“What of Ben Simeon?” Colin asked. “Can he do no more to help?”
“It depends on when he recovers,” Destarion replied. “My menders tell me the lad poured a great deal of himself into Sperren’s healing this morning, and now the king. More than we’ve seen him do before. Even when he wakes up, it may take yet more time for his ability to recover.”
Colin turned his gaze on Laren. “Do you have any idea of how long?”
Laren shook her head. “We haven’t had a true healer in my lifetime until Ben, and I’ve no documentation on this sort of thing. Any records have not survived the years.”
She hadn’t meant to sound so bitter, but it was because the realm was phobic of magic that its existence had to remain hidden, the history of the Riders had been suppressed, and now that loss of knowledge endangered the king’s chances for survival.
“May I ... may I see Zachary?” Laren asked.
Destarion nodded. “Be brief. He is not awake, but I often think the presence and words of friends can sometimes reach the unconscious mind and be of great comfort.”
He led Laren and Colin through the door and into Zachary’s chamber. She was struck by the light. She’d expected darkness, a somber aspect to the room, but Destarion had left the heavy drapes open to the balcony outside, and afternoon sunlight fell softly into the room and across the still figure lying on the bed.
Laren strode to the bedside and sank into the chair there vacated by one of Destarion’s menders. Colin remained at the foot of the bed with Destarion. There was another Weapon on guard in a dim corner.
Blankets were drawn up to Zachary’s chest where bandages bulged. The freshness of herbs in the poultice over the wound, and others steeping in a bowl of water on the bedside table, spread aromatically through the room.
Zachary’s expression was placid and unfettered by the concerns of his life and his kingdom, and she saw the young boy she remembered. A young boy at play with his dogs, or chasing around with other castle children. She saw the studious young man who spent hours in the library poring over books. The strength was in his face, too, of the man, the warrior king. As Destarion said, he would need all that strength to survive the damage done by the arrow, and perhaps more.
She took his limp hand in her own and it was warm. Too warm? “I am here, Moonling,” she said, calling on the nickname she used for him when he was little and tagging after her around castle grounds. “I’m here, and so is Colin. We’ll take care of everything.”
She rambled on in a similar vein, trying to keep her voice calm and light, reassuring. She half heard Destarion and Colin whispering together, but she did not let it distract her, not even when the two stepped out.
“You’ve got to hold on,” Laren said more firmly.
The king’s eyes fluttered open and she gasped.
“Laren.” Her name barely made it past his lips, as though he hadn’t the breath left in his body.
“Yes, I’m here,” she replied, leaning closer.
He swallowed and rested so he could summon the energy to speak. “I did not . . . I did not want her to go.”
“I know.” Laren did not need to ask who.
“Tell her ...” He drifted off leaving the rest unsaid and his eyes closed. He exhaled a long rattling breath as he settled back into unconsciousness.
Laren squeezed his hand knowing how he’d finish the sentence. “I’ll tell her.” If he lived, she would tell Karigan nothing. If he died, she wouldn’t hesitate to tell Karigan everything, because then those feelings would do no harm to the realm. This wasn’t even taking into account whether or not Karigan survived Blackveil.
Laren sighed. Too much death on her mind.
The door opened and Lady Estora appeared still wearing her riding habit, but with a black shawl drawn over her shoulders as a sign of mourning for her father. There was a querulous voice in the anteroom and Estora quickly shut the door to mute it. Laren stood and strode over to her, observing that Estora looked numb, not yet overcome by grief. None of it had sunk in for her yet.
“My father’s body is but cooled and my cousin wants me married now,” Lady Estora said, “while my intended still has a breath in him and is king.”
Of course Spane would. Laren ground her teeth, but instead of speaking her opinion, she took the woman’s hands into her own.
“My lady, I am so very sorry. What a terrible day you have had.”
“It was quite wonderful until . . . until . . .”
Laren thought Estora might crumble then, but the young woman stiffened, maintaining her composure.
“I have come to see Zachary.”
“Of course.” Laren led Estora to his side and helped her settle into the chair. “He awoke briefly and spoke.” She tried to sound hopeful.
“What did he say?”
Laren bit her lip. “Not a lot. My name. Nonsense, really. Destarion suggests speaking to him even if it appears he does not hear you.”
She then withdrew, leaving Estora with her head bowed. When Laren stepped into the anteroom, she found Colin and Spane in heated discussion.
“I want her married immediately,” Spane loudly demanded. “Lord Coutre would want it.”
Laren strode right up to him and jabbed her finger at his chest. “You will take your argument elsewhere. This is not the time or place.”
Spane’s mouth gaped, then he said indignantly, “This is absolutely the time, and I will not be ordered about by some common messenger. Estora must marry before that man in there dies.”