Shapers of Darkness (51 page)

With that, she forced her eyes open.

Bryntelle was bawling, her face red and damp with tears. Cresenne’s own face felt bruised and swollen; her cheek was screaming agony where the Weaver had burned her. And her entire body ached from being brutalized. She was crying as well, and she gathered the baby in her arms, holding her until their sobbing had eased. Diverse emotions warred within her: humiliation at what he had done to her was tempered by pride in how she stood up to him; her relief at finding a way to take control of her magic and escape her dream could not overcome the terror of knowing that the Weaver would find some way to strike at her again. He had tormented and defiled her—who could say if the scars he had left on her mind and body would ever heal?—and yet, by virtue of her survival, she had defeated him. Cresenne lay there holding Bryntelle, weeping, trying to muster the strength and courage to call for a healer. And with tears still in her eyes, she began to laugh. She worried for the soundness of her mind, and yet once she started, she couldn’t stop. The child stopped crying and stared at her quizzically.

“I won, Bryntelle. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I won.”

The baby’s expression didn’t change, and at last, Cresenne’s unnatural mirth began to subside, leaving her spent and teary once more.

She must have fallen asleep again, for she was awakened some time later by knocking at her door. Bryntelle stirred but didn’t open her eyes. Careful not to wake her, Cresenne rose, covered herself with a robe, and walked stiffly to the door. She unlocked the bolt and opened the door, finding a guard in the corridor. He held a piece of parchment in his hand, but seeing her, he merely stared, his dark eyes widening.

“I need a healer,” she said. Then, remembering her encounter from the night before, she added, “I’d like Nurle. I don’t know his whole name. Can you send for him please?”

“Yes,” the guard said. “Yes, of course.”

He hurried away and Cresenne pushed the door closed before returning to her bed.

In only a few moments, another knock sounded at her door, and at her summons, Nurle entered the chamber. He winced when he saw her and crossed the room quickly to sit beside her on the bed.

“What happened?” he asked.

“The Weaver came for me again last night.”

“Your face looks a mess, but I can mend it. Did he hurt you anywhere else?”

She closed her eyes, feeling tears fall again. Had she really been laughing just a short time before?

“There’s blood on your bedding.”

“Yes. He—” She swallowed, her eyes still shut. “He raped me.”

“Demons and fire!” He faltered. “I’ve never . . . I wouldn’t know how—”

“It’s all right. I have healing magic. I can see to those wounds myself.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

She forced her eyes open, made herself look at him. “Don’t be. I’m glad you’re here.”

Nurle managed a smile. “Lie down. Let me start with that burn.”

The healer might have been young, but he had a deft touch. Within moments, the scorching pain in her cheek began to ease, as if cool water flowed from the man’s hands into the
wound. By the time he finished with the burn and turned his attention to her bruises, the fire in her flesh had been doused entirely, leaving only a dull ache that she knew would vanish within a day or two.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “That’s much better.”

Soon, Nurle had healed her bruises as well. He sat back, taking a long breath, his face flushed and covered with a faint sheen of sweat.

“Is there anything more I can do for you?” he asked, sounding weary.

Cresenne shook her head. “I don’t think so.” She rolled away from him and opened her robe to look at her chest where the Weaver had stabbed at her. The skin was unmarked. “No,” she said, with more certainty. “I’m fine.”

He nodded grimly. “Then I’ll leave you for now. I’ll return shortly with a sleeping tonic.”

“No!” she said, panic flooding her heart.

“You need rest. I know that you won’t sleep during the night, so I want you going back to sleep now, while you can.”

I can’t sleep at all
, she wanted to say, though she knew how ridiculous that would sound. Earlier she had been celebrating her victory over the Weaver. Now, faced with the prospect of meeting him again, she quailed.
I’m a fool
.

“If I sleep, he may come for me again.”

A gentle smile touched the healer’s lips, reminding her oddly of Grinsa. “So you’re never going to sleep again?”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“All I can tell you, Cresenne, is what I know as a healer. You need rest. You have healing magic, too, so you know that I’m right.”

She did. “All right. Nothing too strong, though. A bit of betony perhaps, mixed with just a bit of sweetwort. I have to be able to wake myself. It’s bad enough battling the Weaver, but if I’m fighting your tonic as well, he’ll kill me.”

Nurle frowned, but gave a reluctant nod. “All right. Betony and sweetwort then. I’ll return soon.”

Once he was gone, and her door closed again, Cresenne removed her robe and began to heal herself, cursing the Weaver repeatedly all the while. When she had finished and put on a
new shift, she felt nearly whole again, though more tired than she had been since the earliest days of Bryntelle’s life, when sleep had been a precious thing. She sat on the bed once more, and gazed at her daughter until Nurle’s knock drew her attention.

When the door opened, however, it was another Qirsi who entered the chamber, one of the older healers, a man she had seen in the castle corridors many times before.

“Where’s Nurle?”

“Another patient required his attention,” the Qirsi said, closing the door. “A man with Caerissan pox. Nurle told me to prepare this sleeping tonic for you. I believe you wanted betony and sweetwort?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He handed her a small cup of hot liquid, taking a moment to examine her face. “Nurle does good work. I’ll have to commend him to the master healer.”

“Yes, do,” she said. She sipped the tonic, making a face at the the overly sweet taste. “How much sweetwort is in this?” she asked.

“Not very much, I assure you. But I added a bit of wild rose to sweeten the tea. I’m told that the queen likes this a good deal. Don’t you?”

“Not really.”

He reached for the cup. “Would you like me to make a fresh cup for you?”

She shook her head, taking a second sip. “That’s all right, thank you.”

“Of course. If there’s nothing else . . .”

“No, nothing. Again, my thanks.”

He tipped his head in reply and left her.

Cresenne finished the tea, then lay down and closed her eyes, falling asleep almost instantly.

The next thing she knew, someone was shaking her, calling her name. She could hear Bryntelle crying, but she couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes. Her heart was pounding and she felt hot, as if fevered.

“Cresenne, wake up!”

Somehow she was sitting up. It took her a moment to realize
that strong hands were holding her up, gripping her arms. She forced her eyes open. The chamber seemed to pitch and roll; she found it hard to see anything clearly.

“It’s Nurle. Can you hear me?”

“Nurle,” she said, her voice sounding strange to her own ears. “I don’t feel well.”

“You’re burning with fever. Is it possible that the Weaver did something else to you, something you didn’t mention before?”

“The Weaver?”

“Yes. Do you remember the Weaver?”

Her mouth felt dry. She thought of the healer’s tonic and gagged. “No. The Weaver didn’t do this.” She tried to turn toward the small table where she had placed the cup, though she could tell that her head merely lolled to the side. “The sleep tonic.”

“Sweetwort and betony wouldn’t do this to you.”

She shook her head again, felt consciousness slipping away. “The tonic . . . something else in . . .”

“What?” He laid her down gently.

Cresenne closed her eyes once more.

“Demons and fire!” she heard from what seemed a great distance.

Then she was sitting up again, her head falling back.

“Cresenne! Stay awake, Cresenne! Speak to me! Who gave you this tonic?”

“The healer. You sent.”

“What healer?”

“The healer. He lives. Here.”

“You mean Lenvyd?”

“Yes.”

“Impossible! Guard!” he shouted.

Cresenne wanted to ask him what was impossible, but the words wouldn’t come.

She heard another voice, and then Nurle again. “ . . . the herbmaster! Tell him to bring mustard and bryony, and quickly! She’s taken nightshade. And find Lenvyd . . . The healer who was in here earlier today!”

“Bryony,” she said, or at least tried to say. “That’s poison.”

“You’ve been poisoned,” Nurle told her. “The bryony and mustard will purge the poison. That’s what we need now.”

“Lenvyd?”

“I don’t know where he is, but I’ll find him. You have my word.”

She tried to say more, but couldn’t. And a moment later she didn’t even remember what she had intended to say. Bryntelle was still crying. Cresenne knew that she needed to do something, but it was all she could do to remain awake. She wasn’t even certain that she did that much.

“Drink this,” Nurle said suddenly, holding a cup to her lips.

She tried to turn away, but someone held her fast. She flailed with her arms and legs, but it seemed that others took hold of her, forcing the foul liquid into her mouth. She swallowed a bit, sputtered, fought to get away. More was forced into her mouth—she was helpless to stop them. They were killing her and she could do nothing to defend herself.

Her stomach heaved, and she vomited. They forced her to drink once more and again she felt the bile rising in her throat. She clamped her teeth shut, but it was no good. She retched and retched until her throat and stomach ached.

Then, at last, they released her, allowing her to lie back and rest.

When Cresenne woke next, her chamber was dark. Bryntelle was awake, cooing beside her, sounding happy and calm. Somehow they had gotten her to stop crying.

Cresenne tried to sit up, but found that she was too weak.

“Don’t move yet. You’re not ready.” A candle jumped to life next to her bed revealing Nurle, sitting in a chair on the far side of the small chamber. “How do you feel?”

“Terrible. My head hurts, and I don’t think I’ll ever be hungry again.”

A wry smile touched his lips and was gone. “You’re fortunate to be alive. For a time there, I thought we were going to lose you.”

“I was poisoned?”

He nodded. “Nightshade. Had it not been for one of the guards hearing your daughter cry and trying to wake you, we wouldn’t have gotten to you in time.”

“Do you know why he did it?”

“Lenvyd, you mean? No, we never got the chance to ask him. It seems that he fled the castle not long after giving you the tonic.”

“Send men for him! He couldn’t have gotten far.”

“We did. They didn’t find him.”

“But they should still be looking! He might still be . . .” She trailed off, seeing the smile on his face.

“You don’t seem to understand, Cresenne. He left here three days ago.”

“Three days!” she said, breathless. “I’ve been . . . ?” She closed her eyes. “Three days.”

“Like I said, I thought we were going to lose you.”

“But Bryntelle—”

“We found a wet nurse in the city. Bryntelle is fine.”

She just stared up at the ceiling, trying to grasp what he had told her.
Three days
. After what seemed a long time, she said, “Thank you,” her voice so low that she wondered if he even heard. She lifted Bryntelle onto her chest and held the girl close, silent tears running down her face.

“The master healer wanted me to convey his apologies to you. He feels responsible, having trusted Lenvyd all these years.”

“I’m not sure I believe you, Nurle. Why would the king’s master healer bother apologizing to a known traitor?”

“Because he’s a healer before all else. We’re trained to care for those who are ill or wounded, regardless of who they are. To do what Lenvyd did . . .” He shook his head, clearly troubled. “It’s not right.”

Cresenne couldn’t remember having met the master healer. She couldn’t even say for certain what he looked like. Probably she meant no more to him than did any other patient. But neither did she mean any less. “Tell the master healer that I’m grateful to him.”

“I will.”

Bryntelle began to fuss, and Cresenne made herself sit up, enduring a bout of dizziness that turned her stomach.

“You should rest.”

“I want to feed her.”

The healer must have sensed her resolve. He merely nodded. When she opened her robe he averted his gaze, but he didn’t leave as she had feared he might. Soon Bryntelle was suckling greedily. Cresenne closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall.

“He’ll head north,” she said, after a lengthy silence.

“What?”

“Lenvyd. He’ll go to Galdasten. That’s where the Weaver will have told him to go. That’s where the war will be fought. The Weaver and his allies will need healers, and who knows what other powers Lenvyd possesses.” She gave a wan smile. “The Weaver rarely pursues Qirsi who have only one.”

“I can ask the captain of the guard to send men northward.”

“Don’t bother. He won’t be found, and he won’t make enough of a difference to matter.”

Nurle stared at her, seeming uncertain as to whether she meant that the Weaver’s victory was already assured. Fortunately, he didn’t ask, for she wasn’t certain either.

After a few more moments, he stood. “I’ll leave you. If you need anything, call for me.”

“You don’t have to go.”

He gave a small laugh. “Actually, I do. I haven’t slept in some time.”

“Of course. Thank you, Nurle. If not for you, I’d be dead.”

“I’m a healer. It’s what I do.”

He turned to leave. As he did, Cresenne noticed a piece of parchment on the table by her bed. “What’s this?”

He stopped, facing her again. “I’d forgotten. It’s a message that came for you the day the Weaver . . . the day he hurt you.”

Cresenne nodded, remembering the guard who knocked on her door after she had awakened herself. She took it off the table, unfolded it, and began to read. It was from Keziah. And reading the missive, she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.