Shadow War - Deborah Chester [20]
He opened his eyes a fraction, not quite willing to wake up completely yet. There was a fire burning to keep him warm. It cast a ruddy glow across his bed. He listened to the hiss of the embers, a steady singing of flame that seemed to be calling his name.
Wind spirits had called his name once, and nearly killed him when he went to them. There were no wind spirits in Imperia. He wondered if the fire spirits had come here instead.
Restlessly, a little frightened, he turned his head on the pillow, only to have a shadow fall across the firelight. A hand slipped beneath his head and lifted him slightly.
“Drink this,” a voice said.
Caelan sipped the potion, finding its taste bittersweet. The effort exhausted him, but once he was lying down again he found his head felt much clearer.
He gazed up at the healer, but the man’s face remained hidden in shadow, silhouetted against the firelight. Something about him seemed oddly familiar, yet he wasn’t the usual arena healer. Caelan frowned, unable to sort it out.
“These aren’t my quarters,” he said fretfully. His voice sounded weak and hoarse. “Have I been sold?”
“No,” the healer said soothingly. “Rest. Do not talk. Give the potion time to do its work.”
Caelan frowned, but the healer moved out of his line of vision. In growing puzzlement, Caelan stared instead at his surroundings. He seemed to be in a spacious chamber, one that extended well past the circles of light cast by the lamps placed around his bed. He could not see into the shadows, but it was evident that he was lying in a very fine bed carved of exotic woods and covered with linens as fine as gossamer. The coverlet beneath his hand felt smooth and strongly woven, like silk.
Caelan was sweating again, and he felt a wave of weakness flow through his body in a sudden tide. Perhaps this was all a fever-ridden fantasy. In reality he must be lying in his narrow room on his hard bunk. Unz would have kindled a small fire in the brazier to ward off the winter chill. Impe-ria winters were as nothing compared to the deep snows and frozen rivers of Trau, but because of the mildness of the weather, Imperia craftsmen never bothered to make buildings snug and warm. As a result, winters were drafty and miserable indoors.
Sometimes at dawn Caelan would rise and stand outside with his face turned to the north. His nostrils would draw in the scents of frost while his heart ached for the old glacier up beyond the Cascade Mountains. He missed the deep, blanketing silence of the pine forests after a snowfall. He missed the ice coating his eyebrows and eyelashes after a brisk trek out for wood cutting. He missed the rough-coated ponies, sturdy and surefooted, who would toss their white manes and gallop, snorting, across the glacier.
Gentle hands probed his side, and agony speared him, driving back his memories. He stiffened, holding in a cry. Then the pain ebbed quickly, as though it were being drawn from his body.
The healer severed him from the wound, and when the sure hands finally lifted, Caelan felt only a soft tingling sensation in his side. Without looking he knew the wound had closed. His skin there felt too drawn and tight, as though newly grown. The pain did not return. Slowly he let his body sag with relief. He hadn’t realized until now how much he had been fighting to control the pain.
“Drink again,” the healer said. “Then sleep.”
Caelan looked up at him, troubled by something elusive in that soft voice, something he should have recognized. But all of this was like a dream.
“Sleep,” the healer said.
Although he meant to ask a question, Caelan instead shut his eyes, and slept.
The next time he awakened, the lamplight was much dimmer around him and the fire had burned down to hissing coals. Several figures stood a short distance from the foot of his bed, arguing in low voices. He recognized the prince’s among them; there was no disguising that crisp, distinctive baritone.
Lifting his hand to rub his eyes, Caelan felt refreshed and clearheaded. He gazed at the fine furnishings