Master of restless shado.., p.8
Master of Restless Shadows Book Two, page 8
part #2 of Master of Restless Shadows Series
Normally, Narsi would have administered duera to slow the bleeding and ease pain before he attempted to stitch these wounds closed. But even before Narsi could mention the drug, the physician-priest standing nearest him whispered, “He’s already taken twelve drams of duera.”
“Twelve?” Narsi scowled. A dangerously high dose for a man who appeared so frail and elderly. No wonder the king hardly seemed to note Narsi’s presence on his bed beside him. Narsi guessed the large dose had ensured that the king failed to register the injuries he’d sustained. Even now his eyes barely fluttered open. Though it was also possible the potent concentration of the drug had slowed the king’s pulse just enough to save him from bleeding out hours earlier.
“Tourniquet, then,” Narsi decided. He slid his medical satchel around from his back and handed his windlass cord to the physician-priest griping the old king’s bony elbow. Then he freed his surgical roll and laid it out on the bed. He shot a glance to the medical table. “Cleansing dishes prepared?”
“They’re ready,” the young physician-priest called back. He raced from the table and brought two cleansing dishes to the bedside.
The other two physician-priests bound the king’s arm and twisted the small silver windlass until the bleeding stopped. At last Narsi felt secure enough to release the king’s arm and sidle off the royal bed. As he circled around to join his fellow physicians he noted the crowd that had now gathered in the bedroom. Two royal guards and several pages clustered themselves near Father Timoteo and Prince Sevanyo at the bedside. Beyond them, the duchess her entourage and numerous other nobles, including Atreau’s brother, edged near the king’s bed. Priests, retainers and guards made some effort to keep them at a distance, but more people seemed intent on shoving their way in. Narsi thought he recognized the bruised countenance of Ladislo Bayezar as well as one of the Helio brothers at the edge of the gathering.
Already the gilded room felt confined and too hot.
Someone hissed an outraged complaint at the sight of a Haldiim laying hands upon the king. Father Timoteo told them to shut up.
While the physician-priests washed the king’s arm, Narsi cleaned his hands in one dish and then washed his curved needle and suture thread in the second. The strong scent of coinflower drifted up to him. He threaded his needle and fought his growing awareness of all the Cadeleonians now observing his every motion. Narsi suspected that if they hadn’t been so shocked by the attempted assassination, many more of them would have voiced objections. Or more likely, they would have hauled Narsi from the room, clapped him in chains and hurled him into a dungeon.
They still might if this went badly.
Narsi could almost feel Prince Sevanyo’s stare burning into him. Even exhausted and distraught, the prince presented an imperious figure. What would happen if Narsi couldn’t save the king? The elderly man’s injuries were so serious, and he’d already lost so much blood. For an instant paralyzing fear gripped Narsi. The suture thread nearly slipped from his needle. He caught it and secured the thread.
This wasn’t the place or time to lose focus. He’d preformed far more difficult procedures before throngs of instructors and young medical students. He would face the repercussions of his actions after he’d done all he could to save this elderly man. But right now he narrowed his attention to his patient and fellow physicians.
Narsi worked quickly, first stitching the deeper cut, then the longer, shallower gash. The urgency of the injuries and Narsi’s own growing agitation over the responsibility that he’d just assumed set his heart racing. As much as he needed to work fast, he had to remind himself to remain collected. Draw needle and thread through the king’s delicate flesh with calm precision, just as he’d been taught.
Thankfully, countless hours spent suturing everything, anything—from banana skins and freshly slaughtered goats all the way to gravely injured civil guards—imbued his hands with a certainty of reflex. The sureness of his fingers gave him something to focus on and something to feel assured of: he’d closed far graver injuries before these. For the briefest of instants he felt a wave of gratitude to all his mentors for the rigors of his training. Then he gave up any concern outside his work.
His knuckles began to ache where the muerate poison had seeped into them. He ignored the pangs and double checked that none of his surgical knots rested directly atop the seams of the closed wounds. Neat rows of salt-washed silk stitches closed both cuts in a ratio of four to one.
Narsi directed the physician-priests to loosen the tourniquet. A faint pink flush slowly colored the king’s waxen flesh. Narsi’s stitches held nicely. He stepped back as a wave of fatigued relief swept through him.
“I should clean my hands and tools,” Narsi said. The three physician-priests nodded. Narsi withdrew to the worktable while they draped loose bandages around the king’s forearm and then used pillows to elevate his arm. Narsi observed them almost absently as he cleansed his hands with coinflower distillate. He wanted to look to Berto and Father Timoteo for some reassurance that he’d done the right thing, but they both stood too near Prince Sevanyo and the whispering clots of nobles. Narsi didn’t feel quite composed enough to face so many judgmental strangers.
Instead, he found himself stealing a glance to where the dead physician-priest lay crumpled in the corner of the room. Flies buzzed over the open gash in his neck. His bloody hand still gripped his surgical knife.
Someone ought to remove or at least cover his body.
But issuing such an order fell well beyond Narsi’s authority and responsibility. He’d already overstepped what little rank he possessed amidst these Cadeleonian nobles. He returned his attention to his needles and tweezers. While he packed his medical satchel, he became aware of people’s voices rising around him. A few aimed snide comments at him. Others speculated about the dead physician-priest. Had he been an agent of Count Radulf’s? Could he have been enthralled by a witch—by the heathen Haldiim? How many other physician-priests might be compromised?
All the speculation disturbed Narsi but somehow didn’t surprise him. He felt relieved hearing Father Timoteo squelch any supposition of Haldiim involvement.
“We must look to our own, where members of the holy orders are concerned,” Father Timoteo intoned. “Assassins hardly require spells or thralls to motivate their misdeeds. The man’s associates must be questioned closely.”
All three physician-priests tending the king blanched, but they continued to attend to the king’s comfort. One of them roused the old man long enough to convince him to swallow a few mouthfuls of broth. Narsi respected them for remaining focused on the well-being of their patient despite their shock and the precariousness of their position. Though he knew better than to remain in their company. He made his way around the golden bed and joined Berto, standing just a little behind Father Timoteo. Berto patted his shoulder.
“Thanks to God that you joined us this morning, Narsi,” Berto whispered.
Narsi nodded. Though privately he did wonder how much faith anyone ought to place in a god who allowed the situation to go so wrong and then relied on happenstance to save the king’s life. Then it belatedly struck Narsi that Berto was one of the few people voicing relief that the king had been saved. Instead the golden chamber seemed to hum with concern about the time.
“Too soon,” someone behind Narsi whispered.
“Will he need to be . . . hurried ahead to join the Hallowed Kings before the Masquerade? Or do you think he’ll last?” a man murmured.
“Wouldn’t it be terribly unlucky to appoint a Hallowed King during Masquerade?” a young woman whispered.
The timing of the king’s demise rather than the possibility of his death seemed of immense importance. Listening, Narsi soon learned that the royal bishop had not yet initiated the rites that would ensure the king joined his ancestors as a Hallowed King. He’d expected to begin them after Sevanyo’s vigil and the fourteen days of Masquerade.
“Nugalo should have been here with me.” Prince Sevanyo sounded both aggrieved and a little frantic. “What insanity has possessed him that he imagines harassing Fedeles could possibly excuse his absence now?”
“I’m sure that His Grace would not commit dereliction of his duty, Your Highness,” an older priest standing at the foot of the bed responded. He bowed his head when Prince Sevanyo glowered at him but went on. “He couldn’t know that this would happen. Your Royal Father was expected to receive his last rites on the final night of Masquerade and take his place among the Hallowed Kings the Sacreday after—”
“Will he survive fifteen more days?” The prince turned on his heel to stare at Narsi.
Narsi met his intense, dark-eyed stare for a moment, then dropped his gaze to where the king lay on his bed. The feeble man drew in quick, shallow breaths and hadn’t been able to drink more than a few mouthfuls of liquid before losing consciousness. All of which were very bad signs. There was a slight chance that he might improve if the duera burned out of his system quickly enough to allow him to take in more liquids. But considering the amount of blood he’d lost and the dosage of duera that had been administered to him, Narsi doubted it.
The young physician-priests at the king’s bedside swatted several flies away from the drying stain of blood that dulled the golden bedding.
“I can’t say, Your Highness.” Narsi replied. “Your father lost a great deal of blood, and he’s been given a dangerously high dose of duera. If he regains consciousness and can be fed liquids, then he might recover. There is always hope. But, in your place I would prepare myself for . . .” Narsi trailed off, seeing the pain in the prince’s expression.
He knew all too well how hopeless it was to imagine anyone could be prepared for such a loss. Knowing all he had about wasting diseases, Narsi had still wept and pleaded and begged while his mother’s life had faded away. And afterward he’d felt almost as if he had died himself. Only the certainty that he would see her again—reborn and full of life and joy—had allowed him to make his peace with parting from her.
Perhaps the promise of paradise could comfort the prince?
Narsi almost said as much, but then he remembered. The king’s soul wouldn’t be released to enter the Cadeleonian paradise—nor would the prince’s soul. They were destined to become Hallowed Kings. Spirits trapped in the mortal realm after their deaths. Uncertainty filled Narsi as he tried to imagine what that actually meant to both the king and prince.
“This isn’t how it was supposed to end. Not like—” Prince Sevanyo’s voice caught in a strangely childlike manner. He sank down to this father’s bedside and briefly touched the old man’s waxy cheek. The king’s eyes fluttered but didn’t open. Prince Sevanyo wiped at the tears trickling down his face. “Oh, Papa.”
Then the duchess pushed through the surrounding nobles and strode to the prince. A guard looked as if he might challenge her for just a moment, but she gave him such a commanding glower that he stepped back as if reprimanded.
She reached out and gently placed her hand on Prince Sevanyo’s shoulder. Her expression softened very slightly.
“I know you don’t feel ready to let him go, Sevanyo. When I lost my mother I thought my heart would tear itself apart. I didn’t think I could go on breathing, much less living without her, but I did go on.” She spoke softly. “You must as well, because our entire nation looks to you to do what is right—even now in your time of grief. We have no one else.”
The prince stared up at her, and despite the fact that he was gray-haired and his face lined with age, it struck Narsi that there was something of a child’s countenance in the way he studied the duchess. She wrapped her arms around him, cradling his head in the folds of her gown while he leaned against her waist. For a few moments she simply held him, offering comfort as the prince wept. Then he seemed to calm and the duchess stepped back.
“I know you feel you are at your weakest in this moment,” the duchess whispered. “But in truth you stand on the cusp of claiming dominion over all of Cadeleon. You’ve never been stronger. Fedeles needs you to seize that power now. We all do.”
For an instant a blue ray of morning sun seemed to radiate from the duchess and illuminate the prince’s features. His sorrow smoothed to an expression of resolve. He drew in a sharp breath, squared his shoulders and stood.
“Call my attendants to me and have the grooms make my carriage ready!” the prince commanded. “We will carry the king to the Shard of Heaven while there is still breath in his body. He must join the Hallowed Kings.”
“But Your Highness,” one of the priests at the foot of the bed objected. “It’s weeks too early. The Shard of Heaven hasn’t been properly readied. The feast dishes are uncooked and the choir hasn’t—”
“Dusting and choir practice hardly matter at this point. We must act quickly or this assassin will succeeded in breaking the line of Hallowed Kings,” Prince Sevanyo snapped.
“Thankfully Master Narsi has bought us time to set things right.” Father Timoteo offered Narsi a proud smile.
“But . . .” The priest cast an aggrieved look at Narsi then trailed off before voicing any further objection.
Prince Sevanyo had given his orders and they were already in motion. Servants rushed out of the room, and the sound of their racing feet and loud voices resounded. A flurry of disorderly activity followed, as attendants and the remaining physician-priests worked to ready the king to be transported by carriage to the Shard of Heaven.
Onlookers and gossips all dispersed their own pages to summon other nobles or ready their mounts. Narsi joined Berto in drifting back from the frantic hustle. Father Timoteo exchanged a few words with the prince, then he bowed and withdrew from the bedroom. Narsi and Berto followed him. As they found their way down the stairs, streams of servants and guards jostled past them.
The halls of the palace echoed with commands but beneath them rose the soft hiss of speculative whispers. All the finery and gold Narsi had noticed on his way in seemed trite and banal.
“I must accompany Sevanyo to the Shard of Heaven,” Father Timoteo told them once they’d stepped outside into one of the verdant gardens. “It might be for the best if the two of you return to the Quemanor house.”
“You shouldn’t travel alone,” Berto objected.
“I’ll be fine with Sevanyo,” Father Timoteo responded, and then Narsi realized why Timoteo was bringing the subject up at all. Narsi had been blessed in a Cadeleonian chapel, but he wasn’t a member of the clergy, nor was he recognized as a noble. He couldn’t expect to enter the Shard of Heaven alongside Father Timoteo. Not without causing a scene. He’d already had his fill of that this morning.
“As much as I’d love Berto’s company for my ride back to the duke’s great house,” Narsi said, “I think he should join you, Father. At the very least because I’ll want to hear about everything when the two of you return and Berto is a better source of gossip.”
Berto smiled, but the fearful expression he’d worn earlier flitted across his face. Narsi found it a little extreme considering the situation. It wasn’t as if Berto and Father Timoteo were abandoning Narsi in a dank ally filled with cutthroats or setting him adrift in the open sea.
“I did manage to ride the entire distance from Anacleto to the capital all on my own, you may remember,” Narsi said. “And I’ve navigated the taverns and alleys of the Theater District all this last month.”
Berto worried his bottom lip but then nodded. “Promise you’ll have a care. Royal court may present a civilized appearance, but it’s filled with no fewer cutthroats than is the Knife Market. This place is a snake pit.”
“No doubt it is,” Narsi allowed. “But I intend to leave all the adders and asps well enough alone. My entire plan is to read a little in one of these gardens while the stable is busy, then after all of you have departed for the Shard of Heaven I’ll collect my horse and ride back to the duke’s household. After all that excitement, I may just indulge myself in a nap.”
That seemed to put both Father Timoteo and Berto more at ease. Though they might well have offered further arguments if three page boys dressed in the Sagrada colors hadn’t run them down to inform the Holy Father—now Holy Bishop—that Prince Sevanyo wished him to accompany him in his carriage. Tired-looking guards jogged up behind the pages. They positioned themselves to serve as Father Timoteo and Berto’s escort.
Narsi stepped aside as the entire group marched toward the stables. The duchess and Prince Sevanyo joined them while their combined retinues charged behind like a small army. As more parties of nobles and their entourages poured out of the palace, the path to the royal stables became a river of bright silks and brocades. Narsi retreated past ornamental trees and pretty statues to a small stone bench beneath a bower of roses. From his seat he could just see the painted doors of the royal stable.
More courtiers hurried past him to join the growing crowd and Narsi felt pleased that he’d avoided their crush. From where he sat, he overheard occasional bits of chatter and gossip. It seemed that Suelita Estaban had been sighted twice in the company of duelists from the Red Stallion sword house and was now rumored to have turned whore to finance her newfound appetite for poppy smoke and swordsmen. Narsi wondered if Suelita would find such a profound untruth funny or mortifying. He felt a little offended on her behalf, but he hoped that she’d laugh rather than allow petty conjecture to hurt her.
