Audric ca’Dakwi
THIS WAS ONE OF the bad nights.
Every individual
breath was a struggle. Audric had to force the old, useless air
from his lungs, and his chest ached with every inhalation, yet he
was never able to bring in enough air. He sat up in his bed; he
felt that if he lay down he might suffocate. The palais healers
bustled around him, looks of deep concern on their faces—if only
for fear of what might happen to them if he died under their
care—but Audric paid them little attention except when they tried
to get him to take a sip of a potion or to inhale some sour
grasssmoke. His arms were tracked with fresh scabs; the healers had
nearly bled him dry and another one of them was making a new cut,
but Audric didn’t even flinch. Seaton and Marlon, Audric’s
domestiques de chambre , rushed in and
out of the bedroom, fetching whatever the healers requested of
them.
All of Audric’s
attention went to his war for breath. His world had shrunk down to
the battle of each inhalation, of trying to suck enough air in his
lungs to stay conscious. The edges of his vision had darkened; he
could only see what was directly in front of him. He felt little
but the eternal pain in his chest.
He focused on the
portrait of Kraljica Marguerite set over the fireplace mantel at
the foot of his bed. His great-matarh stared back at him, her
painted face utterly realistic, as if the gilded frame were a
window behind which the Kraljica was sitting. He swore he saw her
move slightly against the backdrop of the Sun Throne, that the
painted Sun Throne itself flickered with the light of the Ilmodo as
the real one did whenever he sat on it.
Archigos Ana had
never given more than a sour glance at the portrait, which always
seemed to snare the gaze of other visitors to Audric’s bedroom.
Once, Audric had asked the Archigos why she paid the masterpiece so
little attention. She had only shaken her head. “There’s far too
much of your great-matarh in that painting,” she said. “It hurts me
to see her trapped there.” She frowned then. “But your vatarh loved
the picture, for his own reasons.”
Marguerite regarded
Audric now with her appraising, piercing stare. He waited for the
attack to pass. It would pass; it always had in the past. It
must pass. He prayed to Cénzi for that,
his mouth moving silently: that the invisible giant sitting astride
his chest and crushing his lungs would slowly rise and lumber off,
and he’d be able to breathe easier again.
It would happen. It
must happen.
His great-matarh
seemed to nod at that, as if she agreed.
Staring at the
painting, Audric heard more than saw Regent ca’Rudka push into the
room, scattering the healers as he leaned over the bed, waving away
the sourgrass smoke drifting from the censers. “Get those out of
here,” he snarled. “Archigos Ana said the smoke makes the
Kraljiki’s breathing worse, not better. And take yourselves out of
here as well.” The healers scattered with mutterings, bloody
fingers, and the clinking of vials, leaving the Regent alone with
Audric. No, not alone . . . There was someone else with him.
Reluctantly, Audric took his gaze from the painting and squinted
into the darkness.
The effort made him
groan.
“Archigos . . . Kenne
. . .” Each word came out in its own separate breath accompanied by
a rattling wheeze; he could do no better than that.
“Kraljiki,” the
Archigos said. “Please don’t move. I’ve come to pray with you.”
Audric saw Archigos Kenne glance concernedly at the Regent.
“Archigos Ana had a . . . special relationship with Cénzi that I’m
afraid few téni can match, but I will do what I can. Lie back as
comfortably as you can. Close your eyes and think of nothing but
your breathing. Focus only on that. . . .”
His breath was
racing, gasping. He could feel his heart lurching against the
confines of his ribs. He could take only the smallest sip of
precious air. Audric closed his eyes as the Archigos began to pray.
Archigos Ana, when she came to him, would pray also, and she would
gently place her hands on his chest. It was as if he could feel her
inside him. He could hear her voice in
his head and feel the power of the Ilmodo burning in his chest,
searing away the blockages and allowing him to breathe fully again.
She wrapped him in that interior heat, her voice chanting and yet
at the same time speaking in his head. “You’ll
be fine, Audric. Cénzi is with you now, and He will make you better
again. Just breathe slowly: nice long breaths. Yes, that’s it . .
.” Within a few minutes, he would be breathing naturally and
easily once again, an ease that at first lasted months, but more
recently only a few weeks.
Now, with Kenne,
Audric heard the man’s half-whispered prayers only with his ears.
There was nothing inside at all. There was no warmth spreading
throughout his chest. These were only the prayers of an old man,
outside him and spoken in a quavering voice. There was no sense of
the Ilmodo, no tingling of Cénzi’s power—or perhaps there was, but
it was so faint that Audric could barely feel it. Maybe there
was warmth, perhaps the painful bellows
of his lungs were moving slightly easier. Audric tried to take a
deeper breath, but the effort sent him into spasmodic, dry coughing
that made him hunch over on the bed. His eyes opened, and
Marguerite frowned in her painting. He saw that fine droplets of
blood had sprayed the blanket.
“You must fight this, Audric. If you die, our line dies,
and with it our dream of Nessantico and the Holdings. . . .”
He saw Marguerite’s painted lips move, heard the voice that he had
always imagined she would have. “You must
fight this. I will help you. . . .”
Sergei had moved
quickly to his side; he felt the Regent’s strong hand on his back,
heard him call sharply to Marlon. A cloth dipped in cool water was
passed to him. Audric took it gratefully, touching the fabric to
his lips. He could taste the sweetness of the water. And yes, he
could breathe somewhat better. “Thank you, Regent,” he said. “I’m
much . . . better now . . . Archigos.” His own voice sounded
distant and dull, as if someone were half-covering his ears. It was
Marguerite’s voice that was clearest.
“Listen to me, Audric. I will help you. Listen to your
great-matarh. . . .”
Archigos Kenne nodded
but Audric could see the doubt in the man’s eyes. “I’m sorry,
Kraljiki. Archigos Ana . . . I know she could do much more for
you.”
Audric reached out to
touch the man’s hand. Kenne’s skin was cool against his own, and
dry as old paper. “I will be fine,” he told the man. “I think . . .
I have found the way.”
The portrait of
Marguerite smiled her lopsided smile at him, and he smiled
back.
“There is too much for you to do to die. . .
.”
“There is too much
for me to do to die,” he said to her, to them. It was both promise
and threat.