Post by journeycat on Jan 14, 2010 14:47:01 GMT 10
Title: Servants of Tusaine
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Although they no longer heal great Tortallan kings or fight beside brave Tortallan women, the proud sons of Queenscove will never break beneath the yolk of Tusaine.
Word Count: 1,638
Author's Note: The second installment in The Last Conté series.
-----
It was a clean break, and His Royal Highness Prince Einvers of Keir was assured that he would have full use of his arm in a couple of weeks. It put him in a foul mood nonetheless, and he raged colorfully at his attending healers. One woman was so bold as to dryly point out it was his own fault for riding his hot-blooded, unbroken stallion out on hilly terrain. It was perhaps lucky for her that she was of Tusaine; had she been Tortallan, he would have done more than purpled with apoplectic fury—it would have been her head. Instead, he banished all but one healer from the bedside and was content to complain loudly to one of his sympathetic wives.
The remaining healer was careful to control his blank expression. It would not do for the usurper’s son—his prince, he reflected bitterly—to see the hate that burned in his green eyes.
“The splint is set,” Duke Baird of Queenscove said smoothly, dipping his hands in clean water. They were not bloody, but he felt tainted with Tusaine’s filth. “If I may withdraw to leave you to your rest?”
“So be it,” Einvers said indifferently, waving an imperious hand. “But tell the cook to stop burning my toast. It tastes wretched.”
“As you wish,” he replied impassively, and bowed his way out.
Healers are not servants.
Baird latched the infirmary door quietly behind him and sagged against it.
It was rarely that a healer was ever entirely helpless. There was always something to be done, something that could be done, to mend a wound or save a life. He was Chief Healer, after all, and powerful enough that even Tusaine had magnanimously allowed him to continue his work. He could save anyone.
But he could not save Jonathan.
Baird passed a hand over his face, a familiar ache constricting his throat. It had been ten long, agonizing years ago that his king had been publicly executed—old King Ain’s grudge had not allowed his rival’s son even the dignity of a private death. All the fool he, for the people had howled in rage as their monarch met his fate. And Jonathan had met the axe with a calm face and open blue eyes. It was the face of a man, and not so different from the face of the boy that, long ago, Baird had been unable to save from the Sweating Sickness that took from Tortall nearly as much as Tusaine did.
It seemed Jonathan had always been doomed at Baird’s helpless hands.
He opened a nearby door that led into an empty infirmary room and slipped inside. He sat limply on a cot, staring out the window. There were other patients to which he should attend, like the burn victim and the one mauled by an unusually vicious copper-eyed griffin, but he needed a moment to himself. He ignored the small, nasty part of him that whispered he just wanted them to die. He was a healer. He did not allow men in his care to die.
Unless they were Tusaine.
Baird bowed his head into his hands, hating himself for what he was becoming and hating Tusaine for making him this way. He had never purposely neglected a patient for death—but he considered it more and more often now, when a Tusaine soldier came to him with riot wounds or when a Tortallan rape victim sobbed in the next room while he tended to her rapist’s scratches because she could wait.
If they had known King Ain had harbored such an ugly, hateful, ancient loathing for Tortall, would things have turned out different? If the Whisper Man’s spy had not been compromised, would they have discovered Tusaine’s secret correspondence with Scanra? If Tortall had not been so cleverly surprised, would their knights and soldiers and everyday citizens have been able to stand stronger than they did?
Would Tortall still be standing free and uncorrupted?
“I thought I’d find you here.”
Baird glanced up at his son posed in the doorway, watching him with familiar emerald eyes. To think that this was all that was left of the great and mighty house of Queenscove: an old man gone completely gray but for a streak of red-brown, with lines in his sad face and a chest cough that would not go away, and a gaunt, haunted man who had lost his scholar’s humor and will to live.
Nealan gently pushed a mug of steaming tea into his hands, peering into his face. He asked, “How’s your cough?”
Baird took a cautious sip and winced as it scalded his tongue, and replied, “No different than it was three hours ago, but thank you.”
He mentally kicked himself as his son turned away and busied himself with readying poultices. It had not been easy for either of them, but Neal had never been the same after he sent Yukimi back to the Yamani Islands. It had been for her own good and the most selfless thing his son had ever done, but it didn’t make it any easier.
Three years ago, a major revolt had broken out, led by Balduin of Disart. He had accomplished his goal—killing two generals, an impressive many of the guard, and several high-ranking Tusaine nobles—but at the cost of his life. His execution had been ugly and occurred only after three weeks of torture. Then Tusaine had marched to Disart, razed it to the ground, and taken Balduin’s pregnant wife, Jessamine.
Baird never saw his daughter again.
And that was when Neal sent Yukimi away. She had pleaded and argued, cajoled and refused, but Neal had been surprisingly stubborn about it. He said that, should anything happen to him or should he be at all implemented in a crime against Tusaine, her life as well would be forfeit. He would not take that risk.
Yukimi—and the rest of Shinkokami’s Yamani retinue, for that matter—secured passage on a merchant boat sailing back to the Islands.
There had been no word from her since. Tusaine intercepted all foreign letters—George Cooper figured that one out early. For all they knew, her boat had capsized...or had been seized.
“The herbs you ordered arrived,” Baird said. “They’re in that chest right there. Since when did you use Yamani herbs?”
Startled, Neal turned and said, “I don’t. I never ordered any herbs.”
Baird frowned. “The import form has your name on it. You ordered it from Cricket Minreach?”
“I don’t know anyone by that—” His mouth fell open. “Cricket—that was Princess Shinkokami’s nickname as a child. And Minreach—Father—it’s Mindelan and King’s Reach.”
Baird’s heart started pounding. In a quiet, tense whisper, he said, “You don’t think it’s—Keladry? And Faleron?”
“I don’t know—I don’t think so. It’s too risky. They wouldn’t use something so obvious, not with the—their precious cargo. But someone wanted our attention. Hold on—”
Neal locked the door, then dragged the chest over and sat on the bed opposite Baird. He opened it, and they both peered excitedly inside. At first glance, it was indeed filled with packets of herbs, and vials and pouches and small sacks, but tucked out of the way in between two packets, nearly invisible, was a neatly folded parchment. Neal withdrew it with shaking fingers. He slowly unrolled it, read the first couple words, and gasped.
“Yuki,” he whispered.
For the first time, a small spark stirred behind Neal’s eyes, and Baird felt his own spirits rekindle, if only a small bit. It was not news of Lianokami—their only hope, their only princess—but it was a tentative hold to which to cling.
Neal consumed the letter in mere seconds, his eyes darting across every line as though the words would feed his endless hunger. He snapped his gaze up to meet Baird’s anxious face, and smiled. It was small, and barely there, but it was the brightest thing he had seen since Jonathan’s sapphire eyes.
“I have a son,” Neal said hoarsely. “I have a son.”
Baird snatched the letter from his loose fingers and read it himself.
The Islands are quiet and hear no word of their scion, but we listen for her. I have another man in my life now; we have been together for almost four years. He is called Baird for his grandfather. I wear his father’s signet ring close to my heart. Please do not respond.
Baird did not realize he was weeping until a tear splattered on the parchment. He hastily wiped it away. Yuki, my dear, he thought, how brave you are.
“Father,” Neal said, gaping at him, “I have a son.”
“You have a son,” Baird said, feeling the corners of his mouth begin to uncertainly draw upwards.
“A son,” Neal said, and then laughed.
It was a beautiful sound, and until he heard it Baird did not know how desperately he had missed his drawling, sarcastic boy. Something eased in his heart, a gentle undoing and a strange warm feeling that he did not recognize.
“You know what this means?” Neal whooped. “You have a grandson!”
“A grandson,” Baird howled, and slapped his knee. “I have a grandson!”
And then they were both laughing, barely able to contain themselves as they held on to each other. They were not concerned about being overheard; this was cause for celebration. If the tears that rolled down their face were not entirely of mirth, well—they could be forgiven. After all, a son had been born to Queenscove, and somewhere out there, a daughter still belonged to Conté.
That was when Baird recognized the feeling of uplifting joy, the tentative promise that perhaps the future wasn’t so bleak after all: it was hope.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Although they no longer heal great Tortallan kings or fight beside brave Tortallan women, the proud sons of Queenscove will never break beneath the yolk of Tusaine.
Word Count: 1,638
Author's Note: The second installment in The Last Conté series.
-----
It was a clean break, and His Royal Highness Prince Einvers of Keir was assured that he would have full use of his arm in a couple of weeks. It put him in a foul mood nonetheless, and he raged colorfully at his attending healers. One woman was so bold as to dryly point out it was his own fault for riding his hot-blooded, unbroken stallion out on hilly terrain. It was perhaps lucky for her that she was of Tusaine; had she been Tortallan, he would have done more than purpled with apoplectic fury—it would have been her head. Instead, he banished all but one healer from the bedside and was content to complain loudly to one of his sympathetic wives.
The remaining healer was careful to control his blank expression. It would not do for the usurper’s son—his prince, he reflected bitterly—to see the hate that burned in his green eyes.
“The splint is set,” Duke Baird of Queenscove said smoothly, dipping his hands in clean water. They were not bloody, but he felt tainted with Tusaine’s filth. “If I may withdraw to leave you to your rest?”
“So be it,” Einvers said indifferently, waving an imperious hand. “But tell the cook to stop burning my toast. It tastes wretched.”
“As you wish,” he replied impassively, and bowed his way out.
Healers are not servants.
Baird latched the infirmary door quietly behind him and sagged against it.
It was rarely that a healer was ever entirely helpless. There was always something to be done, something that could be done, to mend a wound or save a life. He was Chief Healer, after all, and powerful enough that even Tusaine had magnanimously allowed him to continue his work. He could save anyone.
But he could not save Jonathan.
Baird passed a hand over his face, a familiar ache constricting his throat. It had been ten long, agonizing years ago that his king had been publicly executed—old King Ain’s grudge had not allowed his rival’s son even the dignity of a private death. All the fool he, for the people had howled in rage as their monarch met his fate. And Jonathan had met the axe with a calm face and open blue eyes. It was the face of a man, and not so different from the face of the boy that, long ago, Baird had been unable to save from the Sweating Sickness that took from Tortall nearly as much as Tusaine did.
It seemed Jonathan had always been doomed at Baird’s helpless hands.
He opened a nearby door that led into an empty infirmary room and slipped inside. He sat limply on a cot, staring out the window. There were other patients to which he should attend, like the burn victim and the one mauled by an unusually vicious copper-eyed griffin, but he needed a moment to himself. He ignored the small, nasty part of him that whispered he just wanted them to die. He was a healer. He did not allow men in his care to die.
Unless they were Tusaine.
Baird bowed his head into his hands, hating himself for what he was becoming and hating Tusaine for making him this way. He had never purposely neglected a patient for death—but he considered it more and more often now, when a Tusaine soldier came to him with riot wounds or when a Tortallan rape victim sobbed in the next room while he tended to her rapist’s scratches because she could wait.
If they had known King Ain had harbored such an ugly, hateful, ancient loathing for Tortall, would things have turned out different? If the Whisper Man’s spy had not been compromised, would they have discovered Tusaine’s secret correspondence with Scanra? If Tortall had not been so cleverly surprised, would their knights and soldiers and everyday citizens have been able to stand stronger than they did?
Would Tortall still be standing free and uncorrupted?
“I thought I’d find you here.”
Baird glanced up at his son posed in the doorway, watching him with familiar emerald eyes. To think that this was all that was left of the great and mighty house of Queenscove: an old man gone completely gray but for a streak of red-brown, with lines in his sad face and a chest cough that would not go away, and a gaunt, haunted man who had lost his scholar’s humor and will to live.
Nealan gently pushed a mug of steaming tea into his hands, peering into his face. He asked, “How’s your cough?”
Baird took a cautious sip and winced as it scalded his tongue, and replied, “No different than it was three hours ago, but thank you.”
He mentally kicked himself as his son turned away and busied himself with readying poultices. It had not been easy for either of them, but Neal had never been the same after he sent Yukimi back to the Yamani Islands. It had been for her own good and the most selfless thing his son had ever done, but it didn’t make it any easier.
Three years ago, a major revolt had broken out, led by Balduin of Disart. He had accomplished his goal—killing two generals, an impressive many of the guard, and several high-ranking Tusaine nobles—but at the cost of his life. His execution had been ugly and occurred only after three weeks of torture. Then Tusaine had marched to Disart, razed it to the ground, and taken Balduin’s pregnant wife, Jessamine.
Baird never saw his daughter again.
And that was when Neal sent Yukimi away. She had pleaded and argued, cajoled and refused, but Neal had been surprisingly stubborn about it. He said that, should anything happen to him or should he be at all implemented in a crime against Tusaine, her life as well would be forfeit. He would not take that risk.
Yukimi—and the rest of Shinkokami’s Yamani retinue, for that matter—secured passage on a merchant boat sailing back to the Islands.
There had been no word from her since. Tusaine intercepted all foreign letters—George Cooper figured that one out early. For all they knew, her boat had capsized...or had been seized.
“The herbs you ordered arrived,” Baird said. “They’re in that chest right there. Since when did you use Yamani herbs?”
Startled, Neal turned and said, “I don’t. I never ordered any herbs.”
Baird frowned. “The import form has your name on it. You ordered it from Cricket Minreach?”
“I don’t know anyone by that—” His mouth fell open. “Cricket—that was Princess Shinkokami’s nickname as a child. And Minreach—Father—it’s Mindelan and King’s Reach.”
Baird’s heart started pounding. In a quiet, tense whisper, he said, “You don’t think it’s—Keladry? And Faleron?”
“I don’t know—I don’t think so. It’s too risky. They wouldn’t use something so obvious, not with the—their precious cargo. But someone wanted our attention. Hold on—”
Neal locked the door, then dragged the chest over and sat on the bed opposite Baird. He opened it, and they both peered excitedly inside. At first glance, it was indeed filled with packets of herbs, and vials and pouches and small sacks, but tucked out of the way in between two packets, nearly invisible, was a neatly folded parchment. Neal withdrew it with shaking fingers. He slowly unrolled it, read the first couple words, and gasped.
“Yuki,” he whispered.
For the first time, a small spark stirred behind Neal’s eyes, and Baird felt his own spirits rekindle, if only a small bit. It was not news of Lianokami—their only hope, their only princess—but it was a tentative hold to which to cling.
Neal consumed the letter in mere seconds, his eyes darting across every line as though the words would feed his endless hunger. He snapped his gaze up to meet Baird’s anxious face, and smiled. It was small, and barely there, but it was the brightest thing he had seen since Jonathan’s sapphire eyes.
“I have a son,” Neal said hoarsely. “I have a son.”
Baird snatched the letter from his loose fingers and read it himself.
The Islands are quiet and hear no word of their scion, but we listen for her. I have another man in my life now; we have been together for almost four years. He is called Baird for his grandfather. I wear his father’s signet ring close to my heart. Please do not respond.
Baird did not realize he was weeping until a tear splattered on the parchment. He hastily wiped it away. Yuki, my dear, he thought, how brave you are.
“Father,” Neal said, gaping at him, “I have a son.”
“You have a son,” Baird said, feeling the corners of his mouth begin to uncertainly draw upwards.
“A son,” Neal said, and then laughed.
It was a beautiful sound, and until he heard it Baird did not know how desperately he had missed his drawling, sarcastic boy. Something eased in his heart, a gentle undoing and a strange warm feeling that he did not recognize.
“You know what this means?” Neal whooped. “You have a grandson!”
“A grandson,” Baird howled, and slapped his knee. “I have a grandson!”
And then they were both laughing, barely able to contain themselves as they held on to each other. They were not concerned about being overheard; this was cause for celebration. If the tears that rolled down their face were not entirely of mirth, well—they could be forgiven. After all, a son had been born to Queenscove, and somewhere out there, a daughter still belonged to Conté.
That was when Baird recognized the feeling of uplifting joy, the tentative promise that perhaps the future wasn’t so bleak after all: it was hope.