Shadow War - Deborah Chester [60]
The door opened, and the new healer peered out. He and the guard spoke softly a moment, and the healer shook his head. He pointed and closed the door.
The guard returned to Elandra. “Healer Agel is honored by your visit, Majesty. He begs you to enter his study. He will attend you shortly.”
Already half regretting her impulse, she nodded. The guards led her a short distance down the shadowy hall and opened a door.
She was shown into a small, austere room. Almost entirely bare of furnishings, it contained only a writing table, a stool, and a simple chair. There was a case to hold parchment scrolls, and everything looked neat and utterly clean. Even the table was swept clear, and the medicine cabinet stood open to show orderly rows of small jars.
No fire burned on the cold grate. A single lamp struggled to supplement the inadequate light streaming through the window.
Elandra gazed about her with keen disappointment. “Is this all?” she asked.
“We Traulanders require little in the way of material possessions,” said a deep, faintly accented voice behind her.
Elandra turned as the healer stepped into the room. He wore the plain white wool robe of his calling, and his hands were tucked inside his sleeves. His face was gaunt and pale. His eyes were calm, dispassionate, uninvolved.
Seeing him, she relaxed at once. “You are Healer Agel,” she said, “newly appointed to the court of my husband.”
His eyes widened at this hint. He bowed deeply to her. “Majesty,” he said, less calmly than before. “Forgive me. Had you but summoned me, I would have come to your assistance at once.”
Her eyes narrowed in annoyance. So, when the guard had first spoken to him, the healer had thought her one of the concubines. Presumably they came often to his infirmary. “Had I desired you to attend me in public,” she said through her teeth, “I would have done so. I prefer privacy for this consultation. Without my ladies in waiting, without my tutors, without my guards.” She gestured at her guards in dismissal. “Leave us. This room is too small.”
“Majesty—”
She glared at them over her veil. Reluctantly they left the tiny study and shut the door.
Closing her eyes a moment, she released a sigh.
“May I see your hand?” the healer asked.
Shivering and wishing he would light a fire, she extended her left hand.
He supported it carefully on the tips of his fingers, taking care to touch her as little as possible. When he massaged the web between her thumb and forefinger, she winced at the tenderness.
“You suffer the affliction of a headache,” he said.
“Yes.”
Releasing her hand, he studied her a moment. His eyes were so serious. She wondered if he ever laughed.
“May I reach beneath your veil and touch the back of your neck?”
“Yes.”
Again his touch was impersonal, professional. He moved around her with exaggerated care until she longed to scream at him to simply take down her veil and handle her as he would any other patient. She resisted this, knowing it was foolish and self-indulgent.
Finally he stepped back. “Your Majesty is very tense,” he said. “You have not been sleeping well, and you are overly fatigued. My advisement is rest.”
She looked at him directly. “I do not have that luxury. I will be involved in ceremonial activities this afternoon, all evening, and all day tomorrow.”
“The coronation, yes.” He frowned. “I can remove the headache. I can induce calm, if your Majesty wishes. However, without rest the headache is likely to return in a few hours. I can also mix you a very mild sedative to help you sleep.”
She knew nothing of Traulanders, except that they were cold, characterless giants who lived in a country of snow and ice. They were said to be incorruptible and trustworthy, clannish, and hard to like. Suspicious of strangers, old-fashioned, and nonprogressive, they rarely traveled beyond their own province. It was strange to meet this man from a land that sounded like a tale for children. She did not think he would poison her.
“The potion is acceptable,” she said at last. “You may also