Angels swam in the aether, singing the most beautiful melodies I'd ever heard. Millions of blue and green bubbles, glowing with an inner light, washed across my body like fireflies in a sea of liquid diamond. The angels' songs faded slowly, and a dull, thumping pain ushered me back to consciousness.
I awoke under the ministrations of Ariel, the royal herbalist. A woman in her early thirties, she had dark, flowing hair and kind eyes. She wore a loose white blouse, and a featureless coin dangled from a gold chain around her neck. I stared at the coin and realized my eyes were still too blurred to discern any detail. A steady buzzing hummed in my ears.
Ariel noticed I was awake. "How do you feel?" she asked.
"I don't know. I do seem to be in one piece."
"So what happened to you?" she asked, as she applied a magic elixir to my wound.
"Um… a hunting accident," I replied, still too groggy to make up a decent lie.
She smiled. "A hunting accident?"
"I was, uh, kicked by a horse."
She continued to smile. "Have you heard about the terrible blow Lord Rothchild sustained while jousting?"
"Indeed," I said. "How does he fare?"
"He'll be fine," she laughed.
Bit by bit, Ariel reconstructed me. As she wove spells and mixed potions, we talked. She told me the people of Jornstad were disappointed at Lord Rothchild's loss to Sir Udo but were already making up excuses for their champion's defeat. Sir Udo was more popular than ever, and citizens were crying for a rematch. I didn't want to think about it.
I got two lessons in white magic that day. Lord Rothchild's armor, it turned out, was enchanted with powerful magic. If the armor had been weaker I'd probably have been killed by the lance, although my broken rib might argue the point.
I also had a firsthand experience with miraculous healing magic. Ariel's unguents and potions had me patched up, and with only a day of rest I was ready to get back to work. Ariel said she could work wonders on wounds far more serious than mine.
Still I realized that the power to heal, impressive as it was, did not keep Kjeldor's enemies at bay. Powerful protection was not the reason for our nation's greatness. There must be more, I thought.
Ariel advised bed rest for the remainder of the day, but since I really wasn't tired, I sat in bed reading adventure stories.
Not long after, Lord Rothchild stopped by to check on me. I wanted to scream, "Where were you?" But, of course, one does not speak that way to a king, so we both avoided speaking about the obvious.
"You are an astute young man, Finroy," he said with an air of discomfort. He was more subdued than I'd ever seen him, and there was a serious look in his eye.
"I'd be proud to have you as my regal overseer. You have shown your true mettle and performed your duties admirably. Congratulations."
"Thank you, sire," I croaked.
"Well, the healer told me you'll be making a full recovery," he said, changing the topic quickly. "I'm glad to hear it."
We made light conversation for some minutes, and then Lord Rothchild wished me well and excused himself.
Come evening another visitor appeared. Devareaux, whose only interest in me up to this point had been to issue dire threats, almost seemed to show actual concern for my well-being.
"Your service to the king is rightly appreciated," he said. "You are a true patriot and an upstanding citizen of the nation of Kjeldor."
Even when granting compliments, the duke had a foreboding manner. If I'd heard only his tone, and not his words, I might have feared for my life, yet his actions were friendly enough.
He presented me with a box of wafers, which were wet with some kind of paste. They were, he explained, a remedy his mother used to give him when he was hurt. The thought of Duke Devareaux having a mother was enough to make me smile.
I sampled one, and it was the most wretched, putrid concoction I'd ever tasted. Despite an almost overwhelming urge to spit out the pasty wafers, I choked them down, one by one. This was the first genuine kindness I'd been shown by this man, and I certainly wasn't going to insult him or his mother. I wondered why folk remedies were always so unpleasant.
We talked, and his candor was unusual. He told me that Lord Rothchild's father had died in a sporting accident when Lord Rothchild was only six. His mother was taken the following year by consumption. The young Lord Rothchild had grown up without any guidance, the adults in his life catering to every whim of the little prince.
The lord had developed a pattern of irresponsible behavior that could have been his undoing. His saving graces were twofold: He knew how to surround himself with very capable advisors and assistants, and he had a charming personality and a gift for leadership.
Devareaux offered some very useful advice as well. He told me the places to look for Lord Rothchild at different times of the day if he wasn't where he was supposed to be. They were, of course, by no means certain, but hopefully they would be a template I could use to avoid future tests of my jousting skills.
Finally, he turned to go. When he reached the door he said one last thing. "You're an ambitious young lad. You could do well for yourself in this court. "
After my brief period of recuperation, I once again resumed my duties. My hands were full with Lord Rothchild's social and diplomatic calendars, and in addition, he was scheduled to speak to the people in a fortnight.
When the time came, I attended the event, which was rife with ceremony. He stood up to speak from his balcony, looking every bit like a man in his element. His voice boomed across the crowd, and it swayed like a cobra to his seductive thrall.
"The might of Kjeldor shall echo in Balduvian halls. It shall blow across the frozen forests of Fyndhorn like a blizzard. It shall lurk in the darkness, wrapping itself around the throat of the cowardly Lim-Dul. The foes of Kjeldor will scatter like chaff on the wind before our invincible armies.
"In a symbolic gesture of Kjeldor's greatness, on the morrow I shall venture alone into the heart of the forest to slay the vile scaled wurm Rhindle. Its head will grace the town square for all to see, an icon of Kjeldoran pride."
The throng went wild.
"Is there no limit to his greatness?" they murmured. "Kjeldor is truly the mightiest nation Terisiare has ever seen."
After the speech, my apprehension grew. So far, Lord Rothchild didn't seem to have a very good track record of correspondence between word and deed-and I was the one who had to live up to his promises.
My spirits were somewhat assuaged when I accompanied him to practice his fighting skills later in the day.
"How will you kill the creature, Your Majesty?" I asked as we rode to the training grounds.
"Through cunning and guile," he answered. "It will take a minimum of well-placed blows to fell the beast."
Perhaps you can pacify him with cackleberry gin, I wanted to say.
"You worry too much, Finroy. I think it's because you don't drink enough. Or perhaps I should send a girl to your quarters to ease your mind."
"I was only trying to be practical, Sire."
After securing our horses, we assembled on the grounds with some of the finest warriors in the land. Each demonstrated his or her technique to Lord Rothchild while I held the weapons.
The first lesson was in swordsmanship. Straw targets were placed at intervals around the course, and Lord Rothchild was required to demonstrate the abilities he'd learned on each one. He stepped like a dancer across the practice field and with a graceful pirouette plunged the sword into the straw effigies. His maneuvers were bold reinterpretations that bore little resemblance to the originals. Although he rarely missed the stationary targets, I wasn't sure how this would help him kill the creature. I was confident only that Lord Rothchild could expertly slay straw mannequins.