The Southern Trail (Book 4) (44 page)

And then his work began.  He sucked a mouthful of the spring water from his finger, and began liberally spreading it across her face, then took the first of the bowls of prepared material, a thick, absolutely clear liquid that glistened and gleamed as it caught the rays of sunlight coming in through the window.  Marco made his finger glow with sorcery, then dipped the finger in the liquid and swirled it around three times, leaving a glowing trail of light suspended in the bowl.

He took a deep breath, carefully positioned the bowl above Giselle’s empty eye socket, then began to pour a needle-thin stream of the liquid into the fleshy void, and he continued to pour until the level was just below the lid.  He placed the bowl down and picked up the next bowl he planned to use.

The bowl held a thick, gooey mass that sat in a lump in the center of the bottom.  Marco pinched off a portion of the paste and turned to the girl, examining the space of her missing nose, then delicately pressed the sticky mass in place.  He pinched off another small amount, and did the same, and proceeded to work for half an hour to create a structure to fill the emptiness.

When that was done, he picked up the last bowl, a cloudy liquid with a faintly peach tint.  He used his fingertips to gently brush the potion across every inch of the badly scarred feminine face  that he was coming to know so well, and continued to liberally coat the skin until the bowl was empty, then placed the container beside the other two, and stood to stretch his back as he looked down at the sleeping girl.

He felt his heart twist at the thought that someone who had undoubtedly once been so pretty had been so horrifically tortured and disfigured.  A tear trickled from the corner of his eye, coursed down his cheek, and fell, splashing on Giselle’s cheek.

As Marco idly watched, the teardrop sat on top of the scarred skin, a small liquid ball that quivered slightly, then sat perfectly still.  Entranced by the tiny, glistening circle, he reached down.  As his finger touched the tear, it, and his finger tip, suddenly glowed with a warm, rose-colored light.  The light spread like a wave across all of Giselle’s face, making it all glow.

Marco pulled his fingertip away, startled and entranced by the unexpected reaction.  He watched, surprised that the teardrop had provided the catalyst to the elements that he had placed on the injured face, a process that he had expected to initiate with his sorcery power.

The glowing skin suddenly began to brighten with an increasing intensity that grew so bright Marco was forced to turn his eyes away, and instead he watched shadows from the flickering brightness dance across the walls.  As he shielded his eyes with his hands, there was a sudden sound of sizzling flesh that made him cringe away, then the light instantaneously disappeared.

Hopeful and fearful, Marco turned back to Giselle, studying her face.  She was beautiful beyond extraordinary, reminding him immediately of Mirra’s luminous look.  Her scars were gone from all parts of her face, and her skin appeared fresh and clear.  The nose was an aquiline feature, one whose looks were indistinguishable from the rest of her face, while her eyelid over the formerly empty eye socket now covered the same full curve that her good eye displayed.   Her look was flawless and symmetrically perfect.

Marco knelt beside her bed, and gently stroked a fingertip across her new skin, then carefully placed two fingers over her gently parted lips to close her mouth, and inched closer in to her face to watch and feel and listen, hopeful that her new nose was successfully allowing the passage of air into her lungs through the new structure.

The nostrils delicately flared, and Marco removed his fingers, then backed away from the bed.  He sat, and felt more tears start to fall, tears of joy now, happiness that the girl had her life, her future, and of course, her beauty back.  He wiped the back of his golden hand across his cheeks, then stood up and silently crept out of the girl’s room, leaving her asleep, and soon to awaken to a much different day than she had fallen asleep in.

No one was in the hallway, allowing Marco to quietly slip to the doorways, and leave the harem behind.

He felt a quiet pride, a satisfaction and happiness for Giselle, and he felt no desire to do anything else in the palace, for nothing could top his accomplishment.  He went to the stables, retrieved his horse, and rode over to Ellersbine’s home.  He ate dinner with her and her cousins, sitting mostly quietly as Ellersbine regaled the other two girls with further tales of the great fight at the party at Conor’s club.

After dinner, Marco and Ellersbine strolled through the gardens behind her palace.

“You’re so quiet today Marco; is everything okay?” Ellersbine asked as she slipped her hand into Marco’s.

“I just feel happy,” Marco said simply.  “I think I did something right today.  I healed a girl at the palace, and I think her life will be better.”

They stopped and kissed and smiled at one another, and later that night, Marco rode back to Prince Mersby’s palace, and he slept soundly all night long.

Chapter 34

Marco awoke to the sound of a loud knocking on his door.  “Sir?  My lord?” a servant’s voice called, and Marco knew someone was being polite, because he had no noble title that justified being greeted as ‘my lord’.

“Just a moment,” he called, as he pulled on a robe and stumbled over to his door.

“”Sorry to bother you, my lord, but the prince is most anxious to see you,” the head butler himself stood outside Marco’s door delivering the message, something far below the man’s status among the household staff.

“Am I in trouble?” Marco asked, confused.

“I think not, my lord,” the man answered.  “I’ll let his highness know that you’ll be down shortly, shall I?”

“Yes, thank you,” Marco said as he closed the door, then hurriedly pulled on clean clothes, rushed to wipe a wet rag over his face, and ran down the stairs to the prince’s office.

“Sir, you wanted to see me?” Marco asked politely.  He had decided there were no urgent issues he could imagine that would have caused him to be in ill-favor.  He had been at Ellersbine’s home later than usual, but that hardly seemed like a criminal offense.

“What did you do the past couple of days, Marco?” the prince bluntly asked.

“Pardon me, sir?” Marco asked, concerned about the breadth of the question.  It left a great many possible issues on the table for consideration, going back to walking through the harem, fighting at Conor’s party, or spending late hours with Ellersbine, among other things.

“You have here a summons to appear at the palace, immediately,” Mersby told him, holding up an elegant – appearing envelope with a golden seal that was torn.

“This comes from the king’s own chambers Marco!” Mersby said emphatically.

“I’ve never seen one of these; I don’t know anyone who has.  Grandfather, or someone very close to him, is very interested in you.  I’d like to know why, before I call the carriage around,” he said in a somber voice.  “And depending on your answer, I’ll decide whether I’m going to stay home or ride with you,” he added after a pregnant pause, then smiled engagingly.

“Let’s go get in the carriage and you can tell me your story on the way,” he said walking around his desk, then leading the way out of the study and towards the front door.

Marco proceeded to rapidly recount the scene at Conor’s party, the fight with Argen and his henchmen, the use of sorcery, and the encounter with Itterati.

“You fought and wounded one of the king’s closest allies, then stood up to the king’s most powerful sorcerer?”  Mersby’s voice was pinched as he finally interrupted Marco’s narrative.

“I didn’t stand up to Itterati very well; he about knocked me out,” Marco answered.  “But I did force Argen to renounce his betrothal to Ellersbine,” he added with momentary satisfaction.

“I know where that is supposed to lead; we’ll possibly discuss it later,” Mersby said.  “So you think that is what this is all about?”

“That, or the things I did in the harem,” Marco tried to sound nonchalant, and then proceeded to answer the prince’s shrill questions.

My stars, I remember the stories about what Argen did to that girl.  It was why I was so worried about Ellersbine’s engagement, though it wasn’t my place to dissuade Ellersby,” the prince said.  “And you truly healed her, made her look as pretty as before?”

“I can’t say.  I didn’t see her before,” Marco started to say.

“She was nice looking.  Not someone you’d turn around to stare after on the street, but a sweet-looking girl,” the prince said absently.

“She’s very, very beautiful now,” Marco said quietly.

“You think you restored her looks and improved on them?” Mersby asked.  “Oh Marco,” he moaned, when the boy silently nodded yes.

“I imagine we’ll get out of this alive,” he said as he sat back.  “You took away the king’s punishment?”

“I mostly focused on the girl’s welfare, and undoing what Argen had done,” Marco tried to redefine his work.

They reached the palace gates, and their carriage was admitted.  Marco noted that they rolled forward along a different route than usual.

“We’re going to grandfather’s own quarters,” Mersby answered the unspoken question.

When the carriage stopped rolling ten minutes later, they opened the door and stepped out into a richly paneled wooden porte cochere.  The decorations were not the oppressive black that dominated the palace portions he had visited previously, Marco noticed.

A pair of guards opened the door, and another pair of guards met them inside the door.

“No weapons are allowed beyond this point,” one of the men said, looking pointedly at Marco’s sword.

Marco looked at Mersby inquiringly.

“I’m just his grandson; I’ve never been invited here,” the prince smiled nervously.  “I’d do what they suggest,” he said.

Marco decided he could summon his sword if he needed it, so he removed the belt around his waist and set it in a corner.

“You’ll have it if you need it anyway, won’t you?” a voice asked, and Marco turned to see Itterati standing in a nearby doorway.  “Go ahead and show them how futile their normal security is against the likes of someone of your caliber,” the sorcerer urged.

Marco paused, considered, then shrugged.   He held his hand out, and his sword leapt up into his grasp, making the guards hurriedly draw their own weapons in unexpected panic.

Marco returned the sword to its corner.

“Thank you for coming,” Itterati said as Marco turned to face him again.  “Prince Mersby, it’s an honor to have you join us as well.”

“Thank you, lord sorcerer,” Mersby said.  “Was it you who summoned Marco here?”

“No, it was the king.  I just happened to be here to escort you to see your grandfather and ruler,” the sorcerer answered.  “Shall we proceed?”

“Am I in trouble?” Marco couldn’t help but ask the question.

“Perhaps in terms of your fashion sense,” Itterati laughed.  “But not with the king, I think,” he answered.  “On the contrary,” he said softly, as he opened a door.

They entered an elegant room, one furnished more richly than any space Marco had ever seen before.  There was burnished gold leaf on the ceiling, elaborate murals on the walls, and rich and elegant furniture pieces scattered about.  In the center of the room stood a thin, elderly man, one who still stood with a straight back, who had a shiny bald head and a heavily wrinkled face.

“Mersby, I half expected to see you come along,” the man said.

“Grandfather, it’s a privilege to see you again,” Mersby said as he bowed low to the king.

“Yes, I’m sure it is,” King Moraca spoke in a deep, resonant voice.

Marco bowed deeply, as his mind began racing with disbelieve at what was happening.  Deep within his consciousness, his original soul was screaming with anger and glee at the opportunity before him, the chance to kill the king who was the source and focus of the great evil moving about in the world.  He was the man whose machinations had caused the Corsairs to raid the Lion City, and whose assassins had killed Lady Iasco.

“In a season that has brought a great deal of disappointing news, Itterati tells me that there is a blazing star of interest flying across the sky, and that we need to take time to study this phenomena,” the king spoke.

“Tell me young phenomena, who are you?” the king stared at Marco with eyes that drilled deeply into his soul.

Marco felt exposed.  The deep layers, the one that recognized that he had been developed and prepared and assigned to come to Foulata, just to kill this very man, felt exposed, and yet they screamed for him to act, to trigger his powers and unleash an attack that would destroy the man and end the focus of evil that had been building up in Moraca for centuries. 

And yet that same part of him said that he was exposed, that the king knew who he was, knew what he was there for, and was toying with him.  He was standing in the presence of another sorcerer who had already demonstrated the ability to crush Marco’s powers with his own.  Within a matter of seconds, he fearfully told himself, he was going to be trapped, tortured, tormented and destroyed before a gleeful king.

Above all those deeper emotions flashing through his mind stood the part of Marco that was besotted with Ellersbine, looking at the unexpected opportunity being presented to him.  Despite Argen’s vaunted friendship with the king, here Marco stood, in the most intimate of settings, one of only four men standing in a room where the king was one of the four.  It was his opportunity to impress, to establish himself, to carve out a niche in which he and Ellersbine could live happily ever after.

The emotions – opportunism, fear, and hope – all wildly conflicted within his soul, as he glanced over at Itterati, looking to see if the great sorcerer was preparing a blow to strike Marco down.

“He’s not the one questioning you boy, I am,” Moraca said in a tone that was partly impatient, partly amused.  “He won’t damage you unless I tell him to, not yet anyway.

“So answer me, who are you?” the king repeated.