Untold Tales (13 page)

The soldiers, the Inquisitor, and the healers were all staring forward—except Morigan who reacted as quickly as Oenghus. She stepped behind the Inquisitor and shoved the woman through the broken barrier. The surprising strength behind the shove toppled the armored warrior, sending her sprawling into the mud.

“Oh dear,” Morigan said, planting herself in front of the breach. “It looks like you’ve caught Blight, Inquisitor. By your own orders, these men should kill you.”

“You pushed me,” the Inquisitor stood, wiping the mud off her golden tunic.

“The commotion startled me, I tripped,” Morigan smiled, and clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. “Now then, listen up. The first rule of fighting the Blight is not to create more bodies to infect. You can either keep listening to the Inquisitor, in which case you will be obligated to kill her, or you can follow my instructions.” All ears were listening to the confident healer. “I need soldiers to guard the infirmaries, a squad to fight the Blighted, and as many healers as you can muster.”

“That’s madness,” Ashe said.

“Then we can do it your way,” Morigan said, putting her hands on her hips.

The soldiers’ attention was pried from the standoff to the end of the road, where swift shadows emerged out of the darkness. Bows were drawn back, but the berserker met the walking dead with hammer in hand. The first boil ridden, rotting foe fell like wheat beneath a scythe. The second lost its head on the backward swing. And after that, Oenghus found his rhythm. The shadows fell one after another, until the final was pounded into a shapeless mass by his shield.

But this group of Blighted was immature. The longer the Blight festered, the stronger the mutations.

The Captain of the Watch did not need anymore convincing. He began issuing orders. Satisfied, Morigan stepped through the barrier, and joined Oenghus. She took the terrified woman and squalling child under her arm.

“I like it when you get all pushy,” he bared his teeth.

“And I hate resorting to it,” she sighed, checking over the mother and child for wounds.

“Hopefully, none of these things have had time to grow.”

“Aye,” Morigan nodded in agreement. “You start the clearing and I’ll start the tending.”

Oenghus knocked his hammer against his targe, dislodging a rope of clinging entrails. He looked to the barricade and shouted, “Bring oil! And you healers, get your arses in here, or I’ll drag you in!”

Moans and fevered rumblings filled the infirmary. Unlike most of the makeshift wards that had sprung up in the district, this one was permanent: a temple of Chaim. Here, the clerics refused to abandon the people when others of their Order had fled the district. If Inquisitor Ashe had carried out her plan, she would have burnt members of her own Order.

The healers fought a battle on both fronts. The sickness that had been brought on a merchant ship was both Spotted fever and the Blight, all wrapped in a nasty bundle.

Oenghus lifted a boy’s head, and pressed an elixir to his lips. “Drink up, lad,” he murmured. The dry, cracked lips parted, and the boy took a sip. Oenghus had never seen such an aggressive mix. The spots of the fever turned to Blight boils in a matter of days. If not for Morigan’s talents, they would all be infected. Her elixirs were legendary. Three days had passed, and the worst was over—the plague contained, fizzling out through brute force, quarantine, body disposal, but mostly, Morigan’s supreme organization.

Oenghus and Morigan made a good pair—they always had. He glanced over the cot at her, to the next, where she bent over a patient. Morigan met his gaze and smiled. Dark circles ringed her eyes, but the lines of worry had left.

“The emperor won’t want to part with you,” he said.

“I’ll do what I always do,” she chuckled, “I’ll tell him it was all you.”

Oenghus glared at her. Praise led to official positions, which inevitably led to court workings, clan maneuverings, and the dreaded mire of politics. But for Morigan, he would shoulder the responsibility, just as she would abandon her homeland to watch his back.

When the boy had sipped the elixir to the last drop, Oenghus eyed his patient critically. The boy’s fever was gone, the Blight boils mere black marks on the skin, but the lad’s color was worrisome. It was grey, and the boy was weak, hovering so very close to death.

Without a thought to his own exhaustion, Oenghus slipped one hand over the boy’s stomach and the other over his forehead, binding himself to spirit and body. The Lore was a soft murmur on his lips as he waded into the currents of the Gift, searching the boy with his mind’s eye. The boy’s spirit was as grey as his skin, and Oenghus bolstered his patient with his own strength.

Healing required sacrifice, and Oenghus had never turned his back on an innocent—no matter how tired he was. When the spirit glowed with dim light, he carefully withdrew, pulling his awareness back along an ethereal tether to his own body. He shook away the disorientation as if ridding himself of a cloak and reached for a rag in a bucket, squeezing out the excess water and mopping the boy’s brow.

Another spirit stirred within, a ripple of fear. Oenghus froze. His awareness turned inward, searching, reaching towards the bond that he shared with the Sylph. Yasine had been content these last days, touching lightly on his spirit everyday; a caressing greeting that he would return so she knew all was well. But the touch had changed.

Fear turned to panic, a surge that sped to his heart like a scream. Pain jarred him, made all the worse because it was not his own.

“Oen?” Morigan’s voice brought him around.

“Something’s wrong,” he said, hoarsely. A pit was opening in his stomach and he felt himself falling. “I need to go.”

Morigan grabbed his arm with an iron grip. “What’s wrong?”

“The
nymph
,” he stressed the word.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Scrub yourself good and thorough or you’ll bring this plague to the palace.”

He nodded.

As usual, Morigan was right, but every moment he spent scrubbing the foul smelling concoction on his body felt like an eternity wasted. Panic and pain traveled through their bond, until all was silent. He rode north like a storm, and on the long road to Whitemount, silence turned to rage—a chill that made him shiver.

OENGHUS
RODE
THROUGH
the night, and all through the day; only stopping when his mount was on the verge of collapse. He used his title to demand a messengers’ exchange, and continued the swift ride. When Oenghus rode through the palace gates, a groom stepped forward to take the reins of his laboring horse. As soon as Oenghus’ boots touched the stone, a plump greying man who had all the makings of a finicky cat, hurried across the courtyard. Oenghus recognized him as the Steward.

“Lord Saevaldr,” there was a hint of relief in the Steward’s imperious tone. “I’ve just dispatched a messenger for you. His majesty requires your immediate presence.”

Oenghus nearly asked after the nymph, but caught himself. Any questions would raise suspicion; instead, he asked after the emperor.

“If you will follow me.”

In the months since Oenghus’ arrival, after healing the princess, he had earned the emperor’s trust, becoming an unofficial advisor of sorts. And gradually, despite the incident involving Sarabian’s horse, Oenghus had come to respect Soataen as a man. Whatever had happened to Yasine, the emperor would inform him.

Soataen’s personal chambers were not extravagant, but well lived in, with protective wards covering every inch of wall space. Soataen huddled in a worn armchair, close to a fireplace that reminded Oenghus of a giant maw. The emperor was pale—shivering beneath a heavy fur blanket. At first, Oenghus feared fever, but there was no spots, no boils, and no sheen to his skin.

“Leave us.”

The steward bowed and left, as did the emperor’s personal healer. The Hounds, however, remained, ever watchful, ever on guard, as alert as the animals they were named for.

The door closed, and Oenghus walked to the fireplace, eyeing Soataen from the side. The ruler’s sharp eyes were faded, turned inward, as if searching his memories.

“You appear ill, your majesty,” Oenghus said, hoping to speed things along. The chill radiating along Yasine’s bond was like a shield. He could not reach out to her.

“I only just dispatched a message. How is it that you arrived so quickly?” Soataen did not look at the Wise One.

“I came back to Whitemount for supplies,” he lied.

“How goes the outbreak in the south?”

“Contained,” Oenghus reported. “Morigan mixed an elixir that targeted both Blight and the fever. It worked. The Blessed Order would have burnt the district to the ground.”

“Precisely why I value my Nuthaanian allies—for their loyalty and resourcefulness. Sometimes,” Soataen murmured, “I fear we rely too heavily on our gods.” The words were heresy, as far as the Order was concerned, but Oenghus’ kin felt the same. The emperor’s blue eyes flickered to the towering Nuthaanian. “I have a request. It requires your word.”

“I do not give my word without knowing the task,” Oenghus rumbled.

“Your discretion as a healer, then.”

“Has something happened, your majesty?” he asked, trying to keep the impatience out of his words. Patience had never been a strong point. He tightened his fist to keep his words in check and tried again to reach out to Yasine through their bond. This time, she responded. The icy shield melted, and she reached back, brushing his spirit. There was grief in her touch.

“My nymph is not well,” the emperor murmured, turning his gaze to the fireplace. Oenghus’ heart lurched. He wanted to shake the answer loose from the pale man. “When my healer, or anyone approaches, she—becomes distressed.” A muscle twitched in the emperor’s jaw. And every word brought Oenghus closer to understanding. The fear, the panic, the pain—the berserker stepped forward, flexing his fists. But Yasine frantically reached out to him through their bond, silently pleading for control. He stopped himself.

“I trust you, Oenghus,” the emperor continued, too lost in his own misery to notice the looming Nuthaanian. “See if you can heal my nymph—she trusted you in Northolt and I think she will trust you now. Speak of this to no one.”

“Aye,” Oenghus could not keep the disgust out of his voice.

Soataen did not look at him, but kept his eyes purposefully ahead. “Leave and come back to me when she is healed.”

Oenghus vibrated with restraint. “Yes, your majesty,” he said through clenched teeth. It took all his considerable will to turn his back on the coward and force his feet to move. Without a backward glance, Oenghus strode from the chambers. A Hound broke off, escorting him to the rooms at the other end of the wing—where the empress had once lived.

Two women guards flanked the arch. Both of them frowned at the Nuthaanian. Without a word, Oenghus was given over to one of the guards. The Hound waited outside while the woman showed him into the wing.

“The nymph is in her garden,” the guard said. “When anyone enters—she grows agitated.”

“I wonder why,” he growled, scanning the trio of fretting attendants who stood by an open doorway, gazing out into the night.

“Bring her here,” the guard ordered the attendants. They paled as one. And Oenghus looked out the elegant doors to the garden beyond. It was wild and overgrown.

“There’s no need,” he said, stepping onto the balcony.

“I cannot allow—” the guard began.

He cut her off. “The emperor asked me to heal his nymph without causing her distress. She knows me. I’ll not have to hack my way through that.” He gestured at the thorns and briars. Still, the guard looked hesitant. “Do you want me to go bother his majesty, and ask him to give me my orders again in your presence?”

The guard’s eyes flickered from the shelter of warmth to the threatening foliage. “I’ll wait here.”

Oenghus grunted and walked down the steps into the garden. As far as cages went, hers was spacious. The garden walls were high and mysterious and Yasine’s mere presence made the foliage thrive.
 

In a matter of months, a single glimpse of the nymph in the throne room had become legend. Yasine’s arrival ignited a wild fire of imagination, spawning a deluge of romantic drivel from every harper in the kingdom.