Читать книгу A Cry of Honor - Morgan Rice - Страница 6

Gwendolyn hurried through the winding streets of King’s Court, Akorth and Fulton carrying Godfrey behind her, pushing her way as she cut a path through the common folk. She was determined to reach the healer as soon as possible. Godfrey could not die, not after all they had been through, and certainly not like this. She could almost see Gareth’s self-satisfied smile as he received news of Godfrey’s death – and she was intent on changing the outcome. She only wished she had found him sooner.

As Gwen turned a corner and marched into the city square, the crowds became particularly thick, and she looked up and saw Firth, still swinging from a beam, the noose tight around his neck, dangling for all to gawk at. She instinctively turned away. It was an awful sight, a reminder of her brother’s villainy. She felt she could not escape his reach wherever she turned. It was odd to think that just the day before she had been talking to Firth – and now he hung here. She couldn’t help but feel that death was closing in all around her – and was coming for her, too.

As much as Gwen wanted to turn away, to choose another route, she knew that heading through the square was the most direct way, and she would not shrink from her fears; she forced herself to march right past the beam, right past the hanging body in her way. As she did, she was surprised to see the royal executioner, dressed in black robes, blocking her way.

At first she thought he was going to kill her, too – until he bowed.

“My lady,” he said humbly, lowering his head in deference. “Royal orders have not yet been given as to what to do with the body. I have not been instructed whether to give him a proper burial or throw him in a mass paupers’ grave.”

Gwen stopped, annoyed that this should fall on her shoulders; Akorth and Fulton stopped right beside her. She looked up, squinted in the sun, looking at the body dangling just feet from her, and she was about to move on and ignore the man, when something occurred to her. She wanted justice for her father.

“Throw him in a mass grave,” she said. “Unmarked. Give him no special rites of burial. I want his name forgotten from the annals of history.”

He bowed his head in acknowledgment, and she felt a small sense of vindication. After all, this man had been the one who had actually killed her father. While she hated displays of violence, she shed no tears for Firth. She could feel her father’s spirit with her now, stronger than ever, and felt a sense of peace from him.

“And one more thing,” she added, stopping the executioner. “Take down the body now.”

“Now, my lady?” the executioner asked. “But the king gave orders for it to hang indefinitely.”

Gwen shook her head.

“Now,” she repeated. “Those are his new orders,” she lied.

The executioner bowed and hurried off to cut down the corpse.

Gwen felt another small sense of vindication. She had no doubt that Gareth was checking on Firth’s body out his window throughout the day – its removal would vex him, would serve as a reminder that things would not always go as he planned.

Gwen was about to go when she heard a distinctive screech; she stopped and turned, and up high, perched on the beam, she saw the falcon Estopheles. She raised her hand to her eye to shield the sun, trying to make sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her. Estopheles screeched again and opened her wings, then closed them.

Gwen could feel the bird bore the spirit of her father. His soul, so restless, was one step closer to peace.

Gwen suddenly had an idea; she whistled and held out one arm, and Estopheles swooped down off her perch and landed on Gwen’s wrist. The weight of the bird was heavy, and her claws dug into Gwen’s skin.

“Go to Thor,” she whispered to the bird. “Find him on the battlefield. Protect him. GO!” she shouted, lifting her arm.

She watched as Estopheles flapped her wings and soared, higher and higher into the sky. She prayed it would work. There was something mysterious about that bird, especially its connection to Thor, and Gwen knew anything was possible.

Gwen continued on, hurrying through the winding streets towards the healer’s cottage. They passed through one of several arched gates heading out of the city, and she moved as fast as she could, praying that Godfrey hung in there long enough for them to get help.

The second sun dipped lower in the sky by the time they climbed a small hill on the outskirts of King’s Court and the healer’s cottage came into view. It was a simple, one-room cottage, its white walls made of clay, with one small window on each side and a small, arched oak door in front. Hanging from its roof were plants of every color and variety, framing the cottage – which was also surrounded by a sprawling herb garden, flowers of every color and size making the cottage look as if it were dropped into the midst of a greenhouse.

Gwen ran to the door and slammed the knocker several times. The door opened, and before her appeared the startled face of the healer.

Illepra. She had been healer to the royal family her entire life, and had been a presence in Gwen’s life ever since she could walk. Yet still, Illepra managed to look young – in fact, she barely looked older than Gwen. Her skin positively glowed, radiant, framing her kind, green eyes and making her seem to be hardly more than 18 years. Gwen knew she was a good deal older than that, knew that her appearance was deceiving, and she also knew that Illepra was one of the smartest and most talented people she had ever met.

Illepra’s gaze shifted to Godfrey as she took in the scene at once. She did away with pleasantries as her eyes opened wide with concern, realizing the urgency. She brushed past Gwen and hurried to Godfrey’s side, laying a palm of his forehead. She frowned.

“Bring him in,” she ordered the two men, hastily, “and be quick about it.”

Illepra went back inside, opening the door wider, and they followed on her heels as they rushed into the cottage. Gwen followed them in, ducking at the low entrance, and closed the door behind them.

It was dim in here, and it took her eyes a moment to adjust; when they did, she saw the cottage exactly as she had remembered it as a young girl: small, light, clean, and overflowing with plants, herbs and potions of every variety.

“Set him down there,” Illepra ordered the men, as serious as Gwen had ever heard her. “On that bed, in the corner. Remove his shirt and shoes. Then leave us.”

Akorth and Fulton did as they were told. As they were hurrying out the door, Gwen grabbed Akorth’s arm.

“Stand guard outside the door,” she ordered. “Whoever came after Godfrey might want a chance at him still. Or at me.”

Akorth nodded and he and Fulton exited, closing the door behind them.

“How long has he been like this?” Illepra asked urgently, not looking at Gwen as she knelt at Godfrey’s side and began to feel his wrist, his stomach, his throat.

“Since last night,” Gwen answered.

“Last night!” Illepra echoed, shaking her head in concern. She examined him for a long time in silence, her expression darkening.

“It’s not good,” she said finally.

She placed a palm on his forehead again and this time closed her eyes, breathing for a very long time. A thick silence pervaded the room, and Gwen was beginning to lose her sense of time.

“Poison,” Illepra finally whispered, her eyes still closed, as if reading his condition through osmosis.

Gwen always marveled at her skill; she had never been wrong once, not in her lifetime. And she had saved more lives than the army had taken. She wondered if it was a learned skill or if it was inherited; Illepra’s mother had been a healer, and her mother before her. Yet at the same time, Illepra had spent every waking minute of her life studying potions and the healing arts.

“A very powerful poison,” Illepra added, more confident. “One I encounter rarely. A very expensive one. Whoever was trying to kill him knew what he was doing. It is incredible he did not die. This one must be stronger than we think.”

“He gets it from my father,” Gwen said. “He had the constitution of a bull. All the MacGil kings did.”

Illepra crossed the room and mixed several herbs on a wooden block, chopping and grinding them and adding a liquid as she did. The finished product was a thick, green salve, and she filled her palm, hurried back to Godfrey’s side, and applied it up and down his throat, under his arms, on his forehead. When she finished, she crossed the room again, took a glass and poured several liquids, one red, one brown and one purple. As they blended, the potion hissed and bubbled. She stirred it with a long, wooden spoon, then hurried back to Godfrey and applied it to his lips.

Godfrey did not budge; Illepra reached behind his head and lifted it with her palm, and forced the liquid into his mouth. Most of it spilled down the side of his cheeks, but some of it went down his throat.

Illepra dabbed the liquid from his mouth and jaw, then finally leaned back and sighed.

“Will he live?” Gwen asked, frantic.

“He might,” she said, somber. “I have given him everything I have, but it won’t be enough. His life is in the hand of the fates.”

“What can I do?” Gwen asked.

She turned and stared at Gwen.

“Pray for him. It will be a long night indeed.”