Мерседес Лэки - Passages

Master Adrun had warned Tarek not to overextend himself when Healing—a lesson he’d learned when he’d first discovered his Gift and spent too much of his own energy to save a dying friend.

“Your Gift is not an endless river,” the Master Healer had said. “Rather, think of it as a well that must take time to replenish. If you draw too much water too quickly, you risk running dry.”

“Then what?” Tarek had asked, afraid he already knew the answer.

“Your own life would be imperiled. You must learn to use your Gift wisely.”

Now, those words echoing through him, Tarek folded his hand over his father’s.

“Help me,” he said softly. “We can save you—but we have to do it together.”

Tarek’s father looked up at him, his gaze weary. “I am tired of being Lord Strand. You must run the keep.”

“You don’t have to die in order to step back!”

Lord Strand blinked. “If I survive, do you promise to assume your rightful place as Lord of Strand Keep?”

There it was—the impossible choice. Tarek screwed his eyes closed, as if that would shut out the decision he must make. Give up everything he’d worked for at the Collegium, in order to save his father.

Sacrifice his dreams, his future, and remain at Strand Keep. It was nearly as bad as sacrificing his life’s energy to Heal the man.

What would such an existence hold? Managing the keep and surrounding lands was no longer the pinnacle of Tarek’s aspirations. Perhaps he might be able to carve out a little time to Heal the local populace, but he certainly wouldn’t be able to help many. Not with the heavy duties of Lord Strand weighing upon him, day and night.

After all, look at how busy his sister was . . .

He opened his eyes at the obvious solution, hope untangling the tight knot in his lungs. Maybe there was a pathway out, after all.

“I promise that the right heir to Strand Keep will take over,” he replied. “But in return, you must help fight this sickness.”

Lord Strand pulled in a breath, then let it out in a wavering sigh. “Good.”

It wasn’t much of an agreement, but it was all Tarek was going to get.

And, as he’d hoped, his father had heard what he wanted to.

“Start by drinking all your broth.” Tarek picked up the earthenware cup from the tray on the bedside table, and held it to his father’s lips.

Without protest, Lord Strand drank, though he had to pause midway through to rest. Once he’d finished, Tarek begin another session of Healing. The sickness seemed to retreat a little faster, and not rush back in quite so violently, but perhaps that was just Tarek’s hope coloring his perceptions.

Three days later, however, the improvement in Lord Strand was clear. As Tarek prepared to leave the bedroom after their afternoon session, his mother came in with a pitcher of cool water.

She glanced at her husband, then at Tarek.

“He seems . . . better,” she said softly.

“Of course I am,” her husband said, opening his eyes. “Now that everything’s settled with Tarek.”

Lady Strand gave Tarek a questioning look. “You’re staying?”

“I told Father that he could step back as Lord Strand, if that’s what he wants.”

“It is. Stop talking about me as if I’m not here.” Despite his words, however, Tarek’s father sounded more tired than imperious.

“Belinda’s about to have her third child,” Tarek’s mother said. “Both your father and I would like time to spend with our grandchildren before they’re grown and gone. And he’s worked so hard his whole life, it’s time for him to ease up. Did you know he started a second flower garden?”

“Herbs,” Lord Strand said testily. “For the kitchen.”

His wife sent him a fond look. “Very well, herbs—of the most colorful and blossom-laden variety.”

His father, growing flowers? Dandling grandchildren on his knee?

It was difficult for Tarek to picture. But not impossible. People changed, after all—his own life was proof enough of that.

“Rest,” he said, giving his father a stern look. “We’ll speak more of this later.”

First, though, Tarek needed to talk with Elen. He hoped she’d agree to the bargain he’d made, or he was in deep trouble.

He found his sister, as he’d suspected, working at the table in the great hall. Although he spent most of his days tending their father, he’d noted her schedule.

Mornings, she seemed to be out and about, paying calls on the farmers and tenants or overseeing other business. After lunch, she received visitors and consulted with the castle staff. And the rest of the afternoon saw her immersed in paperwork, sometimes late into the night. More than once, he’d stumbled to bed while her lantern still burned.

“Elen,” he said, rounding the table. “Join me for a walk around the keep?”

She cocked her head at him, questions in her eyes. “Do you have the time?”

“Yes.” Despite his weariness, he managed a smile. “Father is finally on the mend.”

“That’s a relief.” She closed the ledger book she’d been studying, then stretched out her arms. “I could use a break.”

“You work hard,” he observed.

“So do you.” She pushed back her chair and stood.

“My energy goes into Father, yours into Strand Keep,” he said wryly as they walked to the door. “Maybe you need a secretary of your own.”

She sent him a sharp look. “You said Father’s recovering.”

“He is.” Tarek waited until they stepped out of the hall, away from any listening ears.

The late afternoon air carried the scent of warm stone with a faint undertone of manure from the stables. It was a familiar smell, and for a moment, homesickness gripped him. Not longing for Strand Keep itself, but for the simpler days of his childhood, when he’d known his place in the world as surely as the sun traveled across the sky.

“But?” his sister asked as they rounded the corner of the keep into Lady Strand’s prized rose garden.

“Father told me he’s ready to lay aside the mantle of Lord Strand,” Tarek said. “You’ve probably sensed as much.”

Elen’s brow creased. “He’s made no secret of the fact that he wants you to run the keep. Now that you’re home, I’ll help you settle into the duties—”

“I’m not staying.”

She blinked at him. “You can’t be Lord Strand from the Collegium.”

“I won’t be Lord Strand.” He halted and met her gaze. “You will.”

Her lips parted and for a moment she had no words. Then she collected herself and shook her head. “You can’t be serious. You’re the heir.”

“I’m absolutely serious,” Tarek said with a faint smile. “You’ve done an excellent job running Strand Keep during Father’s illness and probably for months beforehand.”

“But . . . I’m the youngest child. And a girl—”

“I thought you had a broader mind than that.” He gently threw her previous words back at her. “Besides, you’re not a girl. You’re a very capable woman who’s been acting as Lord of the keep in all but name for some time now.”

“I . . .” She blew out a breath and turned to study the daisies blooming cheerfully beside the path.

Worry trickled into Tarek’s chest. He’d gambled that his sister would be glad to continue overseeing the keep—especially if she was finally recognized for the work she’d been doing. But what if he’d been wrong?

“Do you not want to rule Strand Keep?” he asked, his lungs tight.

She didn’t speak for a long moment. It was all he could do to stand there, waiting for her answer while his thoughts stumbled hopelessly about, seeking another way out.