“I’m sorry.” Callo moved his left arm—the one that had been struck by the mace—and tried to use his left hand to hold onto the bleeding wound in his right. The arm moved slowly, shooting pain up into his neck and back. He put his head back against the wall. Things seemed to be very dark in the alley, as if the torch at the corner had gone out in the rain.
“My lord.” Chiss’ voice sounded stronger. “We must get you to the castle. I will tell one of these tavern people to go for a carriage.”
Chiss left him. While the man was gone, Callo decided he’d best sit down if he didn’t want to fall. The blood flowed faster than he had thought, slicking his fingers. He found himself incapable of looking around to see what had become of the two kneeling men. They were still there, hugging themselves on the paving stones. He supposed they could strike him down whenever they wanted, now that he had withdrawn the fear. When Chiss returned, he asked, “Where are the other men?”
Chiss looked aside and said, “No need to worry about them. They’re gone.”
“Good.”
“A carriage is on its way, my lord. Hold on.”
Callo closed his eyes. Chiss’ hand was on his shoulder, giving him strength. He thought of what he had done to the attackers and how Chiss had seemed affected by it too. He said, “Chiss. I am sorry.”
Chiss said, “Here is the carriage, my lord.”
“I did not mean for you—” Then Chiss and someone else had hands under his arms, lifting him, and he forgot what he had meant to say in the wave of pain.
When he recovered his equilibrium, the carriage was moving. Chiss was wrapping something around his upper arm, where he had taken the sword cut. The cloth was torn from something blue-gray; he thought it was part of Chiss’ cloak.
He put his head back and looked out the window at the rain-swept streets. The carriage jolted and pain washed up his arm. He looked out, trying to distract himself, as they approached the castle walls. Guards stood before the gate. They strode forward to stop the carriage from entering the walls.
Callo heard voices—the coachman and the guard—then saw a face peer in at him. He looked at the man but said nothing. The guard made a slight bow, then shouted to someone to admit them. Callo kept looking out the carriage window in spite of the rain that now spattered his face. He could see the muddle of makeshift camps where people awaited admittance for an audience. Far above, and away from the main gate, he saw spikes on the top of the castle wall. A few of the spikes wore the severed heads of capital criminals, displayed for all as a warning. Through the haze of pain he saw that one of the fresher heads had pale yellow hair threaded with streaks of gray.
Chapter Twelve
Kirian was eager to get Sara’Si into her adjoining alcove and out of her sight for a while. She tried to follow the rules of this place, but the woman’s constant, judgmental presence annoyed her. Neither the King nor the Queen required her presence, Lord Callo was out on the town somewhere, and there was not a book anywhere. Kirian curled up on the bed and closed her eyes.
She had no idea how much time had passed when she heard tapping on the door. Sara’Si emerged from her alcove, pulling her veil over her face. How odd, Kirian thought, that she had spent all this time with the woman and only now for the first time saw her plump, attractive face.
The guard outside spoke to Sara’Si in a low voice. Sara’Si gave a heavy sigh and turned to Kirian.
“The ku’an’s man wants you. There is some crisis.”
“I’ll go,” Kirian said. She scrambled out of bed and pulled on a robe, belting it over the tunic she had worn to bed. She ran her fingers through her hair, pulled the veil over her face, and grabbed her Healer’s bag.
Her chaperone waited. The guard stepped back and looked away as they walked the few steps to Lord Callo’s chambers.
Chiss opened the door on her knock, as if he had been waiting right there. There were weary circles under his eyes and lines in his face Kirian had not noticed before. The room was lit by a good fire and several candles.
“Hon Kirian, I am glad you brought your bag,” he said. “It is in your Healer’s capacity we need you. Sara’Si, please come in.”
Kirian’s heart started beating hard enough that she felt it in her throat. She said, “Who is hurt? Is he all right?”
Chiss nodded. “The physician has been here. I thought it would be advisable to have you look at him as well.”
“Not
having a high opinion of the physician?” She took a deep breath and forced her heart rate to slow.
What a reaction, for a Healer
! She ignored Sara’Si, who stood like fate near the door, guarding Kirian’s virtue. “Where is he?”
“In the chair over there,” Chiss said. “My lord was in a fight. He has quite a few scrapes, but it is both arms and the area near his collarbone that you will particularly want to examine.”
Callo was leaning back in a large soft chair, his feet up on another chair. His head relaxed against the high back, and his eyes were closed. He wore a loose gray tunic and breeches. The arms of the tunic had been slit, and one arm was wrapped in white cloth bandages. A mug on the table next to him held a small amount of liquid—originally wine, she thought, but from the milky swirls and the distinctive aroma she knew it had been mixed with mellweed. He had not drunk it all.
“Lord Yun’lar was here? Or was it someone else?”
“It was Lord Yun’lar. He gave my lord the mellweed. He said he would not work with an injured ku’an unless he was sedated—too dangerous, he said.”
Kirian remembered trying to help Lord Arias, in SeagardCastle, after his violent Collaring by King Sharpeyes. She recalled how, as Arias’ feverish dreams had intensified, he had lost control of his color magic. She supposed a ku’an in pain might be even more perilous.
“I am surprised he drank it.” She sat down next to the drowsing man. “Still, I suppose it is for the best. My lord? Callo?”
“Hmm?”
“It is Kirian. I have come to see how you are doing. Where are you in pain?”
Callo opened his eyes and smiled in a sleepy way. “No pain.”
Perhaps Yun’lar had given him more mellweed than she had thought. She said patiently, “I must examine your arms and chest, my lord. That is where Chiss said you were wounded. Will you let me help you?”
Sara’Si hissed from the other side of the room, but Kirian ignored her. With unexpected gentleness, Chiss helped Callo withdraw his arms from the loose tunic and pull it off. Callo’s chest gleamed in the candlelight. There were bruises and cuts, but nothing serious there. His left arm, the one not wrapped in bandages, was already purple and swollen from shoulder to elbow. She probed with gentle fingers.
“He has had the mellweed, so I’ll not ask him to move it around,” she told Chiss. “Did Yun’lar do that?”
“He checked my lord’s range of motion. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. Lord Yun’lar said the arm was not broken.”
Kirian unwrapped the bandage on Callo’s right arm, trying not to disturb him as he had closed his eyes again. The stitches closing the wound were crude but adequate. The thick brown stuff coating the cut would protect the wound from any infection. She rewrapped the arm and let Chiss draw the tunic back over Callo.
“My lord?” she said.
Callo looked at her. His eyes were slightly blurry in the candlelight. “I feel fine,” he mumbled.
“Yes, indeed. I will have them bring ice for Chiss to put on your left arm so it does not swell so much you cannot use it. I will also have the kitchen send you blood broth to help restore you. You lost a fair amount of blood, it seems.”
“My sword arm,” he said, frowning a little.
“We shall see. If no infection begins, your arm should be fine. You must rest and recover. You look as if five men tried to beat you.”
“Six,” he said. He looked up at her and gave her an unusually sweet smile. “Thank you for coming. Yun’lar . . . was afraid.”
“Well, you have been very cooperative,” she said. He reached out and took her hand, drew it to his lips, and kissed it. She felt a shiver go through her at the sensation, even as his eyelids dropped over the amber eyes. His grip loosened as the mellweed took over, and she withdrew her hand. Callo’s breathing slowed and he slept.
She avoided Chiss’ glance as she gathered up her bag. “Blood broth, Chiss, and ice for the left arm. I have never seen such severe bruising. I assume they have an icehouse here?”
“Yes, and much fresh ice, Hon Kirian.”
“Good. Yun’lar will examine him for infection.”
“My lord does not care for Lord Yun’lar,” Chiss said.
“He will have to do,” Sara’Si said from the doorway. “Hon Kirian cannot continue to visit Lord Callo here in his rooms. She has been immodest in the extreme. You see, it only causes my lord to take liberties!”
“He is wounded and drugged,” Kirian said. “I am a Healer, Sara’Si, and you are here, after all.” She said in a low voice to Chiss, “We must talk. Who attacked him, Chiss? You must call for me tomorrow after Lord Callo awakens. I expect he will be in some pain.”
“You will not set foot back in this room while I am your chaperone,” Sara’Si objected. “I will call the lord high priest. It is wrong for you to be with a ku’an in his room!”
“Sara’Si—nothing happened,” Kirian protested. The chaperone continued her complaining on the way back to Kirian’s room. She went to her alcove and snapped the curtain shut behind her.
After Kirian was in bed and the candle doused, she lay awake, remembering the feel of Callo’s lips on her skin. He was not himself tonight, she reminded herself. She should forget the sweet smile, the kiss. It was all due to the shock, the drug, gratitude for her care. But she thought about his lean swordsman’s body, his amber eyes so full of light, his deep voice . . . and she wanted him.
Sara’Si left the room after breakfast. Kirian was left alone for the first time since she had been in Las’ash. Foreboding plucked at her nerves; she remembered that modesty was a religious matter here. Pacing in the room, she welcomed the messenger sent by Chiss around noon.
Chiss opened the door. “Hon Kirian,” he said. He looked behind her and frowned. “Sara’Si?”
“She has abandoned me,” Kirian said lightly, ignoring her own apprehension about this very subject. “How is Lord Callo?”
“He will not take Yun’lar’s mellweed, so he is in no very pleasant humor. Will you come?”
She nodded. She could no more refuse than she could stop breathing. Her eyes craved the sight of him, unpleasant temper or no. She gathered up her bag, slid on her shoes, and followed Chiss next door. Her guard was still there; he said not a word as she passed him.
Callo paced up and down in front of his window; it was unshuttered, and the noon light, fresh with the beginnings of Las’ash’s late spring, beamed in. The sunshine lit his fair hair and gave an unearthly glow to his eyes. It took the dazzled Kirian a moment to notice his pallor, the tension in the set of his shoulders.
“My lord. How are you this afternoon?”
“Well enough,” Callo returned shortly.
“I think you must be in some pain. Has Yun’lar been here?”
“With his mellweed, yes. I won’t take it. I won’t lie around in a stupor while Ar’ok tries to kill me.”
Kirian was about to reply when Chiss held up a hand. “Wait, my lord. I thought you realized—those were not Ar’ok’s men.”
“Whose, then?”
“I fear they were King Martan’s men. Did you note one of the attackers wore a raven tattoo? That is his private guard’s emblem.”
Callo sighed. “I had forgotten. Yes, the raven, from Alghasi. I remember now.”
Kirian frowned. “Surely anyone might have such a tattoo?”
“Perhaps. But I think these were Martan’s assassins.”
Callo asked, “How in hell did Sharpeyes get six men through the port?”
“It would be easy enough to simply arrive at some other place. A small town, perhaps. If you had your own boat, your own navigator—why not?”
“I am slow today.” Callo tested his left arm, wincing as it pained him. “I cannot think.”
“You lost much blood,” Kirian said. “Your body takes time to repair that. Also, Lord Callo, mellweed would ease some of that pain.”
“No!”
“It need not send you to sleep. Yun’lar used a heavy hand. He was afraid, I think, that you would use your psychic magery if he caused you pain while examining your arm.”
There was no response to that. Callo gave her a level stare, then turned and looked out at the golden sunlight illuminating the rooftops of the city two stories below. Chiss gave his lord a look out of the corner of his eyes, then began to tidy the room; he poured fresh water and wine, disposed of a clump of bandages lying on the floor near the soft chair, and freshened pillows. Kirian stood, not sure what to do.
After a while, Chiss said: “My lord, I will request luncheon from the kitchens. Please allow Hon Kirian to examine your arms. The left arm in particular has swollen a great deal, and the ice does not seem to be helping.”
Callo sighed. “All right.”
Chiss left the room. Callo turned away from the window. “Where do you want me?”
“The big chair will be fine. Tell me, honestly now, how you feel.”
“Like I’ve been dragged by a wild horse.” He didn’t smile when he said it. He sat on the chair and with much tugging and awkward twisting, managed to get his left arm out of the tunic.
Kirian touched the arm as gently as possible, probing around the shoulder and elbow joints, evaluating the swelling. Callo sat through this with a muscle twitching in his cheek as he clenched his jaw. When she was finished, she sat back on her heels and looked him in the eye. There was perspiration on his forehead.
“Mellweed would . . .”
“No, I said.”
“Do you think I would knock you out?”
He was silent for a moment.
“I must still examine the right arm.”
He sighed. “All right. A little.”
She mixed it in the wine cup so that he could see how little she used. He drank it down fast and then sat with his eyes closed. After he had taken it, she went through the things in her bag while she waited for the drug to take effect. She said, “My sart leaves grow fewer.”