29

  Moments Later, in snow-buried Longshore:

  The glutinous brew was steaming and bubbling in its copper cauldron, smelling sharply medicinal. Would probably taste like sudden death on a cracker, but all of the best potions did, and there was always a price for magic. Miracles never came free. Not even for elves.

  Beatriz squinted through clouds of billowing steam at busy half-elves and paladins. She was working to brew a cure for the dragon’s blight, and didn’t pause in her stirring, not even when greenery dropped from the hole up above and somebody nearly fell through. Then a sudden bright glow coughed up Renny’s grandfather, Galadin, three kids and that noisy mutt dog of his. Galadin was now the prince consort, not in line to the throne, but spouse to a future empress.

  Bea inclined her head, pushing damp curls away from her face with one arm. Smiling, she wheezed out a greeting, but Granddad seemed too stunned to hear what she said. The fire was going pretty good, and the cauldron just beginning to come alive in response to her alchemy magic, so Beatriz turned to Alfea, gasping,

  “Go see… if… his lor’ship… needs any help.”

  As doing so would take her past that huddle of dormant elves (and Valerian), the young air-sprite leapt to her feet. Alfea’s beautiful wings tried to flutter, but there was too much damage for flight. The air-sprite winced, and made do with running, instead.

  She darted across the ruined village square, using upended cobbles and fallen timbers to keep herself out of the ashes, muck and blood. Alfea brushed the top of Valerian’s blond head racing past him, feeling a thrill that coursed through her body, and made her sparkle with rainbow light. He was healing, she sensed. Not far from waking again, having gone to the past in the manner of spent, weary elves.

  Her smile faltered when she reached the prince consort. Galadin’s battle wounds were gone, but the expression of deep, hollow loss on his face cut Alfea straight to the heart. Perching atop a flipped wooden hand-cart, the messenger girl bowed low.

  “Your Highness, thrice welcome!” she said to him. “I sense that you’ve journeyed far, crossing more time than has passed for us, here.”

  Galadin was an elf-lord. Gut-punch handsome, with long, silver hair, pale blue eyes and tremendous power. He was a sword-arm of Firelord but looked like he wanted to die. Inclining his head, the prince consort said and signed (with one hand),

  “The gods drew me elsewhere, but all that is over, now.”

  The child in his arms… a small, blonde half-elven girl… was sobbing aloud. A brown-haired boy not much older than her clung to Galadin’s right leg, peering shyly up at Alfea. A darker, scowling youth stood off to one side, kicking at stones and stamping out embers. Their dog gave one last, mournful howl and then settled onto the mucky square beside Galadin.

  Alfea sketched a swift blessing, not sure what else to do in the face of such evident grief. Fortunately, Sister Constant came jingling and rattling over to join them, possibly drawn by the light of His Lordship’s arrival.

  “Highness,” said the dark-skinned paladin, bowing. “If you’ve a mind to help, Sir, the prince and princess are in a bad way, and we’ve got our hands full with dying villagers. The other First Born are plunged into sleep, recovering. Would you come have a look, Sir?”

  Galadin hesitated.

  “His Majesty? My lady wife?” he inquired. “Lex and Ally are well?”

  “Lying over yonder, Sir, with Lords Lerendar and Valerian, right next to Prince Korvin. They drained themselves fiercely, but it looks like they’ll all recover. Just a matter of will, Sir, as you know.”

  The prince consort sighed, releasing a great knot of tension.

  “That it is,” he admitted, adding, “Lead me to Their Highnesses, if someone will mind the children. Merri and Kellen have never met strangers before. Reston has, once, but he was only knee-high.”

  Alfea promised to care for the little ones, though the oldest boy… Reston… just shook his head and stomped off when she called to him.

  Galadin watched, looking terribly bleak and unhappy. Then he turned and followed Sister Constant across the square toward a make-shift healer’s tent. Light filtered in through the snow cave’s roof and the hole overhead. Armloads of greenery showered down, along with an end of old, fraying rope. Not long enough to do any good, until Galadin expanded it magically.

  …And he could work, that’s what he could do. Stay busy enough to keep from remembering. To somehow make it worth staying alive.

  The place wasn’t much of a healer’s tent. Just a few bolts of cloth stretched over a framework of lampposts and poles, with a floor of packed hay. Longshore’s surviving mortals were laid out on rugs and blankets, writhing and coughing up chunky blood. Galadin saw twenty-two people and seventeen sheeted corpses. Smelled incense mingled with blood, drek and seething, warped magic.

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  Galadin made the sign against evil, sensing more than a physical plague at work. His son-in-law, Villem, tended the injured and sick, while Brother Humble prayed and tore bandages out of old clothes.

  Galadin nodded to both, stopping beside his daughter Katina, long enough for a quick embrace and a look at his youngest grandchild, Benny.

  “Something’s happened?” guessed Katie, looking up at him with searching bronze eyes.

  Her father took a deep breath, let it out again. Nodded briefly, saying,

  “Aye. It has been longer for me than for you, by nearly fifty-five years… but I cannot speak of it now, Katling.”

  Katina rested her head on his shoulder. ‘Katling’ was an old pet name, not used since she was small enough to sit on Lord Galadin’s knee. He brushed the coppery hair from her forehead, cooling her fever and calming Katina’s body-aches. There were a few spots of blood on her anxious face, but she wasn’t too sick. Not really.

  Sister Constant hovered beside them, radiating impatience. Galadin had to move on. He kissed his daughter’s cheek and the baby’s as well, pouring in all of the blessings he could. This blight… How far had it spread? Was Ilirian safe, with its small human villages? He just didn’t know. Wasn’t the land’s Silmerana, any longer. Only the drekking prince consort.

  A short walk between rows of stricken mortals brought them to a raised platform of hay bales and scavenged wood. A sigil of power shimmered and pulsed in the air just above. The figure was part of Lord Oberyn’s true name, meant for use on the worst epidemics and vilest possessions.

  Galadin’s sword-arm tattoo burned and shrank down inside of him, retreating from Oberyn’s light. First time that had ever happened, and the sensation set his teeth on edge.

  Forcing discomfort aside, Galadin sat down on a hay bale to examine Nalderick and Genevera. Both were unconscious, the girl still clutching a scrap of torn, dirty cloth.

  Genna was easily recognizable, though he’d never seen anyone so terribly drained of life-force and manna. She breathed very faintly, her heartbeat only a weak and irregular flutter.

  “Gen saved her brother, Y’r Lordship,” said Honey, coming to stand at his side, wrapped in an old wool blanket. “She flashed green so’s I could find them, and she never let go o’ Derrick.”

  “You rescued them?” guessed the elf, reaching out to adjust that tightly gripped blanket, transferring healing and warmth.

  Honey scrunched up her face.

  “I hung on, while every one else did th’ pullin’, Sir. All I did was hold tight and get dragged. She’s gonna be healed, ain’t she, Sir? Genna an’ Derrick both?”

  It was reckless to promise. He hadn’t been able to save Lana, despite his children’s pleading and faith. But he couldn’t stand losing anyone else. Would not fail again.

  “Nalderick’s curse has surely broken,” said the prince consort. “And courage such as Genevera showed will speed her return to us. It is only a matter of calling her back.”

  Honey sniffled, leaning in for a hug that did him as much good as it did the girl. Lady Beatriz rushed into the healing tent with a copper pot scuttling obediently along in her wake. The steam that arose smelt perfectly hideous, making Galadin swear to face death from the blight rather than try Bea’s potion.

  Releasing Honey, he propelled her toward the alchemist with one hand, commanding,

  “Go help with dosing the mortals and see that you take some, yourself. I’ll do what I can over here.”

  The girl was reluctant but went, practicing stupid ‘obedience’. Galadin smiled and turned back to the prince and princess. He touched Genna’s forehead first, whispering,

  “Little One, your friends and family call for you. Return, please, bringing joy to the people you love.”

  It was not a real spell, but heartfelt and powerful anyhow. A bit of color flushed Genevera’s face. Her breathing steadied a bit, as though a small, weary soul was being drawn home.

  Leaning over Galadin, Sister Constant blurted something that was more war-whoop than prayer, shifting into the Dawn Hymn. As for Nalderick…

  The prince didn’t look like himself, but he wasn’t that shriveled, accursed wretch any longer, either. Like Galadin, he’d been punished by Heaven and fought his way through.

  Galadin placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Nalderick wasn’t an elf, but he wasn’t a half-elf or mortal, either. Something else entirely, with a curious blending of traits and a very faint glow.

  “Highness,” said the prince consort. “The trial had ended for both of us. Nay… for all three of us. We have stood up under the judgement of Heaven, unflinching. You are free. Only your pain and anger stand between you and your former status.”

  He paused then, thinking aloud.

  “It was wrong to accept a lying gift and open the way to invasion. For myself, I can only plead heartbreak, sorrow and love. I do not know what you were offered or why you chose to accept the Tree’s bargain… but I know that you cling to chains that no longer bind.”

  He hadn’t meant to berate the young prince, but somehow, lecturing worked. Nalderick blinked and looked at him, too weak to sit up. No matter. Galadin recklessly transferred his own manna, draining himself until Sister Constant broke their connection.

  “No, you don’t,” snapped the paladin. “Not on my watch, Sir. You’ll not take the easy way out. You’re going to live and pick up the pieces, just like the rest of us. Besides, your lady wife would skin me with her own two hands if I let anything happen to you!”

  Which was probably true, but Galadin never got the chance to respond. Instead, as Nalderick sat up, drawing both knees to his chest… as a glitchy and flickering wizard appeared in the air, waving what looked like a playing card…

  Lady Elisindara ported into the healer’s tent, wearing her rumpled party dress and a tragic expression. She pressed a folded damp cloth to one side of her head, wetting her loosened, silvery hair.

  “I don’t suppose any of you have given a single thought to my sufferings, after my glorious debut was so horribly interrupted!” she cried out, stamping a dainty foot on the straw. “My poor, throbbing head! They would keep ringing those wretched bells, shouting and rushing about with no consideration at all! If I hadn’t taken up most of a ley line and ported away, I should have died of a frightful headache!”

  Then, shuddering, Elisindara looked around herself at mortals spewing up potion and blood.

  “Dear gods! Must you keep the peasantry where I can smell them? Where is my husband? Keldaran! Keldaran… Lerendar, Valerian, come see to this stench, at once!”

  Meanwhile,

  ‘Dratted thing!’ mouthed a spectral and flickering wizard.

  And,

  “I should’ve stayed asleep,” growled Nalderick, scratching at brownish-blond stubble. Next, feeling around in his shredded tunic,

  “Where’s Kia?!”

  “No idea,” replied Galadin, rising. “But after I’ve dealt with my son’s lovely wife, and this sending, I’ll help you to look.”

  Anything at all, for some peace and quiet and no time to think.