, though neither spoke. The concerned assessment he had been subjected to from Derek throughout the day now appeared on two faces, and Kherin averted his eyes, turning instead toward the burning light of the camp’s central fire.

A large circle of river stones had been constructed in the center of the camp, identical to the circles built in all Defender camps. Kherin had once been told the purpose of the fire was to serve as a beacon to fellow Defenders on nights such as this, when visibility was anything but clear, but he knew it had more to do with tradition than functionality. The nearness of the city made it nearly impossible to not know where the Defender camp was located, and the torches that were lit every night, in every camp, led the way better than any beacon could possibly accomplish. That the central fires served as beacons more to the northerners than the Defenders was an opinion he had voiced before, but one that had fallen on deaf ears during his previous duties. A roof had been constructed over the fire here, and Kherin knew some of the Defenders assigned to the camp would spend their night ensuring the fire didn’t go out. He had held that duty more than once at previous Defender camps.

“Aye, my lord,” Ronel said after a moment, drawing the prince’s gaze back. “Prince Adrien is being tended to at the healer Willum’s quarters in the city. I will arrange an escort for you immediately.”

Kherin didn’t miss how his eyes had gone to the trader as he spoke, or miss the slight shake of the head the trader returned.

“I know the place,” the trader said quietly. “And it might be better to not wait on an escort.”

Kherin was glad to hear the trader’s words, though he knew it was his illness, and not Adrien’s injury, that was behind them. But he didn’t want to wait for the escort to be assembled now that he had finally reached Gravlorn, and that alone kept him from accusing the trader of coddling.

Ronel may have argued, but he didn’t, instead replying with a simple, “As you wish, my lord,” speaking as though it had been Kherin who’d declined the escort. “Your horses will be cared for until they are required. Our Defender Leader, Greshem, will be notified of your arrival and informed you will be lodging in the city.” Again he seemed to be speaking to Derek. What confirmation Derek returned appeared to be enough, and Ronel raised one closed fist in a parting salute, and then turned to resume his own duties in the stables.

Derek drew Kherin toward the camp with the gentle pressure of his hand, the soaked ground slopping mud on their boots with every step. The continuing rain filled their footprints almost immediately, and then washed them away altogether within moments of their passing.

Like other Defender camps, Gravlorn’s consisted of a series of long, rough-sided buildings constructed for usefulness rather than comfort, their arrangement forming a broken half circle around the central campfire with a clear view of Trian’s Ford. The kitchen would most likely be built closest to the fire, while the barracks would be the largest and set the farthest from it. A makeshift armory and areas for storage would fill other structures, though Gravlorn had forgone the building of a morgue. Kherin identified each of the buildings from his familiarity with Defender camps, but was surprised at how few Defenders were seen among them.

“They are probably in the city,” Derek told him in answer to his whispered remark, his voice low and not altogether approving. “The beds at the inns are undoubtedly warmer, the food better, and the company more pleasing. I would imagine most of our Defenders prefer the comforts of Gravlorn proper over the discomforts of the camp, especially on a night as miserable as this.”

Derek had slipped an arm around him as they crossed the camp, and Kherin let the criticism he felt at the nearly abandoned camp slip away as he leaned on the trader for support. The memories of the way-stop, combined with Derek’s close proximity, sent a sliver of warmth through him that gathered around his cock, though he resisted the urge to return the one-armed embrace.

But as they passed the central fire and continued on to the far edge of the camp, Kherin’s disparagement returned. Gravlorn loomed large in front of them, built so close there was almost no separation of the camp from the city. Though he hadn’t spoken, Derek murmured quietly that it hadn’t always been this way. Gravlorn, it seemed, had expanded north as well as south, leaving the camp to occupy only a narrow strip of land between the city and the Ford.

Kherin’s ridicule rose when the soggy ground of the camp gave way to cobbled streets after no more than a few dozen paces past the outermost Defender structure, and he almost snorted when he saw that the first businesses met in the city were taverns. The sounds coming from inside them all but proved Derek’s earlier remarks as pointedly accurate. But another rasping cough kept him from commenting on it. He drew a deep breath when the cough had calmed and solemnly allowed Derek to lead on.

“How do you know so much about Gravlorn?” Kherin asked as they passed deeper into the city, his voice quiet and harsh.

The busy taverns had given way to dark, clustered shops now closed, with the covered torches spaced in front of them marking this as one of the main roads in the city. Most of the torches had failed against the rain, and so Derek kept them near the center of the cobbled street, farthest away from the dark alleys and side streets.

He chuckled at the prince’s surly question. “Ah, Kherin. It seems you know very little of the business of trading,” he mused quietly, though he gave the prince a companionable squeeze to assure him he was only teasing. “Traders, by nature, learn whatever they can about wherever they go, and so yes, I am familiar with the Defender camp, as well as the Defender city.”

Kherin muttered at the obviousness of that and shuddered as another cough threatened. A few controlled breaths kept it at bay, and he glanced suspiciously at the trader’s wet but healthy profile. “And how is it you’re not feeling ill after spending days in this rain?”

Derek laughed a little louder as he gave the prince a more affectionate squeeze. “Because, my prince, I am more accustomed to the elements than you. I spend most of my time traveling out of doors regardless of the weather, remember?”

Kherin muttered again, but gave no other answer. Derek had turned them onto one of the side streets, and the city had grown darker as fewer lamps lined this road, and fewer still remained lit. They passed no one as they continued through the city, as apparently there was nothing this deep into Gravlorn to draw activity on a night like this. But Derek assured him they were nearing the healer’s quarters, and impatience was starting to gnaw. He was sick and tired, literally on both counts, and he had little doubt he would be in worse shape than Adrien by the time they reached him, but at least he would finally be there.

The trader turned twice more before at last indicating a long structure of wood and stone set at the edge of a market square. A wide court of uneven cobblestones preceded the entrance to the quarters, while darkened streets hemmed it in on either side. Sheltered torches illuminated the heavy wooden door facing the square, and the dimmer glow of lamps could be seen in several of the windows stretching along the length of its walls.

That, the trader informed him, was where the healer and Adrien would be found.

Kherin felt a measure of strength return at the sight of the unimpressive building, and his pace quickened as they crossed the empty square, forcing Derek to increase his pace to keep up with him. Two steps made of cut stone led up to the door, which opened easily and silently when Kherin pushed it. A long, narrow hallway of the same dark wood led into the healer’s quarters, broken by the closed doors of the sickrooms spaced along the walls on either side and ending at an adjacent hall that led to other rooms in the hospice. The hall was lit by small aromatic candles burning in mounted sconces outside each door, and the smells of herbs and medicines mingled with the scent to create a heady aroma that was almost nauseating. The hall was empty, and Kherin stepped hesitantly onto bare wooden floor, and then stopped as the sounds of strained voices rose over the falling rain outside.

Derek edged around him and stepped farther into the hall, and a frown creased his forehead as he glanced from door to door to place the room where the voices were heard. He felt Kherin step beside him, and he reached out a restraining arm to keep the prince from going farther.

“We’ve no right to invade the privacy of his patients,” he said quietly.

One harsh voice rose in sudden alarm, though the words were muted through the heavy wood. The room in question was obvious now, and both Kherin and Derek stared at the closed door, the fourth one on the right, as the voices grew louder.

“Hold him down before he hurts himself!”

Kherin glanced sharply at the trader, though Derek returned only a tight frown and a small shake of his head. Whether advising caution or merely a lack of understanding, Kherin couldn’t be sure, and he turned his eyes back to the door as the shouts grew louder. He took a cautious step forward, and Derek didn’t stop him.

“Keep his legs still! He’ll kick hard enough to break bones if he gets free!”

Other voices could be heard inside, softer but no less urgent, and the choking gasps of the suffering patient became clear as Kherin stopped outside the door. He started when Derek touched his shoulder and then stiffened as a heavy weight fell inside the room.

“Get his legs! Hold him
still
!”

Kherin shifted nervously. It was disconcerting to listen to the struggle within. Only someone without compassion would not feel the suffering of the patient tearing into their own being with each tortured cry. Derek slipped an arm around him to pull him into a comforting embrace, and neither spoke as they waited for the struggle in the room to calm.

At last the voices began to ease, and the room grew quiet. Soft words were spoken after moments of silence, and Kherin felt a twist in his gut. The utter silence of a moment ago could easily mean that death had come.

He started sharply when the door was flung open.

The faded eyes of Gravlorn’s healer widened in shock as recognition struck, and movement behind the old man showed the dark leather of a Gravlorn Defender gaining his feet from a weary crouch. Kherin’s gut wrenched, and he took a step forward before the healer could speak, peering over the old man’s shoulder before Derek could stop him. A limp and sweat-soaked body lay before two leather clad Defenders, a man with hair the color of roasted chestnuts, the strands of which were limp and matted around a worn and tortured face.

A face Kherin knew as well as his own.

He lurched wildly into the room as a strangled cry erupted from his throat.

“K
HERIN
!”

A chair slammed into the wall as Kherin staggered amidst its legs, his motion and momentum caused by the trader's rough hands pushing him back. Training and instinct may have moved the Defenders to catch the prince as he pushed his way into the room, but it had taken sheer force from the trader to shove him into a corner and keep him there. Kherin fought to gain his balance, and his eyes, hot and furious, bore into the trader. The prince’s face was pale and wet with the mingling of rain, sweat, and tears. Fear emanated from him in tangible waves, though Derek stood ready with a mix of hope and dread warring in his gut. The hands he had clenched in the fabric of Kherin’s cloak were locked tight, his hold strong enough to keep him standing, keep him still, and separate him from the Defenders hovering over his brother.

“Kherin, calm down.”

Fear and anger crackled in the space between them, and the tension in Kherin’s body, the taut, gathered muscles of every limb, threatened to snap with movement at any moment.

“Calm down and breathe, Kherin.”

For a long, slow moment, Derek wasn’t sure if Kherin heard him, if he was even listening, but then, little by little, moment by moment, the fight began to recede, not vanishing entirely, but forced back, subdued. Only when Kherin’s stance eased did Derek loosen his grip and cautiously release the fabric. He turned when the prince’s gaze slid behind him.

The healer remained frozen in the shadows by the door while two Defenders stood watching from either side of his brother’s bed. Vic and Jori, a merchant’s son and a scholar. Kherin knew them both, as did Derek, but neither received more than a glance from the trader, and less than that from the prince. All attention turned to Adrien, heir to the Crown of Llarien, lying on the sickbed in the hospice of Gravlorn, watching Kherin with dark, haunted eyes.