The Healer's Legacy (21 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Mayet watched with a mix of anger and terror while the hold prepared for battle. Milos had sent messengers to the outlying farms and cots throughout the region, and droves of able-bodied men arrived daily to prepare for the defense of the hold. All her plans had come to naught. The hold she longed to possess, the only place where she had held any position, the only place where she had any future, was now threatened.

Had she known it was the warlord who sought the red-haired harlot, Mayet would never have dealt with Lagos. Why bargain with an underling, when you know where the real power lies? She paced before the blazing fire, twisting and grasping her hands together.

Amidst the chaos that seemed to fill the hold from dawn to dusk and deep into the night, Mayet found herself accorded fewer considerations than ever before. Even Tratine was caught up in the unrest and spent little time with her. Her frustration and horror at this new turn of events was increased by the knowledge that Milos had gone to the hunter’s bed.

They tried to hide it, but Mayet recognized the signs, the overt looks, the soft words, the way they brushed against each other at odd moments. When he was younger, Milos had been less than circumspect about the women he wooed. Many of them had been completely unsuitable, but this! It grated against her the way a rasp ground into rotten wood.

She spent most of her time in her rooms, trying to think of some way to stop this madness. Milos would not even grant her a short audience, and Tratine no longer brought her information as he had. She was closed off and alone.

She stopped pacing and stared into the fire. Perchance there was still a way to keep Milos from destroying Tem Hold, a way to save her son’s inheritance, and secure her own position for good.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Outside the library Harl and Milvari sat on a low wooden bench, watching as people went in and out of the room. A murmur of voices floated out into the hallway each time the door swung open.

“Do you think we should bother them?” Harl whispered to her. “They seem very busy.”

“Not too busy for this,” Milvari assured him. “It’s a brilliant plan.”

“But it was only a joke. You know.” Harl made a face.

Milvari laughed. “Yes, but it’s still a brilliant idea. I wish I had thought of it.” She patted his arm and he blushed.

“Well, you did. I mean you took my joke and saw how to make it useful.”

“It was still your idea.”

The door opened and a group of men and women left. Brilissa gave Milvari and Harl a wave and a nod as she walked by, deep in conversation with a tall thin man Milvari recognized as the miller who ground much of the hold’s grain and supplied them with flour.

Kira stuck her head out into the hallway. “The meeting has adjourned,” she said with a tired smile. “Your uncle will see you now.”

Milvari and Harl leaped up and glanced at one another, then followed the hunter into the library.

Her uncle sat at the end of several wide wooden planks that had been set up on blocks as a meeting table, staring at a large map. A collection of chairs lined each side of the plank. Uncle Milos’ blue eyes were pale and his clothes were rumpled, as if he had slept in them, but he sat up tall as they approached.

Kira ushered them forward and took a seat beside him. The hunter’s hands rested on the table. Milvari watched wide-eyed as her uncle slid a hand across the table to cover one of Kira’s.

“I understand you have something important to tell us.” He gave them a questioning look.

Milvari jerked her head up and froze. It had seemed like the perfect plan, but now she worried that her uncle and the hunter would think the idea childish. They had probably already thought of it and discarded it as impractical. She swallowed hard. “I—that is—we were thinking—” she turned to Harl for help, but he nervously drummed his fingers against the sides of his legs.

Uncle Milos pushed the map aside and leaned across the table, folding his hands before him. “Milvari, if there is something you feel we must know, please tell us what it is.”

“Demon’s Claw,” she blurted.

Uncle Milos seemed confused, but Kira jumped up, a smile spreading across her face. “That’s a splendid idea, Milvari. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it.”

“I didn’t think of it either,” Milvari said. “It was Harl. He reminded me that of the patch we found and asked what I thought would happen if Warlord Toril’s horses ate it—”

Harl blushed. “It was supposed to be a joke,” he mumbled.

Uncle Milos looked from one to the other of them. “What are you talking about? This is no time for jokes.”

“It is no joke, Milos, but an excellent tactic.” Kira rose from her chair, eyes gleaming. “And exactly what we need to reduce Toril’s numbers and turn the wheel in our favor. But not by afflicting the horses.” She glanced at Milvari and Harl, and then pointed to a place on the map. “Three leagues north, near the place the bounty hunters held Tratine, there is a large patch of Demon’s Claw. According to Brilissa, it’s a hardy plant and most of it will probably have survived the snowfall we’ve seen this winter.”

“That’s why Master Jarrett wanted to have it burned,” Milvari added.

Kira nodded. “If we harvest it and find a way to add it into the army’s food or water, it will be enough to make a large number of men too ill to fight.”

Uncle Milos stared at the map. “Getting to the army’s food supplies will be no easy task,” he said as if speaking to himself. He raised his eyes to Kira. “How much of this plant would it take to make them ill?”

Kira shrugged. “It would take a great deal to make the entire army too sick to bear arms. And they would probably taste it in their water. We have to get it into their food.”

Milvari remembered the miller. “But if we harvest and dry it, it could be ground into powder and mixed with their grain or flour,” she suggested.

Kira nodded in agreement. “By all accounts, a few small sacks might contain enough at least to cut their numbers.”

Milos rested his chin on his hand. “Then it only remains to find a way to smuggle three or four sacks of Demon’s Claw powder into the Warlord’s camp and mix it into the food without getting caught.”

“Oh,” Milvari said, feeling the excitement drain out of her. “I didn’t think about that.”

“I did not say it could not be accomplished,” Milos said. “Your idea is a sound tactic. We only need to figure out how and if it can be put into service.”

“Jolon!” Kira said.

“What?”

“Jolon. His wound is healing well, is it not?”

Milvari thought about the progress her patient was making. “Yes. He has been walking in his room and he grows restless to do more.”

”He should be well enough to ride in a few days and the Demon’s Claw should fit into his saddlebags. Toril already believes Jolon to be his man.”

“What if he still is?” Milos asked.

“The reports we’ve received in the past few days have confirmed what he told us about Toril’s troops.”

“And if he betrays us?”

Kira sat beside him and put her hand on his arm. He seemed to ripple with excitement when she touched him. Milvari nearly blushed. She had never seen her uncle so affected by a woman. The sound of the hunter’s voice pulled Milvari’s attention back to the conversation.

“I, too, hesitate to trust him, but he knows nothing of our defense strategy,” Kira said. “If he betrays our plans for the Demon’s Claw, we are no worse off than before.”

CHAPTER FORTY

Mayet donned the worn cape and eyed herself in the mirror. With most of her face covered and the tattered skirts draped over her shift she could almost pass as one of the peasants. She scowled. It was the result she sought, but all too easily achieved. She examined her smooth hands. They told the tale of who she really was, a proper lady. She would have to keep them covered.

She went out through her sitting room, careful not to make a sound. The banked fire cast a dim red glow through the murky gloom. Her skirt caught on a chair and, startled, she pulled up short. Her fingers tugged and twisted the fabric as she disentangled it from the arm of the chair. The layers of torn skirts hissed as she moved, mixing with the murmurs of her conscience. She hushed her misgivings with reasoning. Tratine would understand in time. Once he learned the responsibility of being a holder, he would know that she had done what she had to, that she did it for him.

Keeping to the shadows, she paused to listen every few steps. It would not do to be caught dressed this way. There was no explanation she could think of that Milos would believe.

She waited in the darkness near a little used side door for what seemed like hours. Her skin crawled with nervous energy. Just when it seemed the sun would refuse to appear, the stars began to fade against the black curtain of night. She slowly opened the door, just far enough to slip outside and closed it with a hushed click.

There were already a number of people congregating at the gate, waiting to be let through. A gathering crowd of people moved in and out daily, bringing in supplies and going out to work on the defense structures, ditches and pike lines, that Milos and his men had designed and ordered installed around the hold. Mayet joined their ranks. A few people spoke in low murmurs, as if afraid to break the quiet of the day’s pale dawn. She stood silent among them, her hands tucked inside her ragged cloak and her head down in a posture of weariness, and prayed no one would speak to her.

The gate opened and the crowd moved forward, flowing out of the hold to go to their respective tasks. Mayet followed a few paces behind a small group of women headed toward the forest. They dragged a small sled meant for firewood. When they reached the edge of the forest Mayet quickly headed off through the trees toward the north road. She skirted along the tree line, staying in the shadows. She would follow the road and meet up with Toril’s army.

It would then be a simple matter to convince the warlord of the value of keeping Tem Hold intact. And perhaps he would see her value as an ally, a potential partner, or even something more.

Mayet pursed her lips. A man as powerful as Warlord Toril would be more of a match for her than any landholder. Surely, a man as great as he would appreciate the virtues of a true lady. He certainly wouldn’t want that redheaded witch back once Mayet informed him of the harlot’s liaisons with Milos.

* * *

She walked until midmorning, staying along the edge of the road and watching for other travelers. The cold chill of winter still clung to the land and small piles of snow gleamed white in the hollows and shady spots beneath the trees. At the sound of approaching riders, she slipped off the road and into a nearby thicket where her feet sank into cold slush. She shivered as three men rode by, heading south in a hurry. Whether they were Warlord Toril’s soldiers or men from the region heading to Tem Hold, she couldn’t tell. She waited in the brush for a long while after they passed before stepping back onto the road.

Her feet complained in painful throbs, her wet shoes chafing the already sore places. She’d not realized before how difficult it was to walk a great distance. Yet, the horseless peasants seemed to manage it easily enough. Her stomach rumbled hollowly and the small piles of dirty snow she passed made her realize how thirsty she was.

Damn Milos and that woman! This was all their fault. They were the cause of all her sorrows. First Kamar’s death and her loss of position, the state of Tem Hold and the degradation of its holder, the threat to her son’s inheritance.

And now here she was, subjected to taking this brutal path in order to put things to rights.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Kira stared out the window. The hazy blue sky belied the storm that she knew approached from the north. With Toril’s army a scant few days away, the hold’s inhabitants labored anxiously to complete the necessary defenses in time.

Vaith snoozed in Kira’s lap. The little wyvern was no longer in need of healing, but took advantage of every opportunity to be close to her. Kelmir lay curled in the corner beside the fire. He appeared to be sleeping, but Kira sensed that he was alert to the goings on around him.

When Milos had suggested his design to rescue Tratine, Kira realized they would need Kelmir’s help for the plan to be successful and had decided to explain to Milos about her method of communicating with her companions. It had taken some time to convince him, but after illustrating the point through a series of exercises, he had stared at her in surprise. After the rescue, Milos had insisted the cat be brought into the hold so that the people would grow accustomed to his presence before the battle. No one else knew her secret, knew of her bond with Kelmir and Vaith, but the people of Tem Hold trusted their holder and accepted his assurances of their safety with Kira’s companions.

Milos sat at the table deep in conversation with several grizzled looking farmers and cot holders, men who had served in battle before settling in Tem’s region and would now act as Tem Hold’s captains for the coming battle.

Jolon had left the hold two days earlier. Although his wound was still stiff and painful, he had readily agreed to help with their plan. Milos had worried that he seemed too eager, but Kira hoped they could trust the young man to do his part.

Brilissa and her staff had worked tirelessly to speed up the drying and preparing of the harvested Demon’s Claw. Unable to use the mill for fear of contaminating the hold’s flour stores, they had ground the dried plants by hand. The job was well done and the resulting fine powder would be easy to mix into the army’s food.

There was an insistent knock at the door. The men turned their attention to the interruption as a young man stepped inside without waiting. “Holder Tem,” he said. “There is an urgent matter that needs your attention.”

Kira tensed. Could Toril have sent advancements?

“What is it?” Milos asked, his eyes alert.

“There is an envoy at the gate, requesting an audience with the Lord Holder.”

“Is the Warlord with them?”

“No, Lord Milos. There are no soldiers among them. They all appear to be gnomes. They claim they have come to aid Tem Hold and the healer who has taken refuge here.”

Confused, Kira looked to Milos and then back at the messenger. “Did any of them give you a name?” she asked.

“One of them said to tell the healer that Ryospar bids her greetings and his brother Ragnar, King of Uldastwer, sends his thanks for the healing of his only daughter, Talya.”

* * *

In the yard outside the main hall, a small group of gnomes stood in a semicircle behind their king. Each wore a stiff suit of lacquered leather armor and each held a sturdy axe. Their sharp blades glinted in the sunlight.

Ryospar stood beside his brother and smiled up at Kira. She remembered the gnome’s gentle ways with the young goat. In his polished armor, Ryospar appeared much more imposing than he had when Kira had first met him in the woods.

Kira and Milos bowed politely to the group of gnomes.

Ryospar bent his thick waist, giving them a curt bow. “Afore ye stands King Ragnar, Lord and Ruler of Uldastwer.”

The king of the gnomes stood a half head taller than the other gnomes assembled around him. His armor was inlaid with a blue colored metal that shimmered in rainbow colors. Long black hair, twined with colored thread, spilled out from beneath his burnished helm. His pupils were black as wells, but the edges of his eyes crinkled as his face split into a wide grin. He bowed low. “’Tis an honor to meet the healer who brought my dear daughter back to the livin’.”

Kira was taken aback. She wasn’t really a healer, she had never completed her training, but she decided now was not the time to raise issue with the title the gnome king had chosen to infer on her. “The child is well, then?” she asked.

“Aye that she is, thanks to you. And we are in yer debt.” He put his hand on his chest and bowed his head.

“I am pleased that Talya has regained her health, but your thanks is payment enough,” Kira said.

The smile faded from the gnome king’s face. He raised one eyebrow and cast her a dark look. Ryospar coughed and stepped forward. “As yer know, the Uldast are well regarded as traders. We take pride in our bargainin’ skills and seek always to land on the best side of an agreement, but we hold our children dear. The Uldast deem no pact higher than that of a life debt. We have come to yer today to honor such a debt, and to make recompense for a precious life saved.”

Kira held out her hands, palms up, in a gesture of entreaty. “I apologize, King Ragnar, I did not mean to offend you or your ways. I am honored you have come, but may I ask how you came to find me here?”

The king nodded and the darkness slipped away as a smile lit his face. “Unlike the kingdoms of men, the kingdom of Uldastwer is not a place. It is everywhere our people dwell. Our network is great and we are able to communicate rapidly over great distances.”

Kira realized she had been wrong about Ryospar. He had known about her not because he had been in contact with Toril’s men, but because of the gnomes’ ability to pass messages quickly and efficiently among their people.

“We knew where ye were because our people have watched for ye, “ the king continued. He hefted his axe and leaned toward her. “We fight the same enemy.”

Ryospar nodded in agreement. “’Tis true. Ye see, our people have suffered from the warlord’s depredations. Many a time have our folk been displaced and misused by his soldiers.”

“Once my brother told me the woman who saved wee Talya and left with naught for payment was also the enemy of our own enemy, I knew the best way to repay yer kindness and get the best side of the bargain as well.” The king winked at her.

“Aye,” Ryospar added. “’Tis why we’ve sought ye out. We and our kin will fight alongside ye and yers.”