Mercy's Prince (11 page)

“How
long have I been here? And what about the Horde?” Valerian’s mouth was so dry,
it was difficult to talk.

Kieran
held a flask of water to Valerian’s lips.

“It’s
been six days since the battle. There’s been no sign of the beasties since
then.”

Valerian
drank the flask dry before speaking.

“Six
days. No wonder I’m so hungry.”

“Now
that
is
a good sign, my lord. Ye need more than the broth I’ve managed
to put down your throat. But you must get up and move around, no matter how
much it pains you.” Kieran set the empty flask on a table. “I’m here to help
ye, Sire, so you can regain the strength you’ve lost.”

How
he could possibly raise himself up, much less get out of the cot?

“The
easiest way is to turn on your side and roll your way out, if you get my
meaning.” Kieran moved closer, ready to help.

Valerian
sucked in a deep breath and forced himself to turn. He cried out again when his
belly threatened to split open.

“You’re
doing fine, my lord. Now, roll into me and I’ll help ye stand.”

Valerian
did so, unable to contain a cry of agony. He stood leaning on Kieran, gasping.

“Why?”
He could barely speak between gasps. “Does it. Hurt. So badly?”

“Possibly
because that ax slashed so deeply that your bowels were exposed.” Kieran’s face
was grim. “Only the cut edges of your mail and leathers kept them from spilling
on the ground.”

Sobered
by the close brush with death, Valerian said no more. As soon as the pain
subsided, he shuffled alongside Kieran. The squire kept him from falling more
than once. How could his legs have become so weak in such a short time?

He
was trembling by the time they finished walking the perimeter of the infirmary.
There was a chair beside his cot, and Kieran helped him sit there.

“’Twill
be easier for ye to get out of the chair than the cot,” Kieran said. “I’ll
fetch some real food for you, Sire. Don’t go anywhere ’til I return.” He winked
and strode from the room.

Valerian
sat as immobile as possible. Even with the slightest movement, tiny knives
stabbed his belly. He couldn’t get the image of protruding bowels out of his
mind. It appeared that the Most High was not finished with him yet.

When
he heard footsteps he glanced up, expecting Kieran, but it was King Orland.

“Father.”
Instinctively Valerian tried to rise and cried out at the pain.

Orland
frowned. “Should you be up?”

“Kieran
says I must in order to heal.” He gasped. “It actually hurts less sitting
upright than lying in the bed.”

Orland
sat on the cot, still frowning. His stare unnerved Valerian. Had he done
something wrong?

“I
do need you mended, Valerian, but make haste slowly and heal properly.” The
king sighed.

“Is
it true, sire, that the Horde have not returned since that last battle?” Valerian
tried to take a deep breath and winced.

“Our
scouts can find no sign of them.” Orland frowned again. “My worry is that they
have drawn back into Mohorovia for the winter to breed.” He stared at Valerian.
“In your reading of history, have you found any references to dragon species
and how prolific they might be?”

Valerian
tried to remember what he’d read about the many kinds of dragons. In most of
the histories they were mentioned, but the focus of the writers was on the
heroics of those who killed them.

“There’s
not much written, but I seem to recall that most species lay clutches of eggs.
Since the Horde are obviously reptilian, it would make sense they might breed
that way, too.” He frowned as he remembered one odd detail. “There’s a ballad
about Sir Alden finding a nest of eggs after killing the she-dragon. I know
ballads tend to exaggerate, but this one mentioned hundreds of eggs in one
nest.”

Orland
took a deep breath and changed the subject.

“As
you know, Valerian, I make a progress of the land every year. I wish for you to
accompany me on the next one.”

“I
will be glad to go with you, Father.” In truth, he’d always wished to see the
rest of Levathia. His knowledge of the land came only from what he’d read and
from a large tapestry map that hung in the great hall.

“I
need information before that time, however.” Orland glanced down at Valerian’s
midsection and winced again. “As soon as you’re able to ride, I want to send
you with your squire and a squad of ten men to visit each of the five border
garrisons and gather whatever information their scouts have learned.”

“Send
me, Sire? In command, you mean?” Valerian’s heartbeat quickened with anxiety.
Would experienced soldiers or knights be willing to follow his orders?

“Yes,
Valerian. It’s time you learned command, and this is a good place to begin.”
The king stood. “Consider which ten men from the Keep you wish to take and we
will consult together. But for now, follow the physician’s orders, and Kieran’s
suggestions, and heal as quickly as you are able.”

“Yes,
Father.” Valerian watched the king leave the infirmary, his thoughts tangled
with fear and excitement. Who might he choose as part of the ten? He would have
to ask Kieran.

By
the time the squire returned with food, Valerian was trembling with exhaustion,
almost too tired to eat. Kieran must have noticed, because he served Valerian
in silence and then helped him lay down. Valerian’s last thought as he drifted
off to sleep was that he needed to remember to tell Kieran as soon as he awakened
about the king giving him his first command.

***

At a knock on his door, Caelis let Lewes in. He
had already sent away Drew and his page on an errand.

“I don’t have much time, Sir Caelis.” Lewes
pulled a scrap of parchment from his sleeve. “Here are the names you
requested.”

Caelis scanned the eight names and nodded. All
were bowmen from the southern provinces. He crushed the parchment and strode to
the fireplace, tossing it in the flames.

“I will request these men be assigned to me, to
assist me while I perfect my new crossbow.” Caelis faced his cousin. “As I get
to know them better, I’ll make sure of their loyalty to the southern cause.”

“I know we can count on you, Sir Caelis.” Lewes
put his hand on the door. “I’d best return to Sir Brandon now.”

Caelis nodded, and the door closed behind the
squire. He turned back to the fireplace, leaning on the mantel while he watched
the flames. The parchment had vanished, but Caelis remembered each name. Most
were already familiar to him, so he did not anticipate any difficulty in
securing their loyalty.

He gritted his teeth, thinking about loyalty.
He’d been devoted to Waryn and thought he was to King Orland, as well. But the
king continued to reveal weaknesses that were unacceptable to Caelis. First, he
allowed Valerian and not Caelis the privilege of standing vigil over Waryn’s
body. Then, he granted mercy to the pacifists when they should have been
executed. And today, when Caelis asked if he might take a squad of men to
discover why the Horde attacks had not been renewed, the king informed him that
he was going to send
Valerian
when the prince had fully recovered from
his near-fatal wound. Sending the whelp in
command
! It would be
laughable, except it was a slap in Caelis’s face after all he’d done for the
king.

Waryn
would be horrified, if he knew the turn of Caelis’ thoughts. He would have
called it treason. But was not his father’s weakness a betrayal of the ideals
that Waryn had shared with Caelis? In their ideal society, mercy and weakness
had no place. Only the strong deserved to live, and only the strongest of the
strong deserved to rule. So, Caelis was not the traitor; the king and his
weakling younger son had demonstrated they were undeserving of their elevated
positions granted by the accident of birth.

Caelis
opened the door and stepped into the hallway. His heart pounded, and he had to
wipe his clammy palms on his breeches. It wasn’t too late, he wasn’t fully
committed; he could still prove his loyalty to the king and the oath he’d sworn
as knight by turning in his cousin. He sucked in a ragged breath. If only Waryn
was still alive. But he was dead, and everything had changed. Caelis could not
remain loyal when the one to whom he’d sworn loyalty had proven his
unworthiness.

He
squared his shoulders and strode toward the armory. The crossbows should be
ready. Caelis need only ask for the eight bowmen. The rest he would decide when
the opportunity presented itself.

Mercy
kneaded the bread dough with sure hands. She loved the yeasty smell, and the
pliable softness gave her the illusion of control over something when so much
in her life was beyond her control.

The
door opened, and Rafael came in from the sheep pens.

“Sissy,
will we have a winter feast this year? Dilly doesn’t think we will.”

Mercy
turned to her brother. Worry creased his brow.

“Do
you remember last year’s feast?”

He
nodded, and his face relaxed with a smile.

“I
liked the games, and the food.”

Mercy
remembered how she and Michael had won last year’s berry toss. No matter how
she threw the berry, even at the limits of her throwing range, he caught it in
his mouth with his hands tied behind his back. The last toss he’d lost his
balance, rolled on the ground, and managed to push himself upright. She hadn’t
been sure if he’d caught the berry, but he stuck out his tongue, triumphantly
proving that he had.

Her
heart sank. Last year’s feast had been her final one to enjoy as a maiden. Even
if the men had not been taken away, this year she was betrothed to Gabriel and
would not have been permitted to play games with her cousin. She would most
likely have been serving food or sitting quietly with other matrons; she was
certain the serious-minded Gabriel would never “play” at anything.

But
the men were not here. And even if she was too old to play, the younger
children deserved that opportunity.

“You
can tell Dilly that we
will
have a winter feast this year. I promise.”

“Oh,
thank you, Sissy!” Rafael threw himself into Mercy’s arms.

After
he pulled away, Mercy went back to her bread dough.

“When
I’m finished with this, why don’t we plan for the feast? I’m sure everyone will
be thankful to think about something happy.”

“Can
we play games?”

“Of
course.”

Rafael
clapped his hands.

“And
may I help you cook?”

“Of
course you may. What would you like to cook?”

Before
he could answer, someone knocked. Mercy sighed.

“What
now?” She wiped her hands on her apron and opened the door. Diligence stood
there, bouncing on one foot.

“Is
your grandmother worse?” Mercy asked.

Dilly
shook her head.

“No,
Sister Mercy. There is a woman at the gate who has brought a sick little girl.
She asked for the Healer.”

“Tell
them we shall be there as soon as possible.” Mercy glanced at Rafael.

Dilly
ran back toward the gate. Mercy washed her hands, covered her bread dough with
a damp cloth, and picked up her carry sack. She held out her free hand to
Rafael.

“I’m
afraid our feast day preparations will have to wait until after we examine our
new patient. Are you ready, my dear helper?”

Rafael
sighed and nodded. He held Mercy’s hand as they walked to the gate. Mercy
wondered where the woman was from and how she knew there was a Healer here.
Papa had had no such visits from people outside the village. Could Flint Mallory
have told others about his mended arm? What would happen to their quiet
isolation if more and more outsiders discovered she was a Healer?

            *         

Through
the end of autumn a small but steady stream of people came to the Village of
Peace to be Healed. Mercy could not turn them away, but she grew resentful that
her chores went undone, and the spotless cottage which had been her pride and
joy was no longer tidy.

Rafael
didn’t seem to mind all the needy strangers, as long as he could help her.
Mercy thought she would go mad if she didn’t find a moment’s peace, and soon.
She even began to daydream about leaving, like Serene had done, but reason
prevailed. Running away would only create new problems.

It
didn’t help that Aunt Prudence constantly berated her for the state of her
cottage or her appearance without once offering to help. Even the other women
tended to avoid her now. More than once Mercy had come upon two or three of
them whispering together, and when they noticed her suddenly stopped and walked
away. Did they disapprove of her Healing those from the outside? But how could
she turn them away? One day Rafael found her weeping and patted her arm.

“Sissy?”

“Yes,
love?” Mercy dried her eyes with her apron.

“Why
are you crying?”

Mercy
sat down and pulled Rafael into her lap. She rocked them both for comfort.

“Sometimes
the tears fill me up and they have to spill out. I’m sorry for upsetting you.”

“It’s
okay, Sissy. We’ve had lots and lots of patients, and it’s almost winter feast
time. Dilly and me have been getting ready so you don’t have to.” Though his
face was solemn, his eyes shone with contentment and Mercy hugged him.

“Bless
you, Rafael, and Dilly too. Perhaps we can still bake some sweet bread in time
for the feast.”

“Oh,
yes!” Rafael grinned. “I love sweet bread.”

Mercy
counted the days in her head.

“Winter
feast is three days from now, so let’s plan to make the sweet bread in two
days, on Winter’s Eve. All right?”

“All
right, Sissy.” He kissed her cheek and scurried away, happier than Mercy had
ever seen him.

***

On
his first excursion outside the infirmary Valerian entered the noisy armory
with Kieran. At cluttered benches sat apprentices, as well as nimble-fingered
women, hunched over arrow shafts, painstakingly fletching them. Others carved
spears, sharpened blades, smoothed bow handles, worked on mail shirts, helmets,
greaves.

Valerian
spotted Master Murray, the chief armorer, inspecting a yew bow. He squeezed
past a large wooden container, Kieran in tow, and they patiently waited to speak
to the man.

“A
sliver more off the side, if you please.” The grizzled armorer handed the bow
to another man, who saw Valerian and bent over the wood. Master Murray turned
and smiled. “Pardon me, Your Highness,” he said, bowing. “How may I assist
you?”

Valerian
met the man’s gaze and
Saw
his patient single-mindedness.

“My
squire, Kieran, and I were wondering if you had any ideas for weapons suitable
to use against the Horde’s battle-axes?”

“Ah,
you are not the first to realize a simple spear is not adequate. One reason for
adding the grappling hook below the spearhead. That was Sir Caelis’ idea.”

Valerian
remembered how the force of using the modified spear had quickly tired his
arms.

“Do
you have any other ideas? The Horde’s scales are too dense for arrows to
penetrate beyond a range of about five yards.”

Murray
rubbed his stubbly chin and glanced about him.

“Sir
Caelis is currently working with one of my apprentices on a modified bow.”

“Have
you thought of a blade we might use?” Valerian persisted. “Even a battle-ax
with a longer reach?”

“Not
yet, Sire, but I am open to any and all ideas by those in actual combat. You
know better what you’re facing than I do.” He smiled grimly and pointed to a
doorway at the back of the large room. “You and your squire are welcome to look
through the stores. I throw nothing away.”

“Many
thanks.” Valerian and Kieran made their way through the clutter to the
storeroom. They took unlit torches from their cressets on either side of the
door. Kieran lit his from the bellows fire and touched it to Valerian’s.
Together they entered the musty, windowless room. There were piles of broken
spears and bows, all manner of wood and metal scraps, as well as shelves,
wooden crates, and several trunks lining the walls.

“Why
don’t we each take a wall,” said Kieran. “We could look through those
containers twice as fast.”

Valerian
nodded and opened the nearest crate. He quickly determined there was nothing of
use in that one as well as the others along that wall. After despairing that
this errand was a waste of time, Valerian spied a trunk behind another stack of
crates. The latch was broken, but the trunk was very old and intricate in
design. Trembling with excitement, Valerian cleared everything on top of it and
blew away a layer of dust settled in the crevices of the carved lid.

He
gasped. There was a dragon in the emblem, the sign of the royal house.

“Kieran!
Come and see.”

His
squire left his rummaging to stand beside him.

“That
trunk looks very old indeed, my lord.”

Valerian
handed his torch to Kieran and lifted the lid. Inside, lay a moth-eaten fur
robe lined with an embroidered hem.

“I’m
sorry for interrupting your search.” Valerian didn’t bother to hide his
disappointment. “I was sure this ancient trunk would hold something useful.”

“Perhaps
it does yet, Sire.” Kieran lowered one of the torches. Something metal
reflected in the light.

Valerian
pushed aside the fur and discovered not one but two leather scabbards. From
each protruded the hilt of a sword.

“I
have read about these,” Valerian said, remembering the tapestry in King Orland’s
room as well as his own recurring dream. “Swords were once widely used as
weapons, but they were not effective against Levathia’s many large dragon
species, so they were replaced with bow and spear.”

He
reverently lifted the top scabbard. It had dragon designs worked into the
leather. When he held it up, the shape of the hilt formed a cross. Did the
design have any religious significance or was it merely functional? He took
hold of the hilt below the crosspiece. The haft fit perfectly in his hand.
Slowly he slid the sword from the scabbard and raised the blade upright. Kieran
studied the blade by the torchlight.

“It
looks clean, Sire. No tarnish after resting here who knows how long.”

“I
wonder if it’s still sharp?” The blade was double-edged. Would it be effective
from horseback as well as in hand-to-hand combat? There was only one way to
find out.

They
retraced their steps through the clutter and replaced the torches in the
cressets beside the doorway. Master Murray conferred with an apprentice, and
they made their way toward him. He turned his head and saw the scabbards. With
a nod, he left his apprentice.

“Aha!
I have been wondering what happened to those blades, Your Highness.” He held
out his hands and Valerian placed the scabbard across them. The armorer first
inspected the leather and then pulled out the sword, examining it with a
critical eye.

“Do
you know what this is, my prince?” Murray glanced at Valerian, looking pleased.

“I
know it’s a sword, and a beautiful one at that.” Valerian tore his gaze away
from the blade. “It must be very old.”

Murray
nodded. “There is no one alive who remembers the craft of making them, although
I have found some notes left by my predecessor.” He smiled. “This very sword
belonged to your ancestor, Alden the Great.”

Valerian
gasped. Alden himself had used this blade
three
centuries
ago.

“May
we take these?”

“Of
course, Your Highness. Let me sharpen the blades, although I would caution you
not to actually use them until you have learned the techniques.”

“How
will we do that if no one has used them for centuries?” Valerian stared at the
blades in Murray’s hand.

“Years
ago I found an old scroll detailing the proper way to use a sword, and I gave
it to the monks in the library for safekeeping.” The armorer took the swords to
the grindstone.

Valerian
spoke to Kieran while he watched Master Murray.

“I’ll
find that scroll, and then we should find a place to practice away from prying
eyes.” An image of Sir Caelis came to his mind.

“I
have an idea, Sire, that will give us practice time and help you get ready for
a long journey on horseback.”

Valerian
turned to Kieran.

“Long
journey?”

“Your
first command, remember?” The squire grinned.

Valerian
nodded, and his throat tightened. How could he forget?

            *         

Two
days later Kieran had made preparations for them to leave the Keep for an
excursion. Valerian found himself in Theo’s stall wondering how he would pull
himself up to the saddle. Since being cut open by a Horde battle-ax, he had
discovered how many simple movements he’d taken for granted required intact
belly muscles.

“Here,
Sire,” said Conrad, the groom. “I’ll get ye a bucket to stand on.”

That
would be fine for mounting this time, but what about dismounting? And the next
time he needed to get back on the horse?