spirits had
called his name once, and nearly killed him when he went to them. There were no
wind spirits in Imperia. He wondered if the fire spirits had come here instead.
Restlessly, a
little frightened, he turned his head on the pillow, only to have a shadow fall
across the firelight. A hand slipped beneath his head and lifted him slightly.
“Drink this,” a
voice said.
Caelan sipped the
potion, finding its taste bittersweet. The effort exhausted him, but once he
was lying down again he found his head felt much clearer.
He gazed up at the
healer, but the man’s face remained hidden in shadow, silhouetted against the
firelight. Something about him seemed oddly familiar, yet he wasn’t the usual
arena healer. Caelan frowned, unable to sort it out.
“These aren’t my
quarters,” he said fretfully. His voice sounded weak and hoarse. “Have I been
sold?”
“No,” the healer
said soothingly. “Rest. Do not talk. Give the potion time to do its work.”
Caelan frowned,
but the healer moved out of his line of vision. In growing puzzlement, Caelan
stared instead at his surroundings. He seemed to be in a spacious chamber, one
that extended well past the circles of light cast by the lamps placed around
his bed. He could not see into the shadows, but it was evident that he was
lying in a very fine bed carved of exotic woods and covered with linens as fine
as gossamer. The coverlet beneath his hand felt smooth and strongly woven, like
silk.
Caelan was
sweating again, and he felt a wave of weakness flow through his body in a
sudden tide. Perhaps this was all a fever-ridden fantasy. In reality he must be
lying in his narrow room on his hard bunk. Unz would have kindled a small fire
in the brazier to ward off the winter chill. Impe-ria winters were as nothing
compared to the deep snows and frozen rivers of Trau, but because of the
mildness of the weather, Imperia craftsmen never bothered to make buildings
snug and warm. As a result, winters were drafty and miserable indoors.
Sometimes at dawn
Caelan would rise and stand outside with his face turned to the north. His
nostrils would draw in the scents of frost while his heart ached for the old
glacier up beyond the Cascade Mountains. He missed the deep, blanketing silence
of the pine forests after a snowfall. He missed the ice coating his eyebrows and
eyelashes after a brisk trek out for wood cutting. He missed the rough-coated
ponies, sturdy and surefooted, who would toss their white manes and gallop,
snorting, across the glacier.
Gentle hands
probed his side, and agony speared him, driving back his memories. He
stiffened, holding in a cry. Then the pain ebbed quickly, as though it were
being drawn from his body.
The healer severed him from the wound, and when the sure hands finally lifted, Caelan
felt only a soft tingling sensation in his side. Without looking he knew the
wound had closed. His skin there felt too drawn and tight, as though newly
grown. The pain did not return. Slowly he let his body sag with relief. He hadn’t
realized until now how much he had been fighting to control the pain.
“Drink again,” the
healer said. “Then sleep.”
Caelan looked up
at him, troubled by something elusive in that soft voice, something he should
have recognized. But all of this was like a dream.
“Sleep,” the
healer said.
Although he meant
to ask a question, Caelan instead shut his eyes, and slept.
The next time he
awakened, the lamplight was much dimmer around him and the fire had burned down
to hissing coals. Several figures stood a short distance from the foot of his
bed, arguing in low voices. He recognized the prince’s among them; there was no
disguising that crisp, distinctive baritone.
Lifting his hand
to rub his eyes, Caelan felt refreshed and clearheaded. He gazed at the fine
furnishings around him and realized he must have been brought inside the prince’s
own house. This both gratified and disturbed him. Without bothering to sort it
out, he
called his name once, and nearly killed him when he went to them. There were no
wind spirits in Imperia. He wondered if the fire spirits had come here instead.
Restlessly, a
little frightened, he turned his head on the pillow, only to have a shadow fall
across the firelight. A hand slipped beneath his head and lifted him slightly.
“Drink this,” a
voice said.
Caelan sipped the
potion, finding its taste bittersweet. The effort exhausted him, but once he
was lying down again he found his head felt much clearer.
He gazed up at the
healer, but the man’s face remained hidden in shadow, silhouetted against the
firelight. Something about him seemed oddly familiar, yet he wasn’t the usual
arena healer. Caelan frowned, unable to sort it out.
“These aren’t my
quarters,” he said fretfully. His voice sounded weak and hoarse. “Have I been
sold?”
“No,” the healer
said soothingly. “Rest. Do not talk. Give the potion time to do its work.”
Caelan frowned,
but the healer moved out of his line of vision. In growing puzzlement, Caelan
stared instead at his surroundings. He seemed to be in a spacious chamber, one
that extended well past the circles of light cast by the lamps placed around
his bed. He could not see into the shadows, but it was evident that he was
lying in a very fine bed carved of exotic woods and covered with linens as fine
as gossamer. The coverlet beneath his hand felt smooth and strongly woven, like
silk.
Caelan was
sweating again, and he felt a wave of weakness flow through his body in a
sudden tide. Perhaps this was all a fever-ridden fantasy. In reality he must be
lying in his narrow room on his hard bunk. Unz would have kindled a small fire
in the brazier to ward off the winter chill. Impe-ria winters were as nothing
compared to the deep snows and frozen rivers of Trau, but because of the
mildness of the weather, Imperia craftsmen never bothered to make buildings
snug and warm. As a result, winters were drafty and miserable indoors.
Sometimes at dawn
Caelan would rise and stand outside with his face turned to the north. His
nostrils would draw in the scents of frost while his heart ached for the old
glacier up beyond the Cascade Mountains. He missed the deep, blanketing silence
of the pine forests after a snowfall. He missed the ice coating his eyebrows and
eyelashes after a brisk trek out for wood cutting. He missed the rough-coated
ponies, sturdy and surefooted, who would toss their white manes and gallop,
snorting, across the glacier.
Gentle hands
probed his side, and agony speared him, driving back his memories. He
stiffened, holding in a cry. Then the pain ebbed quickly, as though it were
being drawn from his body.
The healer severed him from the wound, and when the sure hands finally lifted, Caelan
felt only a soft tingling sensation in his side. Without looking he knew the
wound had closed. His skin there felt too drawn and tight, as though newly
grown. The pain did not return. Slowly he let his body sag with relief. He hadn’t
realized until now how much he had been fighting to control the pain.
“Drink again,” the
healer said. “Then sleep.”
Caelan looked up
at him, troubled by something elusive in that soft voice, something he should
have recognized. But all of this was like a dream.
“Sleep,” the
healer said.
Although he meant
to ask a question, Caelan instead shut his eyes, and slept.
The next time he
awakened, the lamplight was much dimmer around him and the fire had burned down
to hissing coals. Several figures stood a short distance from the foot of his
bed, arguing in low voices. He recognized the prince’s among them; there was no
disguising that crisp, distinctive baritone.
Lifting his hand
to rub his eyes, Caelan felt refreshed and clearheaded. He gazed at the fine
furnishings around him and realized he must have been brought inside the prince’s
own house. This both gratified and disturbed him. Without bothering to sort it
out, he
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