“Drink this…you must drink this…” Even the words burned through his ears, like flame-tipped arrows, and whatever he drank tasted like liquid fire.
Worst of all, he could not see, as if he were locked behind his own sight and light shields.
At other times, the words spoken to him, as gently phrased as they were, meant nothing. Every word was strange, as if spoken in the language of Hamor or of ancient Westwind, or even of antique and vanished Cyador.
At some point, a cooling blackness descended upon him, and his sleep was deeper, and dreamless.
Days later, he thought, he woke, without the fire, but he still could not see.
He could sense he was in a large room, with a light and cool breeze blowing across his face, a face that felt cracked and dry, and someone sat on a chair beside the wide bed. There was a darkness to that presence. A black mage?
“Lyras?”
“Yes. I could feel the battle from the north, but it took an eightday to get here. Few coasters were willing to chance the voyage with all the reports of Hamorian warships off the shores.”
“Lord Ghrant?”
“He will recover, although he is yet weak.”
“The rebels…the highlanders?” Even a few words seemed to exhaust Kharl.
“All is well…you need to know that, but you also need to rest.”
“You…should…have…been…here.”
A light laugh answered Kharl’s halting words. “Me? I would have been burned at the first firebolt. I don’t know how you did it. There were close to a hundred armsmen that you flamed. Yet you radiate darkness like the strongest of order-mages.”
“Did what…had to…” Kharl was too tired to explain. He could do that later.
“I said you were stronger than I,” offered Lyras.
“Don’t feel…strong.”
“Don’t complain. Most people who took on two white wizards and companies of armsmen and lancers would be three cubits down-if anyone could find enough to bury. That includes mages.”
“…not a real mage…”
“If you’re not a mage, then water isn’t wet, and ice isn’t cold.” Lyras snorted. “Maybe no kind of mage I’ve heard about, but that doesn’t matter. A mage is a mage, and you’re a mage. No question about that.”
“Mages…not that…stupid…. Ghrant still lord?”
“Oh, yes, and matters will be much better now.”
“The Hamorians…their fleet?”
“Oh…that. When they discovered Ilteron was dead, they sailed off. They weren’t interested in shedding their own blood. Just ours. Enough of the questions. You need to rest.”
Kharl wanted to protest, but the cool darkness flowed from Lyras over him, and he could not say a word as he dropped into another deep and dreamless sleep.
LXXXVIII
When Kharl woke again, he could see. He was quartered in a corner room in the keep, with white plaster walls and a wide window, its shutters open to the south. The high bed was of triple width, and had sheets of fine cotton, the kind Charee had dreamed of and Kharl could never have afforded. For a moment, sadness washed over him, and tears streamed from the corners of his eyes. Were all luxuries that costly? He blotted the tears awkwardly, wishing he were not crying, trying to ignore the figure hovering over him.
“Are you all right?”
Lyras had vanished. In his place was a young woman wearing a dark tunic and trousers, with her black hair tied back, and very intent brown eyes.
“Just…I’m better.” How could he explain? “Better,” he repeated.
When he could speak, he asked, “Who are you?” Then he tried to look at her more closely, and, abruptly, the blackness dropped across his vision as though he had raised the light shield.
“I’m Alidya. I’m a healer in learning. Lyras summoned me.”
Kharl forced himself to relax, not to think about seeing. “What happened?”
“What do you mean, Master Kharl?”
“I don’t remember much after I got Lord Ghrant to the ship.”
“No one could believe that you rescued him and killed the white wizards. I’m sure you know, but there wasn’t a mark on them. Not on Ilteron, either. Master Lyras, he said that the ways of the black mages are mysterious…Is it true…oh, I’m not supposed to be talking, not so much. Would you like some lager or some ale?”
“Lager…that would be good.”
“Just a moment, ser…I’ll be right back.” Her voice died away, as did the sound of sandals on stone.
Kharl sat in his darkness. Why had he been able to see, then not see? He’d tried to concentrate on seeing the young healer…and it was as if the concentration had brought on the blindness.
Within moments, it seemed, he heard Alidya’s steps returning.
“Here, ser. I’ve got your lager.”
Kharl managed to locate the tankard-a real tankard and not a clay mug-with his order-senses and take it from Alidya’s hands. He took a slow swallow, then another, enjoying the taste of perhaps the best lager he’d ever had. Sometime after the third or fourth swallow, his sight returned, but he did not look directly at Alidya, just enjoyed the indirect light flooding around him and the distant hills to the south through the window.
“You didn’t tell me what happened afterward, after…”
Alidya smiled. “Oh, it was glorious. Lord Hagen rallied the lancers and drove back the attackers and raised Lord Ghrant’s banner. Then he sent a message to the highland lords, and, when they learned that Ilteron and the white wizards were dead, they agreed to return to their lands and recognize Lord Ghrant as supreme ruler of Austra.”
“Ah…” Kharl couldn’t believe it had been so simple. It could not have been that easy, could it?
“Well…he did have to send some captive officers back who saw Lord Ghrant so that they could say that he was alive, and he had to promise that he wouldn’t execute any of the rebel lords. They say that Lord Ghrant wasn’t happy about that.”
“That was all?”
“There was one other thing,” Alidya said. “The rebels wouldn’t agree unless Lord Ghrant named Lord Hagen as both his chancellor and arms-commander.”
Kharl couldn’t help chuckling. He would have rolled with laughter if he hadn’t known it would have hurt too much. Even the chuckling sent spasms through his ribs and muscles.
“I don’t think that’s at all funny.” Alidya’s voice turned prim.
Kharl managed to stop chuckling.
“Why did you laugh, ser?”
“I can’t explain…except…” Kharl shook his head. “Someday…someday, you’ll understand.”
A pained look crossed the young woman’s face, but she did not ask again.
“If I could have some more lager…?” Kharl asked after finishing the tankard.
“Yes, ser.”
Kharl could only drink a third of what she brought before he had to put it down. He was far more tired than he had thought, and who knew how many days he’d been abed?
Later that afternoon, a half glass after Kharl woke from dozing off, Hagen appeared.
“Lord Hagen!” Alidya bolted upright from the chair beside Kharl’s bed.
“You can go, Alidya, and close the door on the way out.”
“Ser…”
“Kharl will be fine, and if he needs you, I’ll call you.”
“Ah…yes, ser.”
Hagen waited until the door closed. “I owe you again.” His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “And you owe me, after a fashion.”
“Alidya told me about your having to be the lord-chancellor.”
“And arms-commander.”
“Lord Ghrant must not be terribly pleased,” offered Kharl.
“He’s relieved that he’s still Lord of Austra, and Lady Hyrietta has prevailed upon him to keep whatever anger he may have to himself.”
“What will you do with the Seastag?”
“Furwyl will become captain, and the others will move up, except for Bemyr. He’ll always be a bosun.” Hagen looked at Kharl. “Lord Ghrant will be honoring you.”
“I didn’t do it for honor.”
“You’ll pardon me if I didn’t tell him that. I did say that you had seen injustice in your past and that you could not allow it to triumph in Austra if you could help it.” Hagen grinned crookedly.