“Where is he? Can I see him?” I exclaimed, the pitch of my voice rising along with my elation.
“He’s been taken to a guest room on the third floor, but Alera…” He trailed off, and his demeanor was grave. “He won’t be well, Alera. You need to understand—just because he’s been brought home doesn’t mean death can’t claim him.”
I nodded, then repeated my question, determination in my voice. “Can I see him?”
I had no idea how horrible his wounds might be or how I would handle his condition. But I knew I had to go to him.
Steldor evaluated me as he weighed the options. “I advise against it but won’t forbid you,” he finally said, moving toward the door to depart.
I thanked him and retreated to my bedroom to dress. I then hurried to the spiral staircase used by the royal family, trailed by my two bodyguards, and climbed to the third floor. As I reached the top, I heard voices and saw dim light emanating from an open guest room door at the rear of the palace, on the opposite side of the floor from my parents’ quarters. I approached and stepped inside without knocking.
Cannan, Galen, Steldor and Destari were talking a few feet from the injured Elite Guard, blocking my view of the bed where he lay, which was perhaps fortunate in light of the severe injuries that afflicted him. Hearing my approach, Steldor turned and ushered me to an armchair next to the roaring fireplace on the other side of the room, from where I could see Bhadran, the longtime Royal Physician, leaning over the bed.
“He is alive but has been pierced by several arrows,” Steldor said softly, obviously unsure of how I would cope with the information. “He has lost an immense amount of blood and is very weak. The doctor is determining whether any attempt should be made to remove the arrows.”
I blanched, then tried to move around him.
“You don’t want to see this,” he said, catching my arm. “Just sit here. London won’t be aware of you anyway—he’s unconscious from pain and shock.”
I obeyed, trying to keep my emotions in check. If I had the chance to talk to London, I had to be strong for him, just as he had always been strong for me. Steldor returned to the other men and rejoined their conversation, which had become more hushed since I’d arrived. I waited, along with everyone else, for Bhadran’s assessment, London lying immobile and so silent that the entire situation struck me as some elaborate farce. Almost in confirmation of my thoughts, I heard London’s voice, weak and strained, but unmistakable nonetheless.
“Isn’t anyone going to take these damnable arrows out of me?”
I sprang from my seat, wanting to see him, only to be confronted with Steldor’s raised hand. Destari had moved at the same moment to London’s side, and I grudgingly sat once more, albeit on the edge of the chair, certain it was a good sign that he was awake.
“Lie still,” Destari advised his friend. “The doctor will decide what should be done.”
Cannan also stepped closer to the bed, but for a different purpose.
“What is the news from Cokyri?” he asked.
“Always a man of few words,” London replied, speaking slowly and with great effort. “Afraid I might die, I suppose. Better get the information from me right away.”
He gave a soft laugh, which turned into a cough, and I noticed with a tightening stomach that a strange gurgling sound dominated his breathing. After a moment, his gasping ceased, and he forced himself to continue.
“The Cokyrians are mustering their troops, preparing for a full-scale assault. Their numbers are far greater than ours…and they have Narian. He will lead the attack.”
“No!” I cried, jumping to my feet and rushing forward, London’s words too horrific to be true. Steldor caught me as I neared the bed, pulling me against his chest, but not quickly enough to prevent me from seeing the wounds.
London was on his back, his face pallid, sweaty and grimy. His shirt had been cut down the center but not fully stripped away, displaying, amidst dried blood and filth, the broken shafts of three arrows, one in his shoulder, one in his chest and one protruding from his stomach, all like oddly angled pegs. Around the shafts, the visible skin was swollen, bruised and clinging like strange spiderwebs to the wood.
My breath caught in my throat, and I clutched at Steldor, nauseated by London’s injuries. My husband wrapped his arms more tightly about me, and I buried my head in his shoulder, not wanting to see more.
“I am only stating what I observed,” London added, and I knew his words were meant for me.
Cannan returned to the matter at hand, disregarding my reaction. “How long until they are fit to march on us?”
I peered out, careful to set eyes only on London’s face, to watch him try to adjust his position, to hear his sharp cry before he stilled. He paled, near to passing out again but, after a moment of labored breathing, answered the question.
“They were preparing to move troops when I left,” he said, his voice even more strained. “I had a bit of trouble making a clean departure. We have little more than a week before they’ll be on the other side of the Recorah.”
Silence fell as the military men absorbed this. After a few moments, Cannan motioned to the doctor to step away with him, but London halted them both.
“Just let him say what he thinks. I have the right to know how badly I am hurt.”
Bhadran looked almost pleadingly at Cannan, clearly not wanting to deliver the bad news directly to the dying man.
“London’s right,” the captain said gruffly. “What have you concluded?”
With a sigh and a quick rub of the back of his neck, the wizened doctor gave his report.
“One arrow shattered his left shoulder blade, and he has lost use of the arm. The second arrow pierced his lung, hence his labored breathing. The third is embedded in his abdomen, causing much internal bleeding. The only reason he is alive is because all three miraculously missed vital organs. By all indications he should have bled to death regardless, but the wounds have closed around the shafts, damming the blood flow. But infection is building within, as evidenced by the swelling and redness, and by his fever.”
Glancing at London with deep sympathy, Bhadran concluded his assessment.
“The arrowheads cannot be pulled. The only way to remove them would be to cut them out, which would not only reopen the wounds but cause further damage and excruciating pain. This would be pointless, for he would bleed to death in the process. The best advice I can give is to make him as comfortable as possible until he succumbs to the infection, internal bleeding or tetanus.”
Again there was a hush, then London smiled crookedly. “Apparently he agrees with you, Cannan. He thinks I’m going to die.”
I struggled to pull air into my lungs, and only then did I realize that tears were running down my cheeks. I clenched my jaw, feeling pathetic and weak, knowing there was nothing I could do to help. London gazed at me with hazy indigo eyes that relayed a struggle to preserve focus.
“I want these arrows out now,” he ordered, with surprising resolve.
The doctor stared in disbelief at him, then turned to the other men in the room.
“Try to talk sense into him. I will give him something for the pain and to help him rest, but I am not a cruel man. That is all I am willing to do.”
Bhadran placed a vial on the bedside table, bowed to Steldor and me, then took his leave. Steldor guided me back to the chair by the hearth, shoring me up, for my legs refused to work properly. I sat, trying to breathe slowly to dispel my dizziness, and I was grateful that he stayed beside me, his hand upon my arm.
London was going to die. Those hideous wounds that had been inflicted by the Cokyrians, the wounds I fervently wished I had not seen, would cause his death. A deep sense of abandonment filled me. Soon, my two constant lifelong companions would have vanished from my life, first Miranna, then London. In addition, the man I loved had long since left and would now fight for his ruthless master. I wanted to scream, to strike out at fate, for everything about my world was amiss.
&n
bsp; “Destari,” London said, calling his friend forward. “Destari, if the doctor won’t take them out, then you must.”
The large Elite Guard recoiled at the idea, taking a backward step. “The pain would be intolerable, London. I’m sorry, I can’t be the cause of—”
“The pain will ease after they are out, and, despite the doctor’s opinion, I intend to recover,” London growled. “I can’t… I’m going to pass out again soon, so I won’t feel much anyway. I need you to do this for me.”
Destari hesitated, facing a horrible dilemma—cause his friend inestimable agony, or ignore his request, perhaps the last he would ever make.
“There’s no point in waiting,” London said. “If I’m going to die, let me die trying to survive.”
Going tense, Destari yielded. “So be it.” He then addressed Cannan. “Sir, I’ll need lots of alcohol and cloths to stem the bleeding. I will also need a couple of people to hold him down—I’ll have to dig out the arrowheads. If he makes it through that, I’ll need bandages and clean bed linens.”
“Galen and I will assist you,” Steldor volunteered, and though Galen looked at him with raised eyebrows, the Sergeant at Arms did not object. With a glance at his father, Steldor added, “And Alera should be taken from the room.”
“I’ll see to everything,” the captain replied.
I had already gotten to my feet by the time Cannan came toward me, and I walked ahead of him into the corridor. I stopped so he could pass by me and send Casimir for the needed supplies. Unwilling to leave, I sank to the floor, leaning against the wall just outside the room. I would not be able to sleep if I returned to my quarters, and should things go poorly for London, I wanted to be near him when death came. Cannan cast me a sympathetic glance before descending the staircase, taking Casimir with him to collect the requested supplies.
Casimir returned, along with a servant girl, and between them they carried the items Destari had requested. Only the King’s bodyguard went into the room, however, making a second trip to deliver everything that was needed. The servant girl exited, leaving me alone in the corridor with Casimir and my bodyguards, all of whom kept their distance to give me privacy.
I heard London groan and assumed Destari was disinfecting the wounds before beginning, then oppressive silence fell. A moment later I would have gladly given anything to have the silence back as a half-muffled scream shredded the stillness. I hugged my knees to my chest, biting my lip until I was sure it would bleed, and resisted the urge to bury my head in my arms so I could hear no more. There was another agonized cry, then another, until the sounds made my own sobbing inaudible. I longed for the torment to stop, but when at last the cries diminished, I was seized with dread, wondering whether Destari had discontinued this butchery, or London had finally given in to it.
An hour passed, the guards and the shadows in the dimly lit hallway my sole companions. I shivered, for only the heat rising from the rooms below warmed this part of the third floor, and I had not thought to bring a cloak. I almost welcomed the chill, however, as it helped to subdue my queasiness.
Eventually the door opened, and Galen emerged, followed by Steldor, both with blood spattered across their hands, arms and shirts. The sergeant stumbled across the corridor to buttress himself on the opposite wall, leaving a red smear where his hand touched, then doubled over to retch on the wood floor.
I rose to my feet as Galen dabbed at his mouth, face tinged green. Steldor stepped forward and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, then looked at me regretfully.
“Alera, you should not have stayed. There was no need for you to hear that.”
“How is he?”
Just then Destari came into the corridor, not spattered like the other two but covered in blood, so much so that I gagged and had to close my eyes to avoid copying Galen. By the time my stomach had calmed, Destari had pulled off his shirt and was wiping the blood from his forearms and hands. His complexion was ashen, his posture tense, and he appeared to have forgotten I was there, though he probably was dealing with too many images from the past hour and a half to care about my sensibilities.
“Destari, how is he?” I asked, readdressing my question to the man who was probably best able to answer.
The Elite Guard gazed questioningly at Steldor and Galen, neither of whom spoke, and in frustration I made to shove my way past them and into London’s room.
“Alera, no,” Steldor said, catching me around the waist and pulling me back. “He’s still alive, but…”
“It’s a mess in there,” Destari told me, looking as if he had been to hell and back. “At least let us clean things up.”
At my nod, Destari and Galen reentered the room, but Steldor was disinclined to leave me in the hallway, once more alone other than for the bodyguards that I barely knew.
“Why don’t you find a maid to clean up after Galen?” he suggested, wanting to give me a task. “Waiting is the only thing to be done now.”
He kissed me on the cheek, then followed after the other two men. I went down the spiral stairway to summon a maid, noticing as I did so that the sun was rising. I returned to the corridor outside London’s room, pacing while the maid scrubbed the floor, wishing there were some other way I could be of assistance. After what felt like hours, Steldor opened the door and motioned me inside.
London lay unconscious on the bed, chest almost indiscernibly rising and falling. His shirt had been fully removed, and his torso was wrapped tightly in white bandaging, his skin almost matching its hue. The bedding had been changed, and the flames of the fire in the hearth were consuming the remnants of the old sheets.
I went to him, Destari drawing a chair next to the bed for me, and then placed my palm upon his forehead. The heat radiating from him surprised me, for I had expected from the pallor of his skin that he would be cold to the touch. The doctor had been right when he had said London was fevered. I brushed his silver bangs away from his eyes, knowing that, wherever he was in his mind, he was not at this moment aware of his tattered body or of the fact that when he awoke, if he awoke, he might never be the same.
CHAPTER 12
ANSWERS
I STAYED AT LONDON’S SIDE ALL DAY, DEPARTING but briefly to get some books from the library. Steldor and Galen had removed themselves to attend to their duties, although my husband had considerately arranged for meals to be sent to London’s room for me. Destari kept me company throughout the many hours, occasionally stoking the fire. Few words passed between us as we waited for our friend to show some sign of life other than his shallow breathing. I eventually rested my head on the edge of the mattress, falling asleep with one hand upon London’s arm, praying that he would stir.
I awoke early the following morning, slowly becoming aware that someone had positioned me more comfortably in the chair and covered me with a blanket. I was disoriented until a slight moan from London brought everything into sharp focus. His eyes were still closed, but his brow was furrowed, and I checked for fever, pleased that he was much cooler to the touch than he had been the day before.
Destari was at my side as I called London’s name, trying to bring him to consciousness. Before long, his lids laboriously lifted, and his bleary eyes found me. He smiled faintly at my worried expression, but even this small gesture seemed to be a great exertion for him.
“How do you feel?” I asked, prompted by the hope I’d experienced when I’d discovered that his fever had diminished.
Without thought, London tried to shrug, then cried out, his face contorting into a grimace of pain.
“London…” I said helplessly, pushing back his hair, wanting to make the pain go away.
“Just relax,” Destari advised. “You don’t have to go anywhere today.”
Nodding almost imperceptibly, London gazed once more at me, and a spark of his sardonic wit returned despite his condition.
“Alera, you should go and rest. You look terrible.”
I let out a laugh, grateful for some way to break the cr
ushing, somber intensity in the room.
“I look terrible,” I repeated, shaking my head, noticing that I had dried blood on my clothing from where I had brushed against Steldor. “That hurts, coming from you.”
He gave a quiet chuckle, but it was interrupted by a second spasm of pain. He caught my anxious expression and attempted to reassure me.
“I’m going to be all right, Alera.” His eyes flicked to his fellow Elite Guard as he added, “Destari is a surprisingly good surgeon.” He seemed to lose focus for a moment, then forced himself to finish. “You should go and come back tomorrow. I will most likely sleep this day away.”
His eyes closed, but I stayed in place, not wanting to leave him alone. Cannan entered a short time later to check on his wounded deputy captain, and he stepped aside with Destari to exchange a few words before addressing me.
“I will talk to Bhadran, Alera, and arrange for one of his healers to monitor London. Then you should leave and take care of yourself. If he develops any problems, I will make sure you are notified.”
I nodded my thanks, and Cannan departed, but I remained at London’s bedside until the promised healer arrived to care for him. Destari left with me, having been reassigned as my bodyguard, and we returned to my quarters. He took up position in the parlor, and I changed into a nightgown to crawl, exhausted, into bed. I did not stir until late afternoon, when I freshened up and went to the family dining room.
I had not shared a meal with my mother and father since Miranna’s abduction, for I had not wanted to see my sister’s empty chair. My parents came into the room a few minutes after I did, my father’s hair grayer than it had been before this ordeal had begun, his face haggard; in contrast, my mother’s heartache made her even more dignified.
After the servants had brought in platters of food, a hush fell upon us. None of us seemed to have the energy for simple, pleasant conversation. As we began to eat, we let the chink of our tableware against our plates fill the deathly silent room, the dull, repetitive noise gradually settling into me, and I knew I would hear it long after this meal had ended.