I've edited what needed editing in the previous chapters, and I found myself steering a little away from Canon, but I'll try not to from now on.
I don't own the characters. I own the depressing story I put them in.
Chapter eight: News from the capital
By dusk, they had managed to stumble out of the forest and into a large village. The group, the miners weary and sore and Ralon impatient as they could not keep up with his horse, surveyed the village before finding an inn.
"These people all look so fearful," Ralon heard one boy whisper. He had to agree. Everyone they saw started frightfully towards the party with wide eyes, some they passed were praying.
When they finally reached an inn, Ralon dismounted, looking at the dark, mournful-looking structure with distaste - it was simply not of his standard. They tried to enter the inn, but were stopped by two burly young men standing outside the door.
"Wait here," one of them said, as the other went inside.
After a few moments a weary looking elderly man emerged from inside the inn. There were dark lines around his eyes, which surveyed Ralon's group suspiciously.
"Looking for a lodging, are ye?" he asked, his voice tight.
Ralon glared at the man. "What does keeping us out like this mean? I demand lodging for my party, right now, or we'll go to another inn."
The innkeeper shook his head. "There ain't no other inns here," he peered at Ralon some more. "Where are you from?"
With some difficulty, Ralon managed to resist the urge to yell out that he, Ralon of Malven, son of a respected noble house, was hungry and tired and needed a hot bath. Instead, he quoted the name of the mining village.
"We came out of the forest," he added, somewhat coldly.
The innkeeper nodded. "Come in, then." And lead the way into the dark inn.
"Sorry 'bout the questionin' and waitin' and all that, but it's necessary," he explained, as he lead the group upstairs.
"We've received news from the capital an' there's a deadly fever brewin' in the city. We wanted to make sure nobody got it here." He opened the doors to three adjoining rooms and added, "folk call it the Sweatin' Sickness and half the Court's down with it, including the Queen and the Prince. T'would be terrible if the heir to the throne died."
"But..." the wolfhound faced boy, Gars, inquired, "wouldn't the disease spread to here? And the rest of the country?"
"That's what I'm worried 'bout, lad. They say the disease is caused by sorcery." Ralon noticed that the innkeeper's forehead had broken out in sweat while talking about the Sweating Sickness.
Ralon nodded his 'agreement' and smiled inwardly. If this disease was flooding through Corus, there was a good chance that Alan of Trebond would catch it. He deserves it, thought Ralon bitterly, without him, I would still be at the palace.
But a sorcerer-created fever is interesting, he mused as he took his bath. From what he knew, Alan of Trebond had magic, as did his twin brother. Could he have sent it? Ralon doubted he had the power, or the knowledge. And why would he let the fever infect the Queen and Jonathan?
Ralon shuddered. Whoever this sorcerer was, he had to be a powerful one. Maybe it was just as well he wasn't in Corus at the time. But if it had taken Alan of Trebond… Ralon grinned. It would be worth it to be present at Court then.
He finished his bath and dressed in a set of clean clothes. He trundled upstairs and ate a dinner beef, vegetables and soup. Feeling satisfied, he decided to sleep for a little while, before joining the growing crowd in the Common Room.
The place was a little on the dim side, thought Ralon, who always preferred bright lights, but it was alright - much better than his old cabin at the mining village anyway. There were people sitting at the bar that stretched across one wall, and tables and chairs filled up the rest of the room.
Ralon joined some of his friends at one small table and ordered a light wine. Dimly, at the back of his mind, he told himself that if this kept on, his money was going to run out. As he sipped his drink, he wondered what path to take next. He couldn't talk about his ponderings to anyone else, of course, as they were all supposed to be under the impression that 'Zen' was a good leader who always knew what he was going to do.
Which, thought Ralon, wouldn't be hard if they were in a stable society, with money, housing, things to do… No one could say he was a bad leader, he assured himself, if he made a mistake now - in a situation like his, he had done almost extraordinarily well.
A big, well-muscled man who smelt like a wet dishrag came over to sit with them. He put out a hand for Ralon to shake, which he did so reluctantly.
"It's interesting, to see new faces around here," the man remarked, taking in Ralon's face. He had a not quite so common speech, and spoke as if he had had an education of some sort. Ralon was tempted to ask him if all he did was sit around at the inn and look for 'new faces'.
"We got here a few hours ago," said Ralon, somewhat forcedly. He wasn't exactly in the mood for talking - he needed time to think.
The man nodded. "I'm from Corus," he said, waving a waiter over, "I ran when the Sweating Sickness broke out." He shuddered. "I never want to see anything like that again."
As the man ordered some ale, Ralon thought hard. Maybe this man could tell him something about what was happening in Corus. Maybe he was associated with Court. Maybe Ralon could find out something about the Sickness, his father, whether Alan of Trebond was dead yet…
"So tell me," Ralon asked amicably when the barmaid had left, "about this Sweating Sickness. What is it?"
After some thought, the large man said, "It's some form of fever. The person affected has what seems like a fever and a cough - except when healers try to tackle it, they are drained of their Gift."
"So… you think it's caused by sorcery?"
The man shrugged. "Who knows? It certainly looks like it, and since none of the mages in Corus seem to be using powerful magic like that, it's assumed it's someone outside the city. Outside the country, even."
"And the Prince is down with it…"
"That's what I've heard."
Ralon narrowed his eyes and said slowly, "What if this… sorcerer wanted Prince Jonathan dead?"
"Why would someone do that?" the man shook his head. "The imagination of the young."
At that moment, the door to the inn banged open, and the young, long-haired man with a sweat-covered face and traveler's clothes standing outside was greeted by shouts of "Dominic!"
"Dominic, what news?" asked one man as Dominic bent double, panting, trying to catch his breath. Someone handed him a tankard of ale, and he drank greedily.
Ralon saw that everyone in the room's attention was solely focused on Dominic, impatiently waiting so that he could tell them the news.
Dominic finally managed to stand straight again, composed, but still breathing hard. "It's over," he announced, throwing the room into a hushed silence.
"Th' Sweatin' Sickness's over," he continued, looking at the wide-eyed crowd in front of him with some sort of satisfaction, "th' disease is all gone, as if it never happened in th' first place. Th' Prince is better - he was cured by some eleven-year-old page called Alan of Tre-somethin'."
Whew! Exhilarating! Please review and tell me what you think… please…
By the way, does anyone know exactly where the Lake Region of Tortall is? Like is it near where Persopolis is, or Trebond, or Tirragen, or whatever? I really would like to know, because if I'm going to write more about Malven I'll need to know where it is geographically.
Cheers to another chapter!