Kings of the North - Elizabeth Moon [14]
Her power moved along her arms; they first itched, then tingled, a sensation she had not felt when healing the well. She felt she could see the power moving up to his head, joining with something the Marshal-General was doing, though she could not say what that was. Something urged her to shift the power a little this way, a little that. She was unaware of time passing, of anything at all, until her power cut off suddenly and Marrakai opened his eyes and blinked. His color was healthy again, his lips pink, his eyes clear.
“What happened?” he asked in a more normal voice. “Did I faint?” He glanced from one to the other.
“Somewhat more than that, my lord,” the Marshal-General said. “The blow to your head—”
“Blow to my head?” He frowned, put a hand to it. “When? How?”
Everyone started talking at once, telling what each had seen, a rising gabble of voices, until the king said, “Silence, my lords and ladies. This noise will not serve him.”
Into the silence that followed, the king said, “You were attacked, my lord duke, and, when you fell, hit your head on the stones of the courtyard. You woke and were put to rest by the physician for a while but then lost consciousness again. You were healed by the Marshal-General and Duke Verrakai. You remember nothing?”
“No,” Marrakai said. “Not clearly, at least, since—since the coronation ceremony. I feel well now.” He moved his head on the folded cloak beneath it. “No headache—if only I could remember.”
“Juris can tell you about it later,” the king said with a warning look to the other peers. Kirgan Marrakai nodded to his father; the Duke shrugged and extended a hand; the Kirgan reached down, and Marrakai stood. He was steady on his feet, his gaze clear and focused. He, the Kirgan, the physician, and two Marshals both withdrew briefly.
This time the physician and the Marshals all agreed that Marrakai was as fit as he said he felt. The banquet started. Dorrin took her seat as instructed, but it seemed unreal. Too much had happened too fast. Too many people—still strangers, but now her fellow nobles—eyed her with a mixture of awe and concern. Marrakai, apparently now in perfect health, sat across from her, chatting with Duke Serrostin; Duke Mahieran sat next to Dorrin. At the head of the table, the king and his younger brother Camwyn—the boy looking uncomfortable—sat alone and at first spoke only to each other.
“It is clear, my lord,” Mahieran said to her as servants produced a fish course, “that having you among the Council will ensure no dull days.”
Dorrin shook her head. “I shall hope to bring no more excitement, my lord.”
“I suspect you and that paladin have something in common,” Mahieran said. “You cannot help what you are, and what you are is change.” He chuckled. “I daresay this Coronation Day will never be forgotten, and since it turned out well in the end, the celebration’s all the sweeter.”
But was it the end? Dorrin kept waiting for something else to happen: a servant to leap at the king with a bolt of power or a carving knife, the taster to fall dead of poison, one of the peers to attack her. The banquet went on smoothly, servants bringing in course after course, pouring the different wines, offering warm damp towels at intervals. Musicians played, jugglers and acrobats performed, a chorus of Girdish yeomen in their formal blue and white sang a deafening “O King Below, O Gods Above” to the accompaniment of trumpets and drum. Dorrin recognized the tune as one her troops had marched to, with very different words, some of which ran through her mind.
A stab of nostalgia smote her, but would she really be happier to be back in the field than here? She looked across and down the table draped in Tsaian white, rose, and crimson, glittering with crystal goblets, gold and silver plates, the peers in their many colors, their lace