Color Mage (Book 1) (20 page)

“Very likely,” agreed Chiss.

“As it is, we have a favored status,” Kirian went on. “And I have not been thrown into some women’s hermitage somewhere, my lord, because you vouched for me.”

“There is that.”

“Ah, but we are not done with you yet,” said a deep voice.

The new arrival was a man in his vigorous middle years. His hair was mostly silver, but had once been the color of straw. His lined face was still handsome, and his eyes were the color of amber. He wore a long robe caught up with a gold sash, slit to show the scarlet tunic beneath. Authority was written all over his face.

Callo was staring at the man’s eyes as they all rose and bowed.

“Yes, you have my eyes,” the new arrival said. “I am Si’lan, the ku’an’an—that is, the lord of the ku’an, the psychic mages. An unknown ku’an is a rare thing. They called me immediately.”

“You said I have your eyes.”

“A ku’an’s eyes, I mean,” said Lord Si’lan. The half-smile on his lips struck Kirian as malicious. “You came in on the
Fortune,
they said, from Righar.”

Callo nodded. “I am Callo ran Alkiran, and my companions are Chiss and his cousin, Healer Kirian.”

Si’lan scanned each of them, slowly, returning to Callo. His eyes seemed very golden in the enclosed room, as gold as the platter with the fruit and nuts. Kirian began to feel odd. Suddenly she felt her shoulders pressing against the wooden chair-back, the backs of her knees ticklish with sweat against the seat. The chill air began to have texture; it scraped against the skin of her face and neck. The sweet fragrance of the fruit and wine mixed with the brown scent of nuts, overwhelming her. The sound of everyone’s breathing was loud as coughing, and when she touched the fabric of her cloak, she almost cried out from the pain of the contact with the worn fabric. Confused and frightened, she blinked back tears against the sensory onslaught. Her stomach heaved in reaction.

Then the ku’an’an swayed back, hand to his head. Callo came to his feet, reaching for his sword.

“Stop!” Callo ordered.

“I have. I have. Sheathe your sword,” Si’lan’s voice was hoarse, and he blinked his eyes as if they teared. “I have stopped.”

Kirian took a deep breath. The world was back to normal again, her nerves only a little raw from the overload. Chiss, behind her, drew an audibly ragged breath.

“What was that?” Kirian asked.

“That was an attack,” Callo said, glaring at Si’lan. He had not yet sheathed his sword.

Si’lan shook his head. “Please, Lord Callo, sheathe your weapon. It was not intended to be an attack but rather a test. I had to be sure, you see, that you were in fact what your eyes advertise you to be.”

“And you are certain now?”

“I am.” Si’lan had recovered, Kirian saw, and there was a calculating look in his eyes. “You shoved my magery back at me. I am surprised you knew what to do. You have great strength, for a half-breed.”

“You know who I am, then.”

“Oh, yes. We have been aware of the yellow-eyed Royal Bastard for some time.”

Callo slid his sword back into its scabbard. He showed no reaction to the slur, which he must have been well used to hearing. Kirian took a deep breath and wondered what she had gotten herself into.

“I am here to talk to you, or some other ku’an,” Callo said. “My intentions are honorable. I do not expect to be attacked, or to have my companions attacked, just because you have the power to do so.”

“We will not do so. Be seated, Lord Callo, until I can have a slave show you to the rooms we are having prepared. Later, we will present you to the King. This man, I take it, is your manservant? Yes? And this woman, you are not related to her—she must go into the women’s quarters.” Si’lan’s voice was calming. Kirian wondered whether he was exerting a calming psychic influence as well, and if Callo would notice it if he were.

“I would prefer not to, Lord Si’lan,” Kirian said.

Callo said, “She is my manservant’s cousin. She must stay near us.”

“Indeed? We can provide a room near your own but she must accept a female companion to be assigned by the Queen if that is so. Our customs, you see—in fact our gods—require it.”

There was no brooking the dictates of religion. Kirian sighed. “All right, then.”

Chiss was looking at her. “Are you sure?”

“I have no choice. It is better than the women’s quarters, wherever those might be. My thanks, Lord Ku’an’an.”

“And you, Chiss, stay with your employer of course, as I know well,” Si’lan said, looking at the smaller man. Kirian thought the wording of this was odd and looked at Chiss, but there was no expression on the man’s face.

“I will allow you to settle in before I begin asking questions,” Si’lan said. “I have many.”

An hour later, looking around the small suite that was provided for her, Kirian wondered if she had been wise to accept the female companion. The woman Sara’si was heavily veiled and completely silent except when advising Kirian how to wear the Ha’lasi dress and veil that had been provided. Kirian’s attempts at friendly conversation fell unheeded into the chill air of the chamber. After donning the clothing, Kirian found her stride restricted by the narrow robe and her vision partially blocked by the veil, which she found annoyingly opaque.

The suite itself was more than sufficient for her needs. It had a small window that looked over the city from a height of two stories. A narrow bed was pushed against one wall, blankets and one fur piled atop it. There was a little table and a wardrobe for her clothes. A curtained alcove to one side contained a small bed and table for Sara’si, who was expected to be with her at all times.

When she opened the door of her suite, intending to go next door to confer with Callo and Chiss, she found a guard outside.

“By the gods!” she said. “Am I a prisoner here?”

The guard, a rotund man wearing an insignia of a golden eye, kept his eyes averted from her as he replied. “Healer Kirian, Lord Si’lan says your status allows you to remain outside the women’s quarters. But you must be guarded.”

“Both inside the room and out?” Kirian said, looking back at the silent, veiled woman folding her cloak away behind her.

“That is our custom. Lord Si’lan said I should explain if you asked. I beg pardon for speaking.”

“You need not beg pardon. Are you not usually allowed to speak to me?”

The guard cast a glance into the room at Kirian’s companion. He turned to place his back to her again.

“Good gods,” Kirian said. “Guard, what is your name? Will you tell me where Lord Callo is? I need to speak with him.”

What the guard’s response would have been she did not know, for just then a liveried messenger dashed around the corner and came to a stop in front of the open door, breathing hard.

“Hon Kirian!” he said. “Her Majesty the Queen has been told you are a Healer in Righar.”

“Yes.”

“Her Majesty the Queen requires your attendance immediately! Please hurry, Healer!”

Kirian grabbed her bag from the table and hurried after the messenger. Her companion followed, a dark shape reminding Kirian strongly of some brooding Fate. The messenger urged her to go faster, but her stride was restricted by the narrow skirt of the robe. It was several minutes before two uniformed armed guards opened an ornate door and another attendant announced her into the presence of the Queen.

The Queen was wrapped in robes so that Kirian could not tell much about her, but from the bony hands, she guessed the woman was very spare of frame. The Queen’s fingers were loaded with rings that sparkled in the reflected light of the fire, and her reddish-gray hair was threaded with diamonds. The woman’s face was coated with powders beneath a veil that was not much more than a drift of netting, and her gold eyes glittered through the fabric into Kirian’s. She looked alert and perfectly healthy at first glance.

Kirian bowed respectfully before the Queen. The Queen said: “A Healer, are you?”

“Yes, your Majesty. Are you ill?”

“A real Healer? Not a witch or a midwife?”

“I attended the Healer’s College in Sugetre, Your Majesty. I was assisting the Healer at Seagard just before I came here.”

“He may not accept a woman Healer,” the Queen said to one of her attendants, a robed figure also wearing a mostly symbolic veil.

The attendant said: “He is in great discomfort, Your Majesty. He will try anything. If you send her, he will accept her.”

The Queen looked hard at Kirian. Her eyes glittered. Kirian felt a tremor of fear run down her spine.

“If you harm His Majesty, I will see that you die a most miserable death,” the Queen said. “But it is worth a try. Have you treated anyone with the breathing disease?”

“There is more than one kind of breathing disease,” Kirian said. “I have treated two different kinds.”

“The King has attacks,” said the Queen’s attendant. “He is fine for days, then he wheezes and cannot breathe. At the worst he cannot walk or lie down, and must sit hunched over until the attack eases.”

“It is getting worse,” the Queen said. “Our Healers have done nothing to stop these attacks. They mutter together and try concoctions and fill the room with noxious smoke. Our priests ask the mercy of the gods. What can you do that is different?”

“Your Majesty, I must consult with your Healers. I do not know if they have tried the leaves of the sart plant. This plant, when used in a tea, eases one form of the breathing disease.”

“Take her in to him,” the Queen ordered. “Tell him it is by my wish. You, Righan Healer, if you harm him, you and yours will not see the end of your suffering, ku’an or no ku’an. Do you understand?”

“I am a Healer, Your Majesty. I will not harm any person brought to me for my aid. I will be glad to see if I can help the King.”

The attendant went to the door and called two guards from the hallway outside the Queen’s chamber. The guards, the attendant, and Kirian walked two doors down the hallway and were admitted into a guarded room that was, indeed, filled with “noxious smoke.” Kirian detected a fragrance of charred roses, and grimaced.

The room was dense with servants and guards. King Ar’ok sat on a low chair, hunched forward, his head down. He was a slight man with the straw-gold hair that seemed to belong to the ku’an males in this land. Then he raised his amber eyes, and she realized he was not a man yet at all, but a boy in his mid-teens. His face was pale and unlined, and his eyes shadowed with the strain of the breathing attack. A male slave stood behind him, rubbing some ointment into the bare skin of his back.

“Your Majesty,” she said, bowing. The attendant did the same.

“Gods help me, can you not tell that I am ill?” the boy King gasped. “I have no time for my mother’s fancies now. Go away.”

“Your Majesty,” the attendant said. “The Queen has sent you this woman, a Healer from Righar. She may be able to help you.”

“A woman! And from Righar.” The boy King stopped speaking and drew a difficult breath. Kirian heard the rasping of his breath from where she stood, and she knew the burnt-rose smoke could not be helping.

A tall man in green robes approached. She cast a quick look at his face and was relieved to see that he did not have ku’an’s eyes— finally, someone here in Las’ash city in a position of power that could not influence her mind without her permission.

The man introduced himself as Yun’lar, lord of physicians in Las’ash. He said, “You are a real Healer? You have completed the training in your capital city?”

“In Sugetre, yes.” She smiled at him, hoping that this fellow Healer could be an ally in this strange place. But Yun’lar sneered at her.

“A woman cannot be permitted to examine a man’s body. Particularly that of our great King.”

“It’s up to you, lord physician. I see you have been burning roses.”

“It has had no effect,” the physician said.

“Sir, my experience is that this irritates the lungs even more,” Kirian said. “Will he not do better with clean air?”

Yun’lar frowned at her. “You do ill to think a slip of a girl knows more than a physician of many years standing. The outside air is cold. It will freeze the swollen passages in his lungs.”

Kirian shuddered inside, but let that comment go. “I have twice eased the breathing disease in Seagard. If His Majesty has the same type of illness, the leaves of the sart plant, made into a tea with just a little mellweed for relaxation, will stop the attack. Have you tried this?”

“I have never heard of the sart plant,” said Yun’lar.

Kirian looked around for a table, saw none, and bent to lay her bag on the floor. The narrow robe made it hard for her to bend. She opened the bag and withdrew a little paper twist with writing on it. Inside were a few dried leaves, gray-green in color, with nubby surfaces. They were still whole, but very dry. Yun’lar peered at the leaves. He looked at the hunched figure on the chair and shook his head.

“I do not recognize this herb,” the lord physician said.

“It is up to you, Your Majesty,” Kirian said in a clear voice. “I believe I can help you.”

“She must not examine you, Your Majesty!” said Yun’lar.

“Gods, I don’t care right now. Let her come near. You, Healer, what do you need to do?”

“I must listen to your breathing, Your Majesty.”

Yun’lar hissed. Ar’ok, struggling for breath in a way almost painful to witness, gestured Kirian near. Two guards on either side of the King’s chair stiffened, hands on weapons.

“Relax,” she said. “I’m sure you can defend your King against me without the weapons. Now, Your Majesty . . .”

Kirian bent close. She placed her ear against the King’s back, where it stuck unpleasantly to the smelly lotion the slave had been applying. “Please breathe, Your Majesty,” she told the King.

The King took a breath. The wheezing was very loud. He did not seem to be able to draw a complete breath. Sensitive to his quivering tension at having her so near, she stepped back immediately.

“I must have hot water and a cup, for tea,” Kirian said to Yun’lar. “I will crush just one of these leaves and steep it in hot water. Then I will add a pinch of mellweed, and the King may drink it.”

There was hot water on a side table. One of the slaves drew Kirian over to it while Ar’ok watched Kirian with narrow golden eyes. Kirian crushed one of the leaves, steeped it in hot water in a delicate cream-colored cup, and stirred in the mellweed. Bits of the leaves floated on the surface of the liquid, and the whole thing looked slightly oily. When she presented it to King Ar’ok, he looked at it with disfavor.