“By Karak, you look like shit,” the soldier said, hastily throwing his arms around Ceredon to keep him from falling. “Whoa there, I have you.”
Ceredon leaned into the man, thankful for his strong arms and quick actions. When he took a closer look at the soldier, he saw that he had an odd, diamond-shaped scar on his left cheek.
“Thank you,” Ceredon said in the common tongue. “I do not believe we’ve met.”
The soldier paused, then said, “You can call me Boris Morneau. And there’s a good reason we haven’t met. I only arrived a few hours ago.”
“What is the nature of your business?”
“Information,” Boris said proudly. “I had an urgent message for Master Clovis.”
“Oh. And what was that message?”
Boris looked at him sidelong. “I’m sorry, my message was for Master Crestwell’s ears only,” he said. “And besides, you haven’t told me your name yet.”
“My apologies,” Ceredon said with a chuckle. “Ceredon Sinistel, at your…actually, in your service.”
“Ceredon? As in son of the Neyvar?”
“The one and only.”
“Well, what do you know? I just arrived in Dezerea, and I’ve already met a prince.” His head cocked to the other side. “Granted, a very injured prince, but still. What in the world happened to you?”
“Short, uninteresting story. However, do you think you could do me the favor of helping me to the big room down the hall?” He lifted the wooden pitcher, an action that hurt like hell with his broken arm. “I was not thinking and attempted to retrieve some water for myself despite my…condition. If you were to lend me your shoulder, I promise you this prince will never forget it.”
“Of course. Consider me at your service.”
With Boris’s help, it took no time at all to reach the Chamber of Assembly. The young soldier even went so far as to fill the pitcher for him, then fetched a cup for him to drink from. It was while he was mid-gulp that a shrill scream pierced the night air.
“What was that?” he asked Boris.
The soldier shook his head. “I told you. I came with a message for Master Crestwell. I never said it was a good message.”
“I see.”
Boris steered him out of the chamber and back down the hall, heading for the stairwell. It was then that Biden came tearing around the corner, eyes wide with fright. When the healer spotted Ceredon, he stopped short.
“My lord, what are you doing down here?” Biden exclaimed in elvish.
“I needed water,” Ceredon said, as if the agonizing trip down to the lowest floor had been nothing.
“You should have told someone,” the healer said, panting. “You frightened me half to death. If you had been taken…”
“Why would I have been taken? By whom?”
“Why, by the rebellion.” Biden looked at him as if he’d sprouted a third eye. “Did you not hear?”
“Hear what?”
“There was an attempt on Councilor Iolas’s life tonight. One of the insurgents snuck into his room and attempted to put a dagger through his heart. If the guard on duty had not gone in to check on him, he would have perished.”
Ceredon’s heart rose into his throat. “Oh,” was all he could say.
Biden walked up to him, looking him over. “At least you seem to be healing, my lord. How does your foot feel?”
“Like it’s the size of a watermelon.”
“But at least you can feel it. This young man assisted you down the stairs?”
He thought of telling the truth, but instead said, “He did.”
“Thank goodness for him.” Biden looked at Boris. “And what is the human’s name?”
Boris stared at him, dumbfounded.
Biden chuckled and switched to the common tongue. “Many apologies. I am simply wondering the name of the human who assisted my prince in his time of need.”
“Boris,” he replied. He looked as if he were about to speak his last name as well, but he tripped over the word and fell silent.
Ceredon grabbed the healer by the sleeve of his robe. “Biden,” he said, switching back to his native tongue, “enough of this, I feel fine. Tell me what happened to Iolas. You said he was attacked, but was he injured? If so, was it serious?”
The healer shook his head. “The guard put an arrow through the rebel’s heart before he had a chance to do him any harm. However…”
“Go on, Biden. Tell me.”
The healer looked around, then said, “Iolas does not feel safe here any longer. As the last of the Triad, he is returning to Quellassar to name two new members of the sacred trinity. It is an obligation he has been putting off for weeks.”
“And the attack gave him reason,” Ceredon muttered.
“Indeed,” said Biden.
“When does he leave? Has he decided?”
“Three days.” The healer cocked his head, staring closely at Ceredon’s face. “My prince, do you wish for my help in returning to your room? You have grown pale.”
Ceredon shook his head. “I am sure my friend Boris can manage. You must have things to do.”
“Are you certain?”
“I am.”
“Very well,” Biden said. “I must check on your father. But I will be back to look in on you as well. Try to remain in your bed from now on. I will send two guards to keep watch over you until morning.”
Ceredon nodded to the healer, who then ambled away, heading for the main entrance to the palace. He shook his head, feeling his insides tense. Iolas could not be allowed to perish by any hand other than his, but he could not be allowed to return to Quellassar either. Ceredon would need to take care of him in the next two days…which, given his condition, would be a near impossible task.
“What was that about?” Boris asked.
Ceredon looked at the young soldier and shook his head. “You weren’t the only one delivering bad news this night,” he said, leaving it at that.
“Oh. I see. What will you do about this ‘bad news’?”
“Honestly, my new friend? I have not a clue.”
Two days later, Ceredon set his plan in motion. Lord and Lady Thyne had visited him briefly, and before they left, Orden had dropped a scrap of paper into Ceredon’s hand. Scrawled on it were five words:
Two days-light a fire.
Ceredon hoped he was strong enough to pull it off and that he understood what it meant. Luckily, Biden had come to him with a new concoction of wickroot, ground coffee, and ground poplar seeds to help ease his agony. The potion was strong, and the pain wracking his body subsided less than an hour after the bitter fluid had slipped down his gullet. In fact, it was as if his flesh had been made numb. Even the ache of his mending bones was reduced to a dull throb. That, combined with the jug of strong brandy he had requested earlier in the day, made him feel better than he had in ages.
He waited for the song of the whippoorwills to begin, the irksome whooping that signaled the witching hour, before slipping out of bed, a box of tindersticks clenched between his teeth. Dragging the jug of brandy behind him, he crawled across the floor. Once he reached the window, he rose up on his knees, ripped a piece of cloth from his nightshirt, and stuffed it inside the mouth of the bottle. When it was firmly in place, he struck one of the tindersticks against the flint, setting it alight. He held the flame to the cloth, and it caught quickly. It took a few moments for the fire to gain force, and then he threw the jug from the open window as hard as he could. He watched it soar through the air, unseen by the Ekreissar who paced below, until it struck the ground. The jug shattered, the fire igniting the brandy inside. Spigots of flame shot in all directions, and the guards began to shout. Then came the whoosh of arrow and the battle cry of the insurgents. Steel clashed and rangers bellowed out orders. Ceredon ducked from the window before any could see him, then crawled to the door.
He rose unsteadily and opened it.
The guards turned to him quizzically. “Prince Ceredon?” one said.
“Do you not hear that?”