Shadow War - Deborah Chester [21]
Orlo reached him first. “What are you doing?” he asked sharply. “You are supposed to be resting, sleeping. What kind of potion wears off after only an hour? Are you in pain? You must lie still.”
The discussion between the prince and the healer ended. The prince departed, but the healer came forward, stopping just beyond the lamplight.
From the shadows he spoke: “Have no fear on the champion’s behalf. He does not suffer. All he requires is rest.”
Caelan frowned, his attention caught once again by the healer’s voice. Now, however, he was sufficiently alert to recognize the slightest trace of accent. The healer was a Traulander. Small wonder Caelan had thought he recognized his voice. Now it made sense. It also explained the good, fresh herbs in the healer’s potions and how he had severed the wound. Caelan probed his side with his fingertips. He felt no tenderness, no soreness. The stab wound was gone, as was the cut to his arm. It was excellent work, as good as something his father would have done.
“You are still in pain,” Orlo said in open concern. “Please lie down.”
Caelan shook his head, but allowed himself to be pressed down onto his pillow. This was a stupid time to let his emotions gain control of him.
To change the subject, he said, “His highness sounded angry. Have I—”
“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Orlo said.
But he spoke too quickly.
Caelan’s eyes narrowed. “I missed the victory party, did I not? How long have I lain here?”
“Not long enough,” Orlo said gruffly.
“A day,” the healer replied.
Orlo shot him a glare, then swung his gaze back to Caelan. “Never mind the damned party. It wasn’t important. Neither is tonight’s—”
“The festivities,” Caelan said. “I forgot them.”
He reached for the coverlet, but Orlo’s callused hand gripped his and held it hard.
“No,” Orlo said. “You will not go with him, no matter what he wants. You are not well enough.”
Caelan stared up at the trainer, then threw back the coverlet and sat up. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he shivered lightly in the cool air and wondered if he had the strength to stand.
“Stop this!” Orlo said. “It doesn’t matter whether you go with him or not. This is a trivial thing, not worth your life. Not worth—”
He broke off and stood there scowling. His jaw muscles bunched as though he struggled to hold back words.
“My life is not at risk,” Caelan said gently, although his temper was beginning to fray. He was tired of Orlo’s interference. The trainer was only trying to protect him, but Caelan didn’t want protection. He wanted his freedom, and Prince Tirhin was his only means of getting it. “Already I am much better, thanks to the skilled ministrations of my countryman.”
As he spoke he glanced at the healer, who still kept to the shadows. “I must thank you,” Caelan said. “I—”
The healer bowed and retreated quickly, saying nothing. The door closed silently behind him.
Astonished, Caelan looked at Orlo. “Who was that?” he asked.
Orlo shrugged.
“Why was he in attendance, and not the arena healer?”
“That quack,” Orlo said with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. “What could he do but dither and shake his head? The prince asked for one of the palace healers, and this man came.”
“A Traulander,” Caelan said softly, conscious of a hurt in his heart that had never healed.
“It is said they are the best healers in the empire.”
“Yes. I know.”
How long had it been since he had heard the accent, the particular inflections of vowel and syllable heard only in the north country? He felt his eyes grow gummy and wet, and sternly he pulled himself together. This weakness must be put behind him.
“You are tired,” Orlo said, still watching him. “Please rest. No matter how fancy the healer, it is still old-fashioned rest that makes the best cure.”
“There is not time for rest,” Caelan said, frowning. “And I am well.”
Orlo