Crown of Renewal(39)

“From a horse.” That was humiliating, to be felled by a horse bite.

“And then the arrow, my lord. It struck the bone.” He made himself look at the wound. They had cut off his boot; the horse’s teeth had gone through the leather and into his flesh. His leg was swollen, purple and red, with blood oozing from the teeth-marks and the slice the surgeon had made to extract the arrowhead. His knee was swollen to twice its size. The surgeon laid a poultice of healing herbs on it and bound the leg in splints. “Stay off it or it might never heal.”

The next day began the miserable retreat; he lay in a wagon, using the jewel as much as he could to hold off the most dangerous attacks, but he was soon exhausted and feverish. Every jolt of the wagon sent waves of pain through his leg and his ribs; the surgeon told him now they were likely broken. Daily his advisor told him to find and kill the man who had saved him, but he had no energy to spare for that.

By the time the army reached Cortes Immer, his leg was obviously infected, swollen almost to the groin. His surgeon had cut it open again to drain the stinking pus and pack the wound with healing herbs, but Alured—never thinking of himself as Visli now—was sure he would lose his leg or die. How could a one-legged man become king?

You can still be whole and a king. Do what I tell you.





Chapter Eight


Gird’s Hall, Fin Panir

Her shoulder ached; she could not sleep. Arianya, Marshal-General of Gird, squirmed higher against her pillows, trying not to make a noise. If she couldn’t sleep, at least she could think, and she thought better sitting up. She hoped.

The past half-year had been the worst of her life as the Fellowship splintered on the matter of magery. She blamed herself for not anticipating the degree of resistance—the resurgence of the same hatred and resentment of magery that had in the end cost Gird’s life even as it gave peace for a time to the Fellowship and allowed Luap to get the surviving magelords to Kolobia.

Where they had died, most of them, through Luap’s stupidity. She shifted, clenching her teeth at the pain as she thought of it. Only a few scraps gave clues to exactly what Luap had done … and so he offered her nothing to learn from. She would have to figure this out for herself. The only thing she could think of that might work was having everyone—every single yeoman, from birth to old age—cursed or gifted with mage-powers at once. And even that might not work. And even if it did, she had no way to accomplish it.

Down the hall she head footsteps … boots, not soft indoor shoes as most wore at night. Her breath caught; her pulse quickened. Another assassin? Moving openly because he had already killed the guards—or the guards had proved disloyal? A firm tap on her door and a voice she knew: “Marshal-General? Are you awake?”

“Come in,” she said. Arvid Semminson was an assassin—or had been—but she hoped he was now Gird’s true yeoman, surprising as the transformation had been. He smelled of the outdoors: horse, leather, sweat, and a breath of night’s coolness clung to him. “What news?”

“How’s that wound?” he asked. He tucked his gloves into his belt, doffed his cloak, and hung it on a peg across the room. “You’re not sleeping, and you look like someone in pain. Should’ve healed by now with all the Marshals around to give it a nudge.”

She shook her head. “Too many others in the city needed them. I’m not that—”

“You are,” he said across her words. “You are that important. Who’s going to take over if you die?”

He had once seemed suave, tactful, but since the troubles started, he had shed his smooth manner for directness.

“The Marshalate would vote,” she said. “It might be Donag.”

“Or it might be some idiot,” Arvid said.

“How’s your boy?” she asked, hoping to divert him.

“He’s fine. Growing, learning … and not, so far, showing a speck of mage talent, Gird be thanked.” He shook his head at her. “It’s you, Marshal-General, we have to worry about. The Fellowship needs you, and you’re not healing as you should. Was the weapon poisoned?”

He’d asked that before. So had others. Her memory of the attack was blurred, more than any other memory in her life, and she did not understand it. Several dark figures—she could not say how many—and though she had fought them off until approaching help sent them fleeing into the night, one had pierced her shoulder, the tip grating on bone.

“Let me see,” he said now. “But I still think—”

“Oh, very well.” She moved, and the pain wrenched her again.