David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

Groaning, he swung his feet over the side of the featherbed, making sure he gave the chamber pot a wide berth. When his bare toes touched the cool crystal of the floor, a shiver rocked his spine, bringing on a new spasm of pain. He accepted the torment, flattening his feet against the ground until the feeling subsided. He flexed his broken right foot, which was expertly wrapped. The bones had been set and were healing nicely, or so Biden had told him. Still, he’d been assured that he would feel echoes of this injury for a long while, possibly even decades.

Once again, Ceredon cursed Thane’s effectiveness.

There was a long walking rod propped against the wall, and Ceredon grabbed it before standing up. He wedged the padded top of the rod into his right armpit and rose to his feet. Using the rod to put as little weight as possible on his broken foot, he hopped toward the door, the empty pitcher dangling from his other hand.

He knew he could shout for help, but the hour was late, and most in the palace were likely asleep. Besides, he couldn’t stand to be alone in his room any longer. He felt completely in the dark, limited by the knowledge that Iolas and Clovis were willing to share. He knew nothing about the status of the rebellion or how his father felt about the whole situation. The Neyvar hadn’t once come to see him, and that fact alone led Ceredon to wonder if he had completely misread his father from the beginning. He hoped not.

The hall was empty when he exited his room, just as he’d expected. He hobbled down the stairs, taking care to hop down a step at a time, and each time he landed, new agony shook his battered body. He paused and glanced down. His room was on the seventh story. That meant he had a hundred steps and six turns to go until he reached the ground level. He groaned, sucked in a deep breath, and hopped down yet another step.

It took him nearly a full hour to reach the bottom, and by the time he got there, he was in so much misery that he had to lean against the wall to wait for the worst of the pangs to ebb. When they did, he got moving once more, working his way slowly through the vestibule, heading for the Chamber of Assembly, where a fountain of water bubbled up from a spring far below the palace.

He paused at the sound of someone’s approach. A shadow appeared at the end of the long hallway that led to the chamber where Clovis was residing during his stay in the emerald city. The shadow grew longer, taller, and the sound of metal clinking on crystal echoed all around the approaching figure. Ceredon froze in place, a feeling of dread coming over him. In his pain-wracked mind he saw the spirits of those he had helped slay, from Teradon to Conall, to Aeson, coming for him. He wished he had brought a weapon with him-a dagger, a length of rope, anything. He then realized that he’d be in no shape to defend himself in any case.

The shadows were eventually cast aside by the flickering torches, revealing the figure to be neither a ghost nor Clovis, but a young soldier. He was handsome in a human way, wearing his armor adorned with the roaring lion as if it were a second skin. His eyes were kind, and he possessed a head of wavy dark hair that seemed to have a mind of its own. Ceredon teetered to the side and lost his balance. Taking in the sight of him, the young man squinted and picked up his pace.

“By Karak, you look like shit,” the soldier said, hastily throwing his arms around Ceredon to keep him from falling. “Whoa there, I have you.”

Ceredon leaned into the man, thankful for his strong arms and quick actions. When he took a closer look at the soldier, he saw that he had an odd, diamond-shaped scar on his left cheek.

“Thank you,” Ceredon said in the common tongue. “I do not believe we’ve met.”

The soldier paused, then said, “You can call me Boris Morneau. And there’s a good reason we haven’t met. I only arrived a few hours ago.”

“What is the nature of your business?”

“Information,” Boris said proudly. “I had an urgent message for Master Clovis.”

“Oh. And what was that message?”

Boris looked at him sidelong. “I’m sorry, my message was for Master Crestwell’s ears only,” he said. “And besides, you haven’t told me your name yet.”

“My apologies,” Ceredon said with a chuckle. “Ceredon Sinistel, at your…actually, in your service.”

“Ceredon? As in son of the Neyvar?”

“The one and only.”

“Well, what do you know? I just arrived in Dezerea, and I’ve already met a prince.” His head cocked to the other side. “Granted, a very injured prince, but still. What in the world happened to you?”

“Short, uninteresting story. However, do you think you could do me the favor of helping me to the big room down the hall?” He lifted the wooden pitcher, an action that hurt like hell with his broken arm. “I was not thinking and attempted to retrieve some water for myself despite my…condition. If you were to lend me your shoulder, I promise you this prince will never forget it.”

“Of course. Consider me at your service.”

With Boris’s help, it took no time at all to reach the Chamber of Assembly. The young soldier even went so far as to fill the pitcher for him, then fetched a cup for him to drink from. It was while he was mid-gulp that a shrill scream pierced the night air.

“What was that?” he asked Boris.

The soldier shook his head. “I told you. I came with a message for Master Crestwell. I never said it was a good message.”

“I see.”

Boris steered him out of the chamber and back down the hall, heading for the stairwell. It was then that Biden came tearing around the corner, eyes wide with fright. When the healer spotted Ceredon, he stopped short.

“My lord, what are you doing down here?” Biden exclaimed in elvish.

“I needed water,” Ceredon said, as if the agonizing trip down to the lowest floor had been nothing.

“You should have told someone,” the healer said, panting. “You frightened me half to death. If you had been taken…”

“Why would I have been taken? By whom?”

“Why, by the rebellion.” Biden looked at him as if he’d sprouted a third eye. “Did you not hear?”

“Hear what?”

“There was an attempt on Councilor Iolas’s life tonight. One of the insurgents snuck into his room and attempted to put a dagger through his heart. If the guard on duty had not gone in to check on him, he would have perished.”

Ceredon’s heart rose into his throat. “Oh,” was all he could say.

Biden walked up to him, looking him over. “At least you seem to be healing, my lord. How does your foot feel?”

“Like it’s the size of a watermelon.”

“But at least you can feel it. This young man assisted you down the stairs?”

He thought of telling the truth, but instead said, “He did.”

“Thank goodness for him.” Biden looked at Boris. “And what is the human’s name?”

Boris stared at him, dumbfounded.

Biden chuckled and switched to the common tongue. “Many apologies. I am simply wondering the name of the human who assisted my prince in his time of need.”

“Boris,” he replied. He looked as if he were about to speak his last name as well, but he tripped over the word and fell silent.

Ceredon grabbed the healer by the sleeve of his robe. “Biden,” he said, switching back to his native tongue, “enough of this, I feel fine. Tell me what happened to Iolas. You said he was attacked, but was he injured? If so, was it serious?”

The healer shook his head. “The guard put an arrow through the rebel’s heart before he had a chance to do him any harm. However…”

“Go on, Biden. Tell me.”

The healer looked around, then said, “Iolas does not feel safe here any longer. As the last of the Triad, he is returning to Quellassar to name two new members of the sacred trinity. It is an obligation he has been putting off for weeks.”