The Black Raven - Katharine Kerr [115]
Besides the visualization, she had breathing exercises to do, and these seemed more like real dweomer to her. Nevyn had told her that soon she would combine the two halves of this program in a practice that would lead her to proper, controlled visions rather than the upwelling of omens that had so troubled her before. She spent long hours on her work, brooded over her work, lived for her work, until at times she dreamt about her work.
Yet the cough continued, troubling her concentration. Nevyn seemed worried about it as well. One particularly nasty afternoon he came to her chamber with an iron pot and bags of herbs. Whilst he brewed up infusions of pennyroyal and horehound, he asked her detailed questions about when and where she found herself coughing.
“It’s much much better by the fire, my lord,” Lilli said. “I truly do doubt if it matters.”
Nevyn considered her for a long moment.
“You’re all wrapped up in shawls,” he said. “But you still look far too thin. Your face glows with fever whenever you get tired. It matters, Lilli.”
“Well, perhaps so.”
“You know, I think I may have made a mistake. I thought the trouble you have breathing was a result of the ghastly way your mother and Brour misused your dweomer gifts. You know enough now to see how important proper breathing is to the work.”
“I do, my lord. It’s like I can suck up aethyr from the air or suchlike, and it feeds me.”
“It should, most certainly. But I look at you and I wonder if it’s draining you instead. I begin to wonder if your troubles stem from such a basic and ordinary root that I’ve overlooked it.”
“What would that be?”
“An illness.” Nevyn gave her a rueful smile. “A congenital weakness of the lungs due to imbalanced humors. You most assuredly seem to have an excess of the cold and moist humors, because such an excess collects in the lungs. Your body would try to balance it out with the warm and dry humors of the air, you see.”
“Oh. That sounds worrisome.”
“It is. I think you’d best devote yourself to getting well. Lay aside those dweomer exercises I gave you, just for a fortnight, say.”
“But I was finally getting somewhere with them!”
“I realize that, but you’ll be able to pick them up again. Not quite where you left off, I’ll admit it, but close enough. You need to rest.”
When she opened her mouth to argue he caught her glance and held it. What could she do, confess that she wanted the work to keep Maryn out of her mind and heart?
“I’m just the apprentice,” Lilli said at last. “As you wish, my lord.”
Under Nevyn’s orders she began spending much of her day in bed. Although he visited regularly, she spent most of the day alone, longing for distractions. Needlework she could do in bed, sitting up propped by pillows. On the third morning she got out the pieces of the wedding shirt that would have been Braemys’s and laid them out flat on her table. They might be made to fit Branoic if she added extra panels down the sides. She would have to pick off the Boar blazon, of course, from the front yokes and substitute whatever device the heralds might draw up for him.
Bevyan had embroidered those blazons. The thought of destroying even these small pieces of her work drove Lilli to tears. She folded the front section back up and returned it to her chest. She would use the back and sleeves of the shirt and simply work a new front, matching the bands at hem and yoke.
With a rustle a note slid under the door. Lilli sprang, grabbed the handle, and flung the door open. Councillor Oggyn stood there, dead-pale from his beard to his naked scalp.
“You?” Lilli snapped. “You’re the one who—”
“Not!” Oggyn squeaked. “I’m but the page, delivering these.”
“Well, no insult meant, good Councillor, but that gladdens my heart.”
Oggyn smiled and returned to his normal color.
“No insult taken,” he said. “I’m old enough to be your grandfather, my lady.”
“Just so. Very well, Oggyn. I’ve caught you red-handed, and so you have to confess. Who’s writing me these notes?”
“Oh come now! Surely you must know without my having to name him out?”