Empire of Man

There was certainly something wrong. Someone wrong. Healer, Nathaniel Mayard, the man who should have been dead with the rest of the slaughtered caravan. He glared daggers of ice as he hefted Lyla into his arms.

She wasn’t that heavy. In fact, she was rather slim for her build. Lan had attributed most of that to her ordeal and the way that Deliverance Spells drained Couriers of their vitality to feed them as well as her injuries and a lack of food.

In the few days she’d been with the soldiers, her face had fleshed out, and the gauntness that had made her appear hard and cold had softened. Now though…Lan wondered if she’d been like this before…

“This way young man.” The village healer lifted one eyebrow appraisingly as Lan pulled his murderous gaze from the visiting caravan healer whom Lyla had been speaking of just before she collapsed. “Hmm…yes. Curiously convenient that he is here somehow. But we need to get Lyla somewhere quiet.”

They followed along the path winding between homes, gardens, fields, and pastures. Caleb was clearly concerned and a little confused, yet despite his youth refrained from asking questions. Perhaps that was why Wroth had sent the inexperienced youth? His fighting skills might need improvement, but his position and education meant that he was more politically savvy than the other soldiers of the group.

After several minutes of walking, they came to a small house at the far edge of the village. It wasn’t as grand as most of the milled-wood village homes. Shorter, with a less steeply slanted roof. The stone walls were barely high enough for an average person. A Mage like Lan had to stoop to enter, and he overbalanced briefly, nearly falling over with his awkward burden.

“Just put her there.” The healer briskly instructed, pointing to a bed set into the wall near a fireplace.

“You,” she pointed a calloused hand at Caleb, “get the fire warmed up, will you?” She pulled a stool up to a table set against the far wall covered with herbs and began mumbling to herself as she rummaged among the dried medicines.

“What else can we do to help?” Lan had gently laid Lyla down and was tenderly tucking some blankets around her. The healer stole a look over her shoulder at him kneeling beside the girl and snorted to herself.

“Pull up a chair, boys,” She called to them as she began grinding her selections of herbs in a mortar, the pestle making rhythmic grinding sounds. “It’s going to be a long night.” A sigh seemed to sap all the strength from her, and she paused at the thought, her shoulders sagging. After her brief pause, she started working again. “These are always long nights.”

Maybe it was because he’d let down his defenses earlier so that he could hear Wroth’s projected thoughts. Maybe it was something else, but the healer’s dejection and weariness, the hopeless terror of having to treat the same ailment over and over again slammed into Lan like a physical force.

“I… I have some magic…” Lan began hesitantly. Hesitantly because he didn’t know how frequently one could have the Kiss of Life performed on them but also because he’d screwed up so royally last time.

“Boy, if you perform the Kiss of Life on that girl one more time, I will kill you myself.” She began grumbling under her breath. “Inexperienced, lummox, fuddling up spells and getting charmed into madness stupidity.”

“Madness?” From his place by the fire Caleb stopped and turned to the healer’s back, his eyes and mouth wide as her words sank in. Then slowly he turned toward his prince.

The prince felt the accusing stare before he realized that the sounds of Caleb stirring the fire up had ceased. Looking up, Lan saw a look of utter horror on Caleb’s face and met it unflinchingly, knowing he could not hide the wild emotions that had been swirling within him since he first kissed Lyla. But Caleb Von Notten the Third, Duke of Terrace Mons, had never been a coward.

Lan held his breath and watched grim determination falling across the slim face of the young nobleman as he realized that the Imperial Prince was, in fact, teetering on the edge of madness. Caleb’s green eyes narrowed and turned cold and hard as flint. His slight shoulders tensed. The duke didn’t blink and the long fingers of one elegant hand began sliding towards the hilt of his sword.