Realm of Light - Deborah Chester [112]
Now, in Lord Albain’s chamber, he longed to turn and run. This was not the time to meet Elandra’s father. Albain’s reputation as a fierce old warlord was well deserved, from all accounts. He should be left alone with dignity and peace. He did not need quackery, or sorcery, or Caelan’s unskilled fumbling.
But Elandra’s eyes were on Caelan—trusting him, believing in him—and he could not refuse her anything.
Reluctantly he walked up to the bed and stood behind her, looking down over her shoulder at the battle-scarred old man. Al-bain lay there unconscious, moaning a little.
Caelan could hear the rattle in his lungs, could see the bloody froth on Albain’s lips.
He frowned.
“What is it?” Elandra asked, watching him anxiously.
“He needs more pillows, to prop him higher. He can’t breathe, lying down like that.”
Hope flashed through her face. She rushed away, opening a servant’s door and calling for the valet.
In a few minutes Caelan was carefully lifting the old man while Elandra and the valet piled pillows on the bed.
“I thought so,” the valet kept muttering. “I wanted to do that, but the physicians said he should lie flat. I knew better. I am sorry, my lady. I—I mean, your Majesty.”
“Yes,” Elandra said, holding her father’s hand and seeming to barely hear the man’s excuses. “What else?” she asked Caelan, then glanced at the valet with a frown of suspicion. “Has he eaten? Has he had any water?”
“No, Majesty. They said—”
“Never mind what they said,” she broke in sharply. “Bring broth, just a little. And cool drinking water flavored with the juice of lemons.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
She glanced at Caelan, who knew he could hesitate no longer. Carefully he unlaced Albain’s sleeping shirt and gently probed along the man’s ribs. They were spongy, and dark bruising discolored his sides. He groaned and coughed up blood, which Elandra wiped away.
“At least five broken ribs, maybe a cracked hipbone,” Caelan said at last. He frowned to himself, trying to remember his old lessons. “One of the ribs has punctured his lung. That is why he coughs blood. There is more damage, but I have not the knowledge to tell you what it is.” He met her eyes and told her the truth. “He bleeds inside.”
“Can anything be done?”
“Yes, if we had a proper healer. My father could have mended him easily. Agel could do it.” Caelan heard the futility of his own words and shook his head. “But we have no one of that—”
“We have you.”
He sighed. “Elandra, I am not a healer.”
“Your father taught you something. I know he did.”
Caelan held out his hands. “I could not learn the healing arts. Yes, I learned severance, which I have explained to you, but I—”
“I know,” she said eagerly. “That is why I am so certain you can do it. You must believe in yourself. You must reach deep and find the knowledge that you have. There is a way. There must be a way. I don’t know why I feel so sure, but I do. You can do this, if you will but try.”
He turned away from her, unwilling to face the pleading in her eyes. Elandra had never begged before, but she was begging him now. The worst thing, however, was that she was right.
He did not want to admit it.
He did not want to pay the price.
“Am I wrong?” she asked, her voice suddenly sounding dull. “Am I mistaken?”
He sighed. “We must all lose our parents at some time. It is part of life.”
“Is this his time?” she asked fiercely. “Is it? Or has the darkness reached out to strike him down? When I lived here, the palace was not riddled with shadows and forbidden magic the way it is now. I can feel it crawling everywhere, seeking prey, ready to strike anyone who is unwary. The jinjas are supposed to sense it, keep it away, but they are clearly failing against what has come here. Everything is breaking down, Caelan. The closer we go to Imperia, the more I think we will find much evil turned loose on our world. The darkness is overtaking us, one by one.”
“All