Sulemon passed over the city walls and into the land of Aram, and found it deserted. Many of its great buildings, its temples and libraries, its gardens and marketplaces, lay in ruins, but while he saw much destruction, he did not see death: The people of Aram were gone, the city and the land uninhabited. Adassa had held off the sorcerers long enough for her people to escape.
In fury, Suleman climbed the tower of Balal, his stone burning like a flame at his side. And when he reached the top, he found the Queen waiting for him.
It seemed she could barely stand. She had been worn away like a candle burned down to the wick. He knew then that she was dying, that she had used all she had—the power in her stone, and then her own power—to hold off the enemies of her people.
“What have you done?” he cried. “You have blackened the land, and your city lies abandoned. Where have your people gone?”
“They have escaped,” she said. “Far beyond your reach.”
But Suleman only shook his head. “Nothing is beyond the reach of sorcerers, and when you are dead, we will hunt your people down and make them slaves through the generations. You have won nothing.”
And Adassa felt despair.
—Tales of the Sorcerer-Kings, Laocantus Aurus Iovit III
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The first thing that struck Lin when she walked into the Prince’s apartments was the smell of blood. Coppery and bright; not old blood, but new.
Kel, beside her, tensed. She was not sure if it was the blood—there were streaks of it on the floor, even the print of boots in a drying pool of it—or the fact that Queen Lilibet was there, seated rod-straight in a chair beside her son’s bed, her green skirts stained at the hem with blood and dirt. Around her throat and wrists and forehead were emeralds set in gold; they blazed like the eyes of the Ragpicker King.
And on the bed, the still, tensed form of the Prince. The thickly embroidered damask hangings had been drawn back, and Lin could see that he lay facedown on the coverlet, his head on his folded arms. He still wore elaborate velvet breeches, and soft leather boots; gems flashed on his fingers, and at his wrists—a peculiar contrast to the bare expanse of his back, which had been torn to bloody strips.
She could sense that he was conscious—clinging to it, perhaps, half dazed, but she sensed his awareness that she was there, though he did not move as she approached. Lin could feel her heartbeat in her fingertips, beating the words: the Queen. The Queen herself. Yet at the same time, her mind had focused, narrowed in on the Prince, on his wounds. Her physician’s training overrode all other things, lending her the necessary emotional distance to do what was required.
She noted that on the night table by the bed were soap, bandages, towels. A silver bowl of water to wash her hands. Someone had prepared for her arrival. That was good. Where would she unpack her satchel? On the bed, she decided: It was vast, and even the Prince, not a small man, took up only a portion of it.
The Queen touched her son’s hair once, lightly, her ringed fingers flashing among his wet dark curls. Then she rose and came down the few steps—the bed was on a sort of raised plinth—to where Lin and Kel stood.
“A woman,” Lilibet said, looking Lin up and down as if she were a horse at the Fleshmarket. “I have known many Ashkari physicians—they treated me throughout my childhood—but have never seen a female healer before.”
“Will it be a problem, Your Highness?” Lin asked.
“No. If it were a problem, I would not have summoned you.” Lilibet Aurelian was beautiful, up close, in a way that commanded attention. There was nothing soft about her beauty. It was a beauty that seemed made of bright pieces, like glittering tesserae that came together to form something almost frighteningly magnificent: a great archway or spired castle. “As a woman, you will have worked twice as hard to get where you are. That pleases me. You have two tasks here. Make sure these wounds do not become infected or spill a poison into his blood. And do what you can to see he does not scar too badly.”
“I will do what I can, as you say,” said Lin. “But”—she glanced once at the Prince’s back, the weals dividing his skin—“there will be scars. Almost undoubtedly.”
The Queen nodded curtly. “So, let us not waste time. Ashkari physicians do not like to be surrounded and bothered while they work; that much I know. Kellian, accompany me. We will wait downstairs while she tends to my son.”
And they were gone, leaving Lin slightly stunned. Usually she had to work harder to clear the family from the room. She had expected to be, as Lilibet had said, surrounded and bothered while she worked. Had mentally prepared herself for it. Now she was alone with Prince Conor, and that was much stranger.
She could not deny that she was afraid. Of him, of the situation. She was so small in the face of all that was the Palace and its inhabitants. But then, for fifty years, her grandfather had come to Marivent nearly every sunrise. Had talked with these people, worked with and for them, demanded their concentration, even their respect. And though she was not Mayesh, she had her own skills. Did not the Book of Makabi say: The skill of a physician shall lift up his head; and he shall stand before nobles?
Forcing herself to be calm, she climbed the steps to the massive bed. The Prince still did not move, but his breathing intensified. It was ragged; seeming to snag on every inhale, like cloth snagging on a hook. Lin set down her satchel, quickly washed her hands, and returned to the bed. The first thing to do was to clean away the blood from his back, to see clearly what she was dealing with. It would not be easy, given his condition.
She sat down beside him, the mattress sinking a little under her weight. His shirt had not been removed, she realized. Rather, it had been whipped to pieces, and blood-soaked scraps of silk clung to his arms, his waist.
Very gently, she began to sponge away the blood from his bare skin, using a damp towel. The Prince’s body tensed, his back arching. Breath hissed between his teeth.
Then he spoke, and the sound jolted her. “You must be enjoying this,” he said, turning his head to the side to avoid speaking directly into the mattress. “It must please you.”
There was strength in his voice—more than she had expected. As a physician it pleased her, but there was bitterness there, too, sharp as poison. Perhaps it was the bitterness that was keeping him alert. Strength came from strange places.
Lin slowed the movement of her hand. “Cleaning up blood? Why would that please me?”
“Because—ah!” He winced, and lifted himself on his elbows. The muscles in his arms bunched beneath the torn and bloodied silk. “You don’t like me. We’ve been over this.”
“If you did not want me as your physician, you could have protested,” she said.
“I did not feel like arguing with my mother. It is not something I enjoy at the best of times, and I would not call this the best of times.”
He looked over his shoulder at her. His eyes were fever-bright, the pupils too wide. Shock, Lin thought. “I could give you morphea—”
“No.” He fisted his hands in the sheets. “No morphea. I want to feel all of it.”
Gently, she continued to dab away the blood, revealing the wounds beneath. “If you are doing this to show that you are brave, I should tell you honestly, this is the easiest part of what I must do. These wounds are bad. You will be screaming like a dying seagull soon enough.”