tried to lift himself onto his elbow, and found himself as weak as a
newborn.
Orlo reached him
first. “What are you doing?” he asked sharply. “You are supposed to be resting,
sleeping. What kind of potion wears off after only an hour? Are you in pain?
You must lie still.”
The discussion
between the prince and the healer ended. The prince departed, but the healer
came forward, stopping just beyond the lamplight.
From the shadows
he spoke: “Have no fear on the champion’s behalf. He does not suffer. All he
requires is rest.”
Caelan frowned,
his attention caught once again by the healer’s voice. Now, however, he was
sufficiently alert to recognize the slightest trace of accent. The healer was a
Traulander. Small wonder Caelan had thought he recognized his voice. Now it
made sense. It also explained the good, fresh herbs in the healer’s potions and
how he had severed the wound. Caelan probed his side with his
fingertips. He felt no tenderness, no soreness. The stab wound was gone, as was
the cut to his arm. It was excellent work, as good as something his father
would have done.
“You are still in
pain,” Orlo said in open concern. “Please lie down.”
Caelan shook his
head, but allowed himself to be pressed down onto his pillow. This was a stupid
time to let his emotions gain control of him.
To change the
subject, he said, “His highness sounded angry. Have I—”
“You’ve done
nothing wrong,” Orlo said.
But he spoke too
quickly.
Caelan’s eyes
narrowed. “I missed the victory party, did I not? How long have I lain here?”
“Not long enough,”
Orlo said gruffly.
“A day,” the
healer replied.
Orlo shot him a
glare, then swung his gaze back to Caelan. “Never mind the damned party. It
wasn’t important. Neither is tonight’s—”
“The festivities,”
Caelan said. “I forgot them.”
He reached for the
coverlet, but Orlo’s callused hand gripped his and held it hard.
“No,” Orlo said. “You
will not go with him, no matter what he wants. You are not well enough.”
Caelan stared up
at the trainer, then threw back the coverlet and sat up. Swinging his legs over
the side of the bed, he shivered lightly in the cool air and wondered if he had
the strength to stand.
“Stop this!” Orlo
said. “It doesn’t matter whether you go with him or not. This is a trivial
thing, not worth your life. Not worth—”
He broke off and
stood there scowling. His jaw muscles bunched as though he struggled to hold
back words.
“My life is not at
risk,” Caelan said gently, although his temper was beginning to fray. He was
tired of Orlo’s interference. The trainer was only trying to protect him, but
Caelan didn’t want protection. He wanted his freedom, and Prince Tirhin was his
only means of getting it. “Already I am much better, thanks to the skilled
ministrations of my countryman.”
As he spoke he
glanced at the healer, who still kept to the shadows. “I must thank you,”
Caelan said. “I—”
The healer bowed
and retreated quickly, saying nothing. The door closed silently behind him.
Astonished, Caelan
looked at Orlo. “Who was that?” he asked.
Orlo shrugged.
“Why was he in
attendance, and not the arena healer?”
“That quack,” Orlo
said with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. “What could he do but dither and
shake his head? The prince asked for one of the palace healers, and this man
came.”
“A Traulander,”
Caelan said softly, conscious of a hurt in his heart that had never healed.
“It is said they
are the best healers in the empire.”
“Yes. I know.”
How long had it
been since he had heard the accent, the particular inflections of vowel and
syllable heard only in the north country? He felt his eyes grow gummy and wet,
and sternly he pulled himself together. This weakness must be put behind him.
“You are tired,”
Orlo said, still watching him. “Please rest. No matter how fancy the healer, it
is still old-fashioned rest that makes
newborn.
Orlo reached him
first. “What are you doing?” he asked sharply. “You are supposed to be resting,
sleeping. What kind of potion wears off after only an hour? Are you in pain?
You must lie still.”
The discussion
between the prince and the healer ended. The prince departed, but the healer
came forward, stopping just beyond the lamplight.
From the shadows
he spoke: “Have no fear on the champion’s behalf. He does not suffer. All he
requires is rest.”
Caelan frowned,
his attention caught once again by the healer’s voice. Now, however, he was
sufficiently alert to recognize the slightest trace of accent. The healer was a
Traulander. Small wonder Caelan had thought he recognized his voice. Now it
made sense. It also explained the good, fresh herbs in the healer’s potions and
how he had severed the wound. Caelan probed his side with his
fingertips. He felt no tenderness, no soreness. The stab wound was gone, as was
the cut to his arm. It was excellent work, as good as something his father
would have done.
“You are still in
pain,” Orlo said in open concern. “Please lie down.”
Caelan shook his
head, but allowed himself to be pressed down onto his pillow. This was a stupid
time to let his emotions gain control of him.
To change the
subject, he said, “His highness sounded angry. Have I—”
“You’ve done
nothing wrong,” Orlo said.
But he spoke too
quickly.
Caelan’s eyes
narrowed. “I missed the victory party, did I not? How long have I lain here?”
“Not long enough,”
Orlo said gruffly.
“A day,” the
healer replied.
Orlo shot him a
glare, then swung his gaze back to Caelan. “Never mind the damned party. It
wasn’t important. Neither is tonight’s—”
“The festivities,”
Caelan said. “I forgot them.”
He reached for the
coverlet, but Orlo’s callused hand gripped his and held it hard.
“No,” Orlo said. “You
will not go with him, no matter what he wants. You are not well enough.”
Caelan stared up
at the trainer, then threw back the coverlet and sat up. Swinging his legs over
the side of the bed, he shivered lightly in the cool air and wondered if he had
the strength to stand.
“Stop this!” Orlo
said. “It doesn’t matter whether you go with him or not. This is a trivial
thing, not worth your life. Not worth—”
He broke off and
stood there scowling. His jaw muscles bunched as though he struggled to hold
back words.
“My life is not at
risk,” Caelan said gently, although his temper was beginning to fray. He was
tired of Orlo’s interference. The trainer was only trying to protect him, but
Caelan didn’t want protection. He wanted his freedom, and Prince Tirhin was his
only means of getting it. “Already I am much better, thanks to the skilled
ministrations of my countryman.”
As he spoke he
glanced at the healer, who still kept to the shadows. “I must thank you,”
Caelan said. “I—”
The healer bowed
and retreated quickly, saying nothing. The door closed silently behind him.
Astonished, Caelan
looked at Orlo. “Who was that?” he asked.
Orlo shrugged.
“Why was he in
attendance, and not the arena healer?”
“That quack,” Orlo
said with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. “What could he do but dither and
shake his head? The prince asked for one of the palace healers, and this man
came.”
“A Traulander,”
Caelan said softly, conscious of a hurt in his heart that had never healed.
“It is said they
are the best healers in the empire.”
“Yes. I know.”
How long had it
been since he had heard the accent, the particular inflections of vowel and
syllable heard only in the north country? He felt his eyes grow gummy and wet,
and sternly he pulled himself together. This weakness must be put behind him.
“You are tired,”
Orlo said, still watching him. “Please rest. No matter how fancy the healer, it
is still old-fashioned rest that makes
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