And So It Begins (13 page)

“But….”
Why hasn’t he already stopped them?
Kherin demanded silently. Willum was Gravlorn’s
healer
; it was his
duty
to find out what caused the seizures and stop them.

“Kherin,” Adrien said again, low and steady, his tone pleading, but for what, Kherin couldn’t be sure. Kherin breathed and swallowed and then blinked, and forced himself to accept his brother’s words. Slowly, he nodded.

Adrien gave him a relieved smile, weak and weary, and though he opened his mouth to say more, the words never formed. The change in his expression was followed by the stiffening of his muscles, and a breathy, “Gods,” barely made it through his lips before the sound of his breathing became too ragged to form words. His eyes had already lost their focus when Kherin leaned over grasp his chin.

“Adrien…?” Kherin managed to scratch out, but he stopped short as Adrien arched suddenly against the bed, twisting as his fingers clenched fiercely around his hand and in the folds of the linens spread over and around him.

Realization slammed into Kherin like a club, and he swore fiercely as he launched himself at Adrien’s writhing form, grasping him with the intention of holding him still, holding him down. Panic overcame his own illness as he found his voice, and his shout for the healer echoed off the peeling walls…

And was followed all too closely by the sound of Adrien’s scream.

O
VERLOADED
shelves lined the walls and created paths across the floor, broken up by tables here and there. Looking at them now, he had no idea where to start. So many books—the answers might be here, and he still might never find them. He took a deep breath to drive back the hopelessness of his task and made a decision. He had to start somewhere, so he started with the nearest shelves.

He hadn’t been in a library since he had left the city of Delfore. More specifically, since he had left the castle grounds. He smiled bitterly, remembering how Kherin, the wild and fiery second prince, had been reduced to reading tomes thanks to a broken leg, and how he had been reading a book of poisons while he waited for the bone to heal. And he remembered the
other books
that had remained on his bedside table even after the splints had been removed, and how they had fallen to the floor as the bed and table shook with their recklessness during sex.

Or his recklessness, he should say. Kherin’s ass was made for the kind of fucking he liked, and he had delivered it mercilessly with every invitation he answered. He had looked forward to it, and the Gods knew Kherin had loved it.

His smile faded to a bitter sneer. Who would have thought that, only a few weeks later, his time with the prince would so permanently come to an end? And without so much as a warning, let alone a kiss good-bye.

But he was here for another reason. History. Or ancient symbols. Or anything else that might tell him about the people he had heard about, the people who they said would soon replace everyone living under the red-maned lion that currently symbolized the Royal House of Delfore.

Or rather, the people who they said would teach
them
how to replace the royal house, through their own writings, or the writings of others about them.

He wanted to know about them too, and he wanted to know about the power—the magic—the ancients were sworn to have used.

The library master, whose name he hadn’t learned, had escorted him into this area of the library in utter silence, and had said little as he placed lit lamps on one of the tables. His only words at all before departing had been a promise to return from time to time to replace the lamps running low on oil. Then the master had left him in peace.

While the monumental task sat before him.

It would tedious work, but the possibility that something useful was on the next shelf, that the next title he read would be what he looked for, would keep him going. That, and the fear that if he didn’t read the next title, or look at the titles on the next shelf, the answer would have been right there, right next to him, and he wouldn’t have found it. But the Gods only knew how long it would take before he found something that finally—finally—piqued his interest.

Something that would tell him about the Akhael. That was the name the ancient people were given in the market square yesterday.

And something about their magic. That was what they would use to dethrone the royal house and initiate their own place in the royal city—and what had been banished from Llarien soil long before his birth.

Tristan dropped his head as he rubbed his temples. He hadn’t heard of either of them—the Akhael or the magic—before he had come to the port city, which may be why the talk he had overheard following the speech given in the square the day before had made little sense.

At least right now. But that would change once he had the answers in his hand.

Leaning closer to the dusty shelves, Tristan steeled himself for endless hours of searching, if that’s what it took to learn what he could of this ancient race, to learn exactly what it was that had gained the attention of Dennor’s wealthiest sons.

More importantly, learn exactly how they would use it to form their most recent answer to the royal house in Delfore.

“H
OW
do you stop this?” Kherin demanded, looming over the stoic figure of the healer, although they were nearly matched in height. “His head injuries aren’t severe, you said so yourself, and no poison you know of would act in this manner.
That’s
what you said in your very own words just moments ago. So if it is not poison or injury,
then what is it
?”

The first fingers of dawn were trailing across the sky outside the window, softened by the thick, heavy clouds that still dropped rain on the already sodden city, and providing only a modicum of light through the shadows of the sickroom. Shadows or not, Kherin’s glower was clear, and it could only be a credit to his father that he had learned the art of royal intimidation so well.

Adrien was lying calm and subdued under the effects of another mixture of powders and herbs, though the strength he had shown in the midst of the seizure had nearly overwhelmed both the prince and the healer before it was over. Kherin’s muscles still trembled from the effort of keeping him still, though in the end, exhaustion had been as effective as the potion.

The blood that flowed from the mark on his brother’s shoulder had been the most terrifying of all, though Willum had thrown Kherin aside before he’d seen more than the shreds of torn skin under the smear of red. The breath that came from Kherin’s lungs sounded harsher and more brittle than that of his brother at the moment.

“I don’t know!” Willum repeated fiercely. The old man’s face was red with anger and frustration, and the color of it was deepening even now, but he stood his ground under the glower of his prince.

“You are a healer,” Kherin said coldly. The healer assigned to the Defenders. The one
responsible
for the Defenders.

“I am a healer of
battle wounds
,” Willum answered, his voice tight and controlled. “I clean and bandage sword cuts and arrow wounds, and set the occasional broken bones. I am
not
a healer of the unknown!”

Kherin growled as his anger flared.
He
could clean and bandage wounds, and probably do a fair job of setting broken bones, and nobody had ever called him a healer. The Gods forbid his father actually assign a
trained
healer here, rather than issuing payment to an old man so he could do what every Defender, townsman, and street urchin could do for themselves. Uncharitable, he knew, but maybe the northerners taking Gravlorn would be a blessing, Kherin thought darkly. More than likely, the northerners had already heard about the city and didn’t want this curse of incompetence to plague them like it plagued the southern kingdom.

Gods, judging by what he had seen last night, it was a wonder the city hadn’t
already
fallen.

Derek may chastise him as completely as his father
and
his brother if he ever said those words aloud, but Kherin couldn’t believe he was the only one to see the disaster waiting to fall on this particular city.

“I have done what I can for your brother,” Willum went on sternly. “The wound on his shoulder is as clean and treated as it has been since he arrived, and I won’t risk further damage with stitches until I am certain he will not tear them out. So, if you will not allow a stronger healing potion―”

“It’s not a
healing potion
he needs!” Kherin spat out.

“Then there is nothing more I can do.” With that, Willum turned and stalked out of the healer’s quarters, letting the door close loudly behind him.

Kherin let out another growl when the healer had gone, and all but threw himself on the bed next to his brother’s. His eyes trailed from his brother to the rain-splattered window with full awareness of how undisturbed Adrien slept, how it seemed far too deep for Kherin’s comfort, how the potions could be worse than the seizures if subduing his brother was the healer’s only course of action. He closed his eyes as he fought back his fury. Taking matters into his own hands would risk a storm of complaints reaching his father’s ears, and even if he took the risk, there was still the reality of his choices being extremely limited here.

He could send a message to his father and ask him to send a castle healer. Unfair as it was, he would trust no other healer in this Defender city after this. But even if the request were granted, it would take over a week for the healer to arrive. More than likely, the king would demand that Adrien return to the castle, which Adrien couldn’t do, and order Kherin back, brought in chains, if necessary. Maybe Oxlan or Lorn….

Lorn was only two days’ journey to the east by horseback, less than that for a single rider if his memory of the geography of the cities was correct. It was doubtful Lorn could send a healer to Gravlorn, however, as any healers in that city would have their own work to perform. And Adrien couldn’t travel far. The threat of a seizure would make even that short journey too dangerous. And Kherin would be outright forbidden to travel to make the demand in person. If Willum proved unable to stop him, Derek would never allow it. Not when his lingering fever still heated his skin as much as his anger, and not when his strength was sure to fade with the cooling of his emotions. The incessant rain would be nearly a moot point.

The door to the sickroom swung open before he had given more than a passing thought to defying them both and seeking a healer in Lorn regardless of their wishes, and the dark figure that swept into the shrouded sickroom sent a surge of relief through Kherin that had him rising from the bed without thought. Derek’s face was hardened with worry as he looked to Adrien, and Kherin didn’t resist as Derek pulled him into a strong embrace. The coolness of the trader’s chilled, rain-dampened skin felt good against Kherin’s heated body, and Kherin closed his eyes as the familiar smells of wet wool and leather brought a soothing comfort to his stressed and fraying nerves.

Willum had obviously summoned him, so it was little surprise Derek had already learned about the seizure that had taken Adrien again and the confrontation Kherin had initiated after. But even less surprising was Kherin’s reluctance to let go of the fierce and unwavering arms that supported him. What Kherin had witnessed was terrifying, but with Derek here, it felt somehow less devastating. A deep breath full of the trader’s scent filled his lungs before Derek eased him back, and the stark concern Kherin had seen the trader cast at his brother now focused him. Dark eyes studied him closely as an ungloved hand reached up to stroke his cheek.

“Your fever is not yet gone, my prince,” Derek said softly. “You need to be dry and back in bed.” A quick but gentle hand catching Kherin’s chin stopped the protest Kherin would have made. “I know that Adrien is ill, but worsening your own illness will do nothing to ease his, and that is exactly what will happen if you continue to stand here and grow chilled.”

An abrupt laugh erupted as Kherin realized just how much Derek had sounded like the nurses he had had as a child, but he resisted the urge to utter any remarks about it as Derek led him back to his bed. The cool sweep of fingers slipping through his hair was the only parting Derek offered before he vanished through the door.

No more than a few moments passed before he returned with a dry set of nightclothes obtained from the healer, which were tossed lightly on the bed before his dark cloak was shed and draped over the chair. A hint of gentle amusement had made it to Derek’s eyes by the time he returned to lean over the prince, easing Kherin’s heart even more by the simple familiarity of it.

“I seem to be undressing you quite often these days, my prince,” Derek mused as he pulled the nightshirt over Kherin’s head. “If I didn’t know better, I would think I have been relegated to body servant in tending to your highness.”

“You’re lucky I’m not demanding you run a hot bath and fetch my breakfast,” Kherin muttered, drawing a quiet laugh from the trader as Derek pulled him to his feet.