Laurell Hamilton - Nightseer

“Do you want to be exiled as well, healer?”

Larsen stood very straight. “If this is the benevolent care of council, I would be safer elsewhere.”

“You could join this one in prison somewhere off the island. I have no intention of you and your compatriots being made a rallying point for the masses. Rest easy; I want no martyrs.”

Keleios answered quietly, “But you already have them: everyone who died in the keep last night, everyone who was taken prisoner to be sold as a slave. In a few years your term will be up, and it is the aristocracy that votes in or out. If one keep can fall, so can others. Let them think upon it awhile, and they will fear you in office. They will seek a more trustworthy shepherd for their lands.”

“That is my concern, not yours.”

“Oh, but it is my concern.” She wanted to look at him, but the effort was too much, so she talked looking up into the smoke-hazed sky. “You made it my concern when you destroyed this keep and killed my friends and teachers. You mark me a traitor. How can it not be my concern? You will die for this night’s work, Nesbit.”

“You’re threatening me.” He laughed, throwing his head back like a baying hound. “I will miss you, Keleios, but do not threaten me. I could still have you killed.”

“I am not threatening.” She struggled into a sitting position, tears streaming down her face, gasping and hating her weakness. “But you are a dead man from today on. It may not be by my hand, but someone will do it because of what you did here.”

“Do you prophesy?”

She thought for a moment, trying to think through the pain and the weariness. “Yes, Nesbit, I prophesy for the High Councilman of Astrantha. I see death like a black shadow across your face.” She screamed as the vision slipped away and the pain returned. “Nagosidhe, Nesbit, Nagosidhe,” She collapsed to the pallet.

“Nagosidhe, what is that? Is it part of the prophecy?”

Larsen came in, forcing her to lie still. “I must ask you to leave; you are upsetting her.”

Lothor’s voice came smooth; only Keleios could detect the weariness in it. “Nagosidhe, High Councilman, are Wrythian warriors trained as assassins.”

Nesbit left her vision and said, “What do you know of the Nagosidhe, Loltun prince?”

“Our country borders Wrythe, Councilman Nesbit. We lost three lords to the Nagosidhe before my father outlawed all raids on the elves.”

“I do not believe it.”

Lothor shrugged. “Believe what you like.”

“But was it part of the prophecy? Will the Nagosidhe be my death?”

“I do not think so. She screamed in pain; her vision had left her. Call it a promise.”

“A promise, what does that mean?”

“It means she is of elven royalty and can call out the Nagosidhe.”

Keleios half-smiled. Call out the Nagosidhe—no, she could not do that. Only a pure-blooded elf could call the elven assassins. And she could never be real Nagosidhe herself, for the same reason. Balasaros Death’s Master thought it unseemly that any half-elf be a Nagosidhe, even his own niece, but there were other problems to deal with before she ever saw the elven kingdoms again. And when the time came, she wanted to see Nesbit die—yes, that was what she wanted. She would not use Nagosidhe. She would do her own hunting. Keleios spoke slowly. “Where is Zeln? What have you done with him?”

Malcolm entered the clearing and answered her. “Imprisoned, but unharmed, so no laws have been broken by the High Councilman.”

Keleios half-laughed and winced. “No laws broken, Malcolm.”

He knelt beside her. “I know, Keleios, I know.”

The councilman’s smooth voice came, “You are obviously in pain. Let Groth help you, half-elf.”

The grey-dressed figure knelt hesitantly, afraid. Keleios scuttled backward off the blanket, crying out in pain, “Get him away from me!”

Larsen stepped in, “High Councilman Nesbit, as you will give us no real aid, I call healer’s right and ask you to leave. And take that charlatan with you.”

Groth made a small protesting sound. Nesbit silenced him and said, “Very well, I will leave and take my healer. But Groth is the only help you will get on Astranthian soil, for I have forbidden any other.”

A deep voice behind him spoke, “The High Councilman forgets once more that he is not a monarch.”

Nesbit whirled, “Garland, how dare you?”

“How dare I.” Lord Garland looked around the devastation near at hand and turned his white-bearded face to Nesbit. “How dare you force a vote on the council. I was silenced, but no more.” Three healers were at his back: one white, one grey, and one black. Lord Garland worshipped Ardath and played no favorites.

Nesbit turned to look at Keleios. “Prophecy or not, half-elf, you will be imprisoned at dusk tonight; heal quickly,” He turned and vanished, taking Groth with him.

Larsen helped Keleios back to her pallet and replaced the cloths. “The healing potion is ready for you.”

Lord Garland asked, “Where can my healers be of greatest use?”

“Your healers are all most welcome, Council-lord.” Larsen knelt beside Keleios with a warm cup. He supported her head while she drank, forcing her not to move any more than necessary. “This boy will lose his arm without quick white healing. We have found very few survivors. The other healers are out helping search for bodies.”

Keleios’ stomach began to knot and churn. “Larsen, I feel ill.”

“I know, but the potion will help ease you.”

“No, it...” Her spine went rigid, arching her body grotesquely. She was looking at the world through frosted glass and pain. A face hovered over her. “Jodda?” But the healer’s eyes were brown as wood; her black hair, braided. Not Jodda, no one she knew.

An unusually gruff voice came from the woman’s body. “Hold her so I can work.”

Hands held her down, faces floating above her. There was death in her stomach, flowing through her veins in a way she had never experienced. She knew she was dying. They weren’t helping her. “Aklan, tac morl, frintic aklan, aklan!”

A man’s voice, “Herb healer, what did you give her?”

Larsen said in haste, “A potion for relaxation, sleep.”

“What was in it?”

“Veldra, peppermint, goddess mantle ...”

“Goddess mantle, also known as demon’s bane?”

“Yes.”

“You have poisoned her.”

“But it isn’t a poison.”

“To her it is. First healer, you must remove poison from her body.”

The brown-eyed healer didn’t argue but laid hands on Keleios’ struggling body. The arching spine and rigidity were lasting longer each time. Every sound, every movement, went through her body, jerked her muscles, sent her spine rigid. Keleios couldn’t breathe until her body relaxed, and each spasm lasted longer than the last, until she could not breathe at all. The warmth of healing flowed through her body, chasing the poison. She could feel the poison being drawn from her body.

She muttered, half-gone, in pain, “Aklan.”

The man’s voice whispered, “Nor ac morl, nor ac morl.”

The uninvited magic in her body responded to the words, calmed. Someone had understood; someone was helping.

Keleios lay still and panting, her breathing loud, her body sweat-coated.

She blinked up into a pale face lined with brown hair; two green-grey eyes stared at her, “When you are rested, I would like to speak with you in private.” It was the strange male voice in the garb of a black healer.

Keleios tried to speak, but the white healer shooed them all away. “I must heal your burns and that hand. You seem to have a small ability to heal yourself. I have never touched anything like it.” She shook her head. “But I will heal you, then we may talk.”