Free Everran's Bane by Sylvia Kelso Page A

so white I thought he had already bled to death. Helping change the bandages, I saw the pits they had left, and understood why. However, he recovered quickly, and mended faster for it, sleeping better, putting on flesh. Presently Thassal left his head unbandaged, merely rubbing hethel oil into the scar.
    When I first saw that it took my breath. As I stood in the door, fighting to school my face, he glanced up and showed me I had failed.
    â€œNo,” he said wryly, “I doubt they’ll call me handsome again.”
    The scar began where the corselet-collar had met his jaw line, caught the corner of his mouth and swept up past his nostril, mercifully missing the eye, then reached right back to his ear: a rag-edged triangular purple welt fit to terrorize a child. I felt ridiculous tears prickle, and hurriedly burlesqued a triumphant-hero march on my harp. Thank the Sky-lords, he laughed.
    But a couple of nights later I found him trying to lift his right arm, immobilized till then to help the wound in his side. As I came in he glanced up with a small worried frown, saying, “Come and rub this for me, Harran. I can’t make the fool thing move.”
    The skin was icy, and the muscles had shrunk. Only natural, I told myself. But I told Thassal too, and next day came with her to look.
    She freed the arm from the sling and laid it on the coverlet. Prodded. Poked. Felt his shoulder. Two lines rose between her brows, and she said to me, “Fetch the general.”
    Inyx hopped in, listened, looked, felt in turn. Said, “Ah.” Then sat on the bed and spoke very softly to the king.
    â€œRemember that lad Kirth? In Hazghend? Took a catapult graze just under the shoulder point?”
    Beryx looked up at him. His face was stiff, and rather white about the mouth.
    Holding his eyes, steady as a phalanx charge, Inyx said, “Ah.”
    Beryx’s eyes turned to the arm. The room was very quiet.
    â€œIt barely broke the skin.” His voice was careful. “But he couldn’t use the arm. We... sent him home.”
    Under his breath, Inyx said again, “Ah.”
    Beryx was still looking down. From the left his face was unmarred, springing nose and clean mouth, winged brow and long-lashed green eye, the strength and decision that go beyond handsomeness. But the steady grief in it tore my heart.
    â€œWell, well,” he said at last. Then he smiled at Inyx, a smile of cold steel courage, and said, “Here’s one Berheage will be leading from behind.”
    Going out, Inyx spat in the stair-well and said to Thassal, “Four grant I never have to tell another thing like that.”
    She replied as she once had to me. “He’s a fighter. He’ll fight.”
    * * * * *
    Only he did not. Like that inner vein cut by a splinter, it slowly bled his spirit away before our eyes. I do not know which was worse to watch: the decay, or his effort to conceal it. “Four send the dragon,” prayed Inyx blasphemously. “Or a mutiny, or an invasion. Anything to wake him up.”
    I did not try myself: having gratefully abandoned all pretences of Regency, I had retired to my harp. I had a song to make, a battle-song, the most delicate jugglery a bard ever attempted, for I was determined to tell the truth, flatter the dragon, and yet leave honor with the losers at the end. It was in my mind that one day Hawge might recall that song. I was wrestling a tricky modulation in my parchment-lair when an explosion carried clear from the tower.
    I flew upstairs. A dusty, spurry messenger was bobbing in the doorway, trying to fit in a wail. As a leonine roar fired him past me I shot inside to find Beryx half out of bed, strewn with parchments and spitting fire like Hawge itself.
    â€œMy uncle!” he bellowed, hurling missives broadcast. “My beloved uncle! Doesn’t think I’m fit to deal with this! Doesn’t think at all! The ninny! The nincompoop! The— Inyx! Inyx! Rot