Chapter
4

Aodren

I TOUCH THE PARCHMENT TO THE LAMP’S FLAME and watch the words burn away until all that remains of Millner’s letter are flakes of ash. Even if he hadn’t specified to keep his report secret from his daughter, I wouldn’t have shared anything because it might compromise the situation in Malam. Besides, it was a brazen request. Those eyes glinted with anger like sharpened chips of slate.

Shouts sound in the distance.

I flick the last bits of the letter off my trousers and move to the window. Lanterns approach the castle gates, cats’ eyes bobbing in the late evening. The yellow cast renders the holders’ uniforms indistinguishable at first. But as they draw nearer, Shaerdan’s blue and gold colors identify the men as castle guards. They’re carrying something between them and shouting for the gate to be lifted.

Unexplained unease worms through me as it did the night of the coup. Memories of the past flash through my head in a haze of blood.

I bolt from my room, and rush through the corridors, startling the castle guards posted outside Malam’s hall. They follow me down the stairs and through the inner keep, to where five wings branch away from a grand hall. The summer castle is a misshapen stone spider.

Doors near the base of the stairs screech open; wood slams against stone. Guards hustle inside, their movement awkward, their shuffling steps compensating for whatever they’re carrying. A disheveled girl, wearing stable clothes follows behind.

Lirra? She couldn’t have left my chambers more than half an hour past. Why has she returned? And with so many guards?

“What happened?” I cross the foyer to meet her, parting the crowd of castle workers and dignitaries, who all at once take in my presence and bow. Lirra doesn’t move. She’s slackened, haunted, unfocused, not reacting to anything, so I repeat myself, my voice sharp and demanding. “Lirra, what happened? Why are you here?”

A wince tightens her unfocused eyes and her ashen face.

“A fight broke out in the camp, Your Highness,” the nearest guard answers for her. “Your captain happened upon it.”

Leif was in a fight? What does this mean for the tournament? A low buzzing starts at the base of my skull. Judge Auberdeen and King Gorenza move closer to the group of guards. Out of the corner of my sight, I catch the red-and-gold robes of Ku Toa and her dignitaries standing near the Plovians.

“Explain,” I demand.

“Y-Your . . . Your Highness.” She struggles to push out the moniker. “I—I didn’t know what was happening.” Lirra wrings her hands. “And then there were the boys, and they were going to get hurt. Their mother wasn’t around. I looked, but—” She sucks in a slice of air, her features bunching up, and then she tucks an elbow into her side. “I was so worried that I ran—”

“Can you start at the beginning?” I step closer to force eye contact.

But Lirra keeps babbling, her sentences tumbling over each other.

“Lirra,” I say. Then, harsher, “Lirra, stop.”

Her teeth dig into her bottom lip, stopping the flow of words. Wet, inky lashes sweep down to rest against her cheek. The sight pierces me with worry. I wasn’t patient or agreeable with her earlier. I regret that now. But those thoughts escape me the moment the guards move position, opening their protective cocoon around a man lying motionless on a board. Leif.

“He was stabbed,” Lirra whispers.

“No.” My pulse roars though my ears. I rush forward, not believing my own eyes.

He has a seeping wound, high on the left side. He should be dead. But his chest rises and falls in quick, shallow jerks. He’s fighting fate. Shock pelts me like shards of ice, freezing and piercing me with grief.

“How?”

The question is intended for everyone, yet no one answers.

Confusion rolls into fury as I stare at my fallen captain. “How did this happen?”

A heavy hand falls on my shoulder. “Come, Aodren. Let the guards carry him to the healer’s room.”

I turn to find Auberdeen, the man who, a little over a year ago, would’ve met me on the battlefield. Wariness and distrust remain between us; that much is evident by his somber set eyes that don’t quite meet mine. But my concern for Leif eclipses all else. In a daze, I follow as the men carry Leif on a board and walk to a branching hallway. An exchange of voices starts up behind me. Orders are issued. Someone calls for all involved to be captured and held in the lower level of the keep. I tune them out and walk with the guards to the healer’s room.

Leif is laid on a cot in the middle of the room. Fluids seep from his tunic into the linens, staining them bright red. Then even more blood flows as the healer removes the blade. She is a thick, robust woman in a tidy frock and veil, with movements that appear practiced and efficient as she pulls back Leif’s drenched clothing. All I see is the blood, running like small rivers of crimson from his wound, trailing down his lifeless arm, and puddling on the stone floor.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but the dull, wet thwacks and scrapes of the healer’s work fill my ears.

I pace away from the cot, walking the square prison of the healer’s room while she issues commands like an army general, telling all the guards but one to stand watch outside. She orders the remaining man to supply her with clean white rags from a supply table, bottled remedies from the shelved wall, and thick stinking paste from a stone mortar. Time crawls as she cleans the wound, treats it, and sews it closed.

“I’ll leave you with him,” she says eventually.

I cross the distance to the cot in two long strides, hoping for a miracle that isn’t there.

Leif is too still. Too gray.

“Is that all you can do?” I choke out.

“Yes, Your Highness.” She stands with hands folded, eyes downcast, and mouth pulled into a pucker on her square face. “I’ve washed him with Beannach water and stitched him closed. But it was a grave injury,” she says, tonelessly as if reading a town decree instead of discussing a man’s life. Leif’s life.

“But he will live. Yes?” I rake my hand across my brow. “I know men who have been stabbed and lived. Hell, I’ve been stabbed, and here I am.”

Her gaze flicks to Leif. The buttonhole of her mouth cinches tighter. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I cannot say. I’ve done all I can.”

An airless breath wheezes out of me.

This woman has no soft lines. No pity. Like the rest of the four kingdoms, she cares nothing for me or my people. She sees the mistakes of my kingdom’s past. Anger unfurls inside me. Who is she to deny me? I want to break something. To destroy all the bottles lined up like an army on the wall behind her. To use the power of my crown to force her hand.

I lost so many people during the coup, from loyal lords who were murdered to my former captain, who was my closest adviser and friend. Now I trust few, to say the least. But one man I know I can trust with my life is Leif. I cannot lose him now.

Desperation claws through me like a rabid animal.

But I silence it. I will not be the tyrant the world expects me to be.

“Please,” I say, and the guard stiffens, probably never having heard a king beg. “This man has saved countless innocent lives. He is good and honorable. I saw the Channelers Guild heal a fellow. The four of them worked together. If there is anything else that can be done for him, if you will summon Channelers to save him . . . I am pleading with you. Please save him.”

The nurse looks up and studies me for a long moment and then nods. “I will return shortly, sir.”

She bows and rushes from the room. I turn back to Leif and focus on him with the intensity of one poring over philosophy and history books. Small jerks rattle his torso. His lips are cracked and gray. His face slack. I’ve seen this before. I’ve watched other men take agonized breaths before death swooped down and snatched their souls.

Breathe. Keep breathing, I urge Leif.

“Your captain was young, but a true, loyal servant.” Judge Auberdeen’s low gravelly tone breaks the quiet.

I look and find him in the doorway. I think he’s been waiting outside, allowing me time alone, and I’m not sure what to make of it. Auberdeen is a difficult man to read, but then, the history of war between our kingdoms gives us both reason to be guarded.

Stopping a few paces from the cot, he views Leif. “Some deaths are destined, and we can do nothing to stop a man from crossing the infinite river.”

“My captain hasn’t passed.” The words come out like a wintry gust.

“No, not yet,” a quiet female voice interrupts.

Auberdeen and I turn to greet the newcomer. Ku Toa walks into view, her robes scuffing like whispers over the stones. In spite of the crimson wrap looped around her head, my attention is drawn to her eyes. Round, wise eyes.

“You are right.” She nods a greeting to the chief judge. “Sometimes we cannot stop others from leaving this life. We can, however, try to influence a friend away from the edge.”

“This situation is dire,” says Auberdeen. “Perhaps too late for attempts that might give false hope to our young king.”

If this is support, it might as well be a thrown dagger. “Hope or despair for my captain need not be your concern, Judge.”

“My apologies,” he says, his tone unguarded and genuine. “I’ll leave you to say goodbye to your friend.” As he exits the room, I wonder if perhaps I’ve misjudged the man.

Now it is only me, Leif, and the Ku.

She moves through the healer’s room and comes to stand beside me. “The last year has held too many trials for one person to bear. Has it not?”

“There have been many, but not so many that I have given up hope.” I choose my answer carefully, wondering what she thinks about me and my land.

The unfettered attention of her owlish eyes is unnerving, as if this woman, who is ancient and ageless all at once, can see into my darkest thoughts. When I consider there is still much to learn about her and Akaria, the imbalance bothers me.

“Hope you must always have.” She extends her hand, where upon her palm is a thumb-size bottle. Burgundy liquid clings to the glass, the consistency thick like oil. “Perhaps I can help. Something to aid your man. To spare you another loss. Sanguine. It means ‘the fluid of life.’”

A shadow moves in the room, and I glance over my shoulder to see the healer woman. She must’ve sought out the Ku.

I consider asking for more information on Sanguine. What was shared at dinner isn’t enough to provide a full understanding of the oil’s uses, or how it works, or if there is a chance it could make Leif’s condition worse. Though worse would mean death.

But Ku Toa presses the bottle into my palm; its warmth, from being held in her hand, spreads to mine. “You can save him.”

Can I trust her?

I turn to Leif and feel myself crumbling inside. The rubble is covered with anger. I want to scream at the turn of the night’s events. Nothing is fair. Leif should’ve never gotten hurt.

From what I know, Ku Toa has no motive to harm Leif or me. But I’ve been fooled before. When you rule a kingdom, few who cross your path are truly trustworthy. The summit has barely begun, and already there is tension among the leaders. I am leery of trusting anyone. My gaze drops to the bottle. What other choice do I have?

Leif will die regardless. Ignoring the overwhelming feeling of uncertainty, I force myself to make a choice. I open the bottle and, at her direction, tip the Sanguine to his mouth. A drop of deep burgundy rolls down his cheek, but most of the oil makes it between his lips, staining them the color of life.

When the bottle is empty, we wait.

How long does it take for Sanguine to work?

Seconds turn into years. Years to eons.

Leif shudders, a violent racking heaves his chest. His breath becomes staccato gasps, and then leaves as quickly as it came. His chest does not rise again.