A Ragged Magic (17 page)

Chapter Seventeen

T
he next several weeks hurt — I hurt all the time, as I push myself harder to have visions, to find a way to stop Gantry, to save Orrin, to speak. My lungs burn, and my scars, trying to force words past this spell. My spirit feels bruised. And the visions I have aren’t any more helpful, as I still can’t speak of demons.

Julianna is concerned. Linnet is angry. She hasn’t spoken of the necklace, or much of anything to me.

“Stop that gasping! You’re just trying to get more attention,” she snaps, and storms out of the room.

Julianna pats my back, gives me water. “I think you’re trying too hard,” she says gently.

When I get my breath back, I ask why she doesn’t order Gantry arrested, just on what she does know. It isn’t quite a demand.

“Because we don’t have enough actual evidence, Rhia,” she says, tired, pushing her hair back from her forehead.

“But wouldn’t the king believe you?”

“It isn’t the king we’ll have to convince,” she says darkly. “It’s the kirche leadership.” She looks at me, sighs. “Bishop Gantry was handpicked by Archbishop Montmoore. Montmoore has many supporters, in this country and out, and a good part of our own court is behind him. He’s … charismatic. And the kirche has its own authority and army outside of any country’s jurisdiction. I can’t just remove Gantry, and I can’t order any moves against any of the Archbishop’s faction, without some kind of verifiable proof of treason.”

What she doesn’t say, what I See in flashes and feelings, is that the court is deeply divided, and closer to civil war than anyone wants to admit. Closer than even a few months ago, and the factions are bitter and angry. Many mutter about the exiled Duke of Torrence, and his claims to the throne. Those who favor King Peter mutter back about broken oaths. But none of them look with favor on Haverston right now.

The old duke, Julianna’s father, drove a deep wedge between certain parties, working to pass the laws he favored. Julianna’s marriage to Prince Alexander was not popular, outside this duchy.

The hospices are that wedge. No matter how favored with us here, they are not so with the court. Healers have traditionally been family appointments, or wandering clerics. The hospices and schools make people nervous. The old duke wanted safer places for Healers, and safer places for the sick. Hugh has carried on his work — partly for the woman in front of me now.

Julianna leans back, rubbing her belly. Her pregnancy must be the worst-kept secret in this duchy. I don’t know who she thinks she’s fooling anymore. It’s beginning to look like she’s smuggling a melon in her dress.

“I think letting Gantry stay free is a mistake,” I say, but without hope.

“I know you do. But we have a plan, Rhia. Help us make it work, and he won’t stay free for much longer.”

The days are long and gray and frustrating. I can’t get near Orrin — he won’t look at me in chapel. He goes nowhere else, and is always with the bishop. I stare at him during service, trying to convince my Sight to show me anything that might prove Gantry’s treason.

The visions are getting stronger. And the thoughts I hear are angry, and full of vengeance and violence. But nothing proves him treasonous. The last time I tried so hard I fell forward in my seat and Connor steadied me while I gasped.

He dragged me out, telling others I was ill. “Do not try that in chapel again,” he said. He glared at me until I promised.

I haven’t, but I might.

So it comes to this. I will mix a poison, and give it to Bishop Gantry. I will poison him and he will die.

The herbarium is dark and cool, sharp with the mingling smells of different herbs. The short staircase down the hall from the kitchen leads to a long, low room with shelves and hanging racks for drying along all the walls. Another staircase leads to a thick wooden door to the herb garden.

Three tables down the center of the room hold tools and stone jars for storing the herbs in all the forms Julianna needs — fresh, dried, infusions, decoctions, oils, ointments, and tinctures.

The work is constant and tedious, and not my favorite. The gardener leaves bunches of the herbs — whatever has managed to grow this wet season — on the tables to be sorted, dried, or whatever else for medicines and potions and teas.

I reach for a stone jar on the shelf labeled in a steady hand. Foxglove. Julianna told me that it’s poisonous if too much is taken, although useful in very small doses for dropsy and such. She says it stops the heart. I think that will be a fitting end to someone who has stopped mine.

Foxglove leaves look a lot like comfrey leaves, but are bitter. I have an idea to keep the taste from being noticeable, but first I need these leaves. I grind a handful into powder, and wrap it in a packet of linen.

I hide the packet behind some unused jars. I don’t want Linnet to find it in our rooms. I’ll have to wait for a time to use it. Or I’ll have to make a time.

I must end him, for everyone’s sake.

～

Cots line up in neat rows along the whitewashed walls of the hospice. The building breathes with moans and retching, pleas for surcease. A brown-robed priest with a blue surplice murmurs prayers and spells of Healing over the diseased, passing benedictions over their twisting forms. The Wasting is worse in Haverston of late, and everyone is worried that it will spread further.

Julianna precedes me into the room, stopping at the bedside of a wispy-haired man who groans and clutches his stomach.

I stand behind her, clutching the bag of simples.

A young, sandy-haired priest stands when we enter and hurries to the front of the room, scowling. The salt breeze flutters his pale red surplice as the heavy door shuts behind us, and the stench of the dying overwhelms even the strong smell of herbal potions.

“Your Highness, I thank you for your presence, but we have no need of your Healing. As you can see, there are priests with Healing magic here, and you put your soul in jeopardy …” He trails off at Julianna’s stare. The young priest clears his throat to try again, sweat breaking out on his pale brow.

“I am not here to Heal. I am here to offer succor and comfort to the ill.” Her arch tone and expression leave no room for him to argue.

He awkwardly bows out of the princess’ way and she bends over the old man next to us. I walk through the dark room to the kitchen to fill a bowl with cool water for the herb-filled cloths. The sharp smells of vervain and swampwort drift up from my bag of simples.

This hospice was the first one in our duchy, and Haverston has always been proud of it. We’ve had Healers of all faiths, and no particular faith, working here together. Now none but priests of the Star Lord remain, and not enough of them. Not with so many people getting sick.

Stains mar the wood of the floor near the kitchen doorway. A long counter stands next to it, and medicines and supplies have been laid out along the top. I pull a clean bowl from the varied and chipped stack, and bring the water bucket to refill.

The kitchen itself is large and airy, with soup kettles on the fire, and a door into the yard. A tall table stands next to the pump for the sink, but the well water has been brown and murky because of flooding and rain. Barrels placed outside all throughout the town catch clean rainwater, and that is the only good use for the rain that I can see.

Out the back door of the kitchen a young boy wraps bodies in coarse shrouds. His lank hair sticks to his forehead in dark snarls, the rain plastering his gray tunic to the sharp blades of his shoulders.

I stand under the eaves and dip the bowl in the barrel there.

Now that more Healing priests have finally arrived, there should be some relief from this plague. The kirchemen claim their prayers have more weight with the Star Lord than heretic powers, and claim it as proof of the Prophet’s words. But the hospice is too full of people, if the priests are doing their jobs. A job Julianna dare not do anymore.

After Solstice, and her weakness since Gantry’s spell, Julianna decided she should scale back on her Healing work. She’s concerned for her baby now; despite telling us everything is fine, I can feel her worry. And lately her Healing is backfiring — people coming back more sick than before.

All of those she Healed of the Wasting in the last weeks came down sick, again failing of the same disease, only stronger this time. Several of them died. I stayed up with her all night two days ago as she worked to try to save one woman, to no avail. She fears — we all fear — that the spell did something to her magic.

She announced after chapel service yesterday that she bows to the Star Lord’s wishes and will not Heal here any longer.

Gantry smiled grimly at the announcement, and intoned a prayer that the Star Lord grant Her Highness guidance and wisdom in her choices.

I blink, shake my head from woolgathering. Gantry isn’t here, and I have work to do. I look out at the boy in the rain, and wonder why such a young boy works with the dead at all.

He looks up at me as I start to turn back, and I gaze into hopeless gray depths. His belly strains at his ragged shirt, bulging, although his arms and legs are little more than bone. The Wasting has him too. If someone doesn’t help him, it won’t be long before he is wrapped in a shroud for burial.

Why is he so ill, surrounded by priests to say spells over him? I’ve overheard rumors from the servants that the priests ask for donations or they will not Heal. With the new crops rotting and failing in the fields, there are many who can’t spare even the smallest coin. And Healing has always been free for those who come to hospice.

Even more disturbing are the hushed whispers that follow Julianna about her Healing powers, that they bring pestilence wherever they go, priests or no. And that anyone desperate enough to go to hospice now has little hope of ever seeing the outside of it again.

I take a deep breath. Maybe I can help this boy. “Boy, hello,” I call out.

He stares at me listlessly with his sunken eyes, and I walk out into the rain. “Are you here alone? Isn’t there anyone to help you?”

He just stares at me, his gaze taking in my warm cloak, my dry clothes, which become heavier with rain by the moment.

I clear my throat and start again. “What’s your name?”

His eyes fill up with tears, and I realize he’s even younger than I thought — younger than Linnet by several years.

I reach for his arm and draw him away from the bodies in the yard, toward the kitchen. “Come with me, and we’ll fix you some hot tea, all right? We’ll get someone to Heal you, and you can go home to your family.”

He bursts into silent, choking sobs.

Alarmed, I sit him on a stool by the high table and feel his forehead, pull the kettle from the stove. “What is it, what? Are you afraid? Are you supposed to be working? I don’t think you’ll get into trouble — I promise I won’t tell anyone you had tea. Please, don’t worry. Please tell me your name.” I plead quietly with him as he shakes inconsolably in a pitiful huddle of dripping rags and mud.

“P-Petey,” he whimpers through a sob. “Can’t go home, me mum and da’re out there.” And he points out the door to the pile of bodies, growing slimy in the muck. I drape my cloak about his shivering body and wipe his nose with my handkerchief.

“Why haven’t the priests Healed you yet, Petey?” I fear his fever has gotten too high for him to answer me coherently, but he shrugs and sniffles and does his best.

“Wasn’t my turn. Can’t heal me afore it’s my turn,” he says, his words slurring.

I hand him a mug of hot tea and wrap his hands around it. “Hold this and stay here until I come back for you,” I say and stand up, clenching my fists.

I try to stem my anger. There are at least ten Healing priests sitting in the Inquisitor’s building, staying in fine inns near the town square, but no one could help this boy. Here, where the worst cases of the Wasting languish, where babies wrap up their parents in linen and shiver from fever and cold, there are only three priests tending to the ill. And only one, I realize belatedly, who has the Healing blue surplice.

Marching into the large sickroom, I see Julianna arguing with that priest again, near the large stone hearth. They turn at my entrance and I hurry to them, drop into a curtsey.

“Your Highness, I ask your help with a matter in the kitchen,” I say.

Julianna’s glance at me is not amused. “I have a matter to discuss here with Father Baudin. Pray do not interrupt.”

Grinding my teeth in worry and frustration, I back off and glance toward the kitchen.

Julianna is in high temper, and insisting now will only bring more attention to me. I stand behind her and listen to her lecture. “Now then, you shall tell me why this patient’s illness hasn’t been dealt with, when there are a plethora of priests taking their ease at the Eagle Inn?”

The priest hesitates and grows red. Pulling at his collar, he attempts to answer irate royalty as if he were perfectly within the right. “You see, your Highness, the stricken here must wait their turn for treatment. There are others ahead of them who must receive the Healing spells first —”

Julianna cuts him off with a sharp gesture. “Do you mean to tell me that here, where I can see very severe cases of the Wasting, there isn’t a need for priests to Heal the sick?”

The man’s upper lip shines with sweat. His face, though red, keeps its blank expression, and I have to admire his control. “The priests with Healing training must conserve their strength for the worst cases, your Highness, and —”

“In case you haven’t noticed, these people are the worst cases. I demand you send for more priests immediately and have them begin to Heal all the sick, not just those with money in their pockets.”

I know Julianna itches to Heal those around us herself. She hates the constraints she has put on herself, that circumstances put on her. It shows in her voice.

A commotion outside distracts us: the voice of a crowd of people talking, and Gantry sweeps into the room. Surrounded by young priests and wealthy merchants, he plays to the horde. Although his rich patrons are damp, none pay any mind to the mud and dreariness of their surroundings. His charismatic eyes draw the young man talking to him into gushing, stuttering adoration. With sickening panic, I recognize Francis, my fiancé. My former fiancé, rather, fawning over Bishop Gantry.