Forenote: I. DID. IT. I planned out every chapter for this story up to the Epilogue! Which is after Chapter 32, to let you know the length of the story. Really, some single chapters should be about two chapters instead, but I like full chapters with plenty of events – not to mention lengthy ones too. (This is a tad short though – my apologies. It is merely a bridging chapter.)
This Chapter could be called nifty and a good foundation (or boring – but that's harsh, don't you think?), but this will be the most uneventful Chapter you receive from me, no matter how invigorating you find it. After this, I will be pelting you with surprises like an open blender. (One surprise should be obvious from simply reading this chapter actually, haha, shocking thought it is.)
Responses:
HIP HOP DIVA - You cannot begin to imagine my gratitude when I get approving reviews - sometimes I cannot even reply in my normal, mild-humored way. All I can do is say 'Thank you', and I feel as though that isn't enough. As I can't buy any of you gifts, THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU. And that goes for everyone. THANK YOU.
404 - A publisher::stares: Well, I have about three real novel ideas (two of which I am only planning out and brainstorming, another which is simply an idea that sounds interesting), so I don't plan on sending 'A Gypsy's Tale' anywhere out of the Internet anytime soon. :grins:
Nosilla - Oh, no, it is certainly no Cinderella story. However, I will have a very slight connection with Cinderella towards the very end of the story, in the ultimately LAST chapter. Very slight... but it makes for an appealing ending, lol.
Tami - Going from astounding to very, very good... is that good or bad? Lol, I am sorry, but I can be a bit slow on the uptake sometimes. And thank you - I can judge my work too harshly sometimes that I go into a trance of depression, barely even opening a Gypsy file, lol. I am glad that to the outsider's view, it is 'very good.' :grins:
Baby Vixen - Why, thank you very much. :appreciative smile:
cokefizz-and-chocolate - :laughing: Was it really that wonderful? Oh, I feel so special... hopefully, this Chapter doesn't disappoint.
Phillippa of the Phoenix - Haha, I feel pretty ... I cannot even think of a decent word for 'stupid' right now. Huh. Well, before you squeeze the life out of our dear Prince, I will warn you that Eszti has an excellent right hook.
TrudiRose - Transitional chapters are good, and this one is transitional as well - but after that, the story will progress with such speed you'll forget that I have included bridging chapters to uphold a sort of balance. I was very tempted to make Corinne related to Vedora, or some other ridiculous thing like that, but I am not so desperately cliched. Sometimes. So now just call it pure coincidence that Corinne shares Vedora's looks, although it isn't completely useless - it was Corinne's appearance that sparked Artor's little interest, after all.
SmileyFacePerson - Ooh, I do think it has been past two weeks. :smiles sheepishly: But considering I wrote Chapter 17 twice... I suppose that'd explain it. And yes, I do remember a threat or two. :-P
pearlwalrus - Clement has been - as it is explained at the beginning of Chapter... 15, I believe - poisoned by an unknown castle occupant. Of course, as is my style, you will not discover who until much, much later. It is a slow-working poison, and I think I made a very foolish typo in Chapter 15 or 16 - I cannot remember what exactly, but it is there. There are many poisons that take a wide span of time to take effect, and this is one of them.
NOTE: For any reviewers that I could not put a message up for, I am terribly sorry - but I am sleepy, and for now I am only responding to those who reviewed after the posting of Chapter 16, along with pearlwalrus who needed clarification on Clement's illness. So if you want a very long, very personalized 'thank you' for the review, just email me and I'll be happy to oblige, lol. :wonders if anyone would actually try it:
o...o...o...o...o
Chapter Seventeen: Less than Expeditious
o...o...o...o...o
Afternoon soon came, slow and wearing, and we were riding again. Riding the night before and riding again on the same mounts might've killed them, but we were not so unlucky as that. Desperate to put some substantial distance between our pack and the one hunting us, we rode the afternoon without rest, taciturn. We were fraught, drained, bleak, and poor – none of us could speak for fear of dissolving into endless raves.
There were times when we would ask Artor for a report on our location – and we never got satisfactory replies. He was purposely skirting the subject, and sometimes he would blatantly refuse to tell us. Despite raised voices and some questions that bordered on pleading, he would ignore our probing and protests and would trot off ahead of us which such heat that we would think for a fleeting moment that he was about to abandon us.
Where there could've been there talk was only a wavering silence, filled with yawns and sighs and the sounds of sad breathing.
Many hours into our riding, Corinne whispered sadly, "I wish he would give us an estimate in days, at least. I do think he has a guess himself."
I gave a sour grunt, but Lady Asca contributed hopefully, "Thinking back, I do recall him saying 'a few days', I think. I cannot be too sure, though."
That made me glance at her. A few days? I doubted it with serious conviction. We did not strike a shortage of food and rations just yet, but no doubt we would eventually. How long could we last, exactly, with merely horses and a few satchels of provisions?
"I think it would be wise to speed our pace," I said suddenly, reminding myself of our pursuing bandits. It was as though Lady Asca and Corinne could read my mind, and without a question they snapped their reins and gently kicked their heels in, letting their horses go from a brisk jog to a mild gallop. I followed suit – but with a much faster pace – and I was able to catch up with Artor in a few heartbeats.
He glanced at me sideways and managed a tight smile. "I remember this road," he mused, squinting into the horizon, friendly smoke-colored eyes following the trail. A very long trail, I thought sadly to myself. Almost hopeless. "It is one that branches out of the traveler's road, which I believe we had abandoned not long before, but it merges back into it in a day and a half with no interruption. We are not far from the forest. If you and the rest of the women would like it – "
Specifically Corinne, you mean, I thought suddenly.
"- we could rest there for the night. In an hour we will see many groves of trees to welcome us in, and some will be deep enough to hide us."
Not a bad suggestion. I gave a shrug. "So we are not steeped in absolute hopelessness, I presume?"
He gave a dry laugh. "Oh, no. Not yet, if the heavens hear us. But… we will have to be careful."
"That much is obvious. Well, a day of rest would be good for us, and I am positive no one will raise objections. Yes, it would be very good." And with a curt nod, I fell back to ride alongside Lady Asca and Corinne and to tell them what to expect.
o…o…o…o…o
Artor, it pleased us to know, had been quite right. According to a nifty Kionean timepiece Artor had remembered to pack, around an hour had passed before we began to approach a number of tree groves that increased by the second. Some were shallow and lit attractively by sunbeams, but they would not hide us well enough. Not far from the road, Artor chose for us a dense, shady grove that had a very limited intake of sunlight – it would hide us well, he said, even if it was not the most comforting of settings. It was late afternoon – coming onto sunset – when we readied our second camp.
The fact alone that it was autumn guaranteed a swift and stealthy sunset. Under a graying orange sky, Lady Asca and I were kneeling by a campfire – which Artor had successfully lit for us. While Artor tended to the horses, Lady Asca was choosing carefully from our strict selection of rations and I was setting a pot upon an iron platform placed above our fire – another interesting invention that Artor had thought to bring.
"Water, I think," I said, watching Lady Asca scatter a few vegetable leaves into the pot. "Hot soup would be nice for tonight; I am not much of a cook, but soup is no problem. Would you, Corinne?"
Corinne gave a quick nod and hurried off to fetch some from the water jugs, kept with the rest of the gear near the trees our horses were tethered to. Lady Asca watched her go with a most unreadable expression in her grave face.
"You say she had been tired earlier, Lady Rozenta? I do believe that she still is."
A twinge of guilt elbowed me sharply. I was not a true noblewoman. "Oh, none of that 'lady' nonsense, Lady Asca. For me, at least. It is an uncomfortable title for me. Anyway, she does not look well, does she?"
"Do you think perhaps we should slip in a little more soup into her bowl later on?" Now her tone was unmistakably worried, and apparently trying to hide the emotion behind an uncertain attempt at humor.
I paused. "Yes, I think we should. But we mustn't tell her, though. She would not respond well to sympathy."
The baroness's lips quirked up a little. "Pity, you mean."
"That is a crass way to put it."
A second later, we heard the loud, earsplitting sound of clashing pots and clanging pans. We remembered the last time it occurred, and without a moment's hesitation she and I shot up and sprinted in the direction of the dun.
Standing behind a great oak, in the middle of a great sea of cooking ware, were Artor and Corinne. Corinne was on the floor, ignoring Artor's insistent offer of assistance and shoving his hand away, and then she managed to get up on swaying legs. She certainly looked sick now – wan and peaky – and worry shot through me, so strong it could be mistaken for panic. He gripped her arm with a little more force this time, trying to coerce her to look at him and accept his … apology, was it? A pinched look of frustration crossed her face and with unexpected vehemence she snatched her arm from his grasp.
"Artor, I am strong enough to take care of myself – I do not need your useless gallantry – " But she broke off at the sight of Lady Asca and I. Her pale, oval face flushed and with dignity she stepped back from him and bent down to collect the scattered pots and pans.
With a look of immense ire and frustration, Artor narrowed his eyes and stalked away, muttering.
A sigh of relief heaved itself out of Lady Asca as she relaxed, but I remained stiff. I stood stock-still, eyes as wide as dinner plates, as I watched Artor leave, and I rounded on Corinne with a look of intense puzzlement. She ignored it all and put the cooking ware away one by one.
I could hear a note of concern in Lady Asca's very expressive voice: "Corinne…"
"Baroness, Miss Rozenta, it is all right, nothing that needs worry. I simply fumbled with the pots and pans – my hands can are too nimble, you know – and they can be quite heavy, do you not think so? So I assure you, you are free to go tend to the vegetables. Scorched vegetables are, as I heard, very unpleasant."
There was a very loud silence, a silence that Lady Asca was all to happy to break by exclaiming firmly, "You are ill, girl. And don't you dare deny it."
I would have sworn on all the heavens that Corinne would; she was obedient, but she carried around a sort of pride when regarding herself very self-sufficient. She made independence her second nature and stubbornness her third, especially when her independence was doubted. She had clenched her jaw, widened her eyes, and then wrenched her jaw open, but nothing came out. Eyes popping, she stared at us like a fish for some seconds, and then began coughing in a most violent manner.
Not half a second later, Lady Asca and I were hauling her over to the blazing fire, sternly pressing down her shoulders and forcing her to sit, and placing a heavy blanket over her shoulders with a stare that clearly stated she would be better off leaving it on. And then I found a flask of the old inntaker's premade soothing concoction with honey, thyme, and chamomile, and obstinately I thrust it into her grip.
With a smoldering glance at the two of us, she relented and sipped the drink voraciously. We watched Artor tentatively come over and sit beside her, struggling with small talk.
Now splashing some a prudent share of water into the pot, Lady Asca and I were idly sitting by the fire again. My brow was creased with a new worry.
"You do not think he could possibly harbor any feelings for her now, do you? It is much too early," I said frantically, remembering the very discomfiting way he stared. Lady Asca gave me a thoughtful glance as she swiveled the pot with care.
"It is," she agreed, placing the pot pensively upon the platform. "Only a day. But that sort of attraction does happen occasionally; it is not a completely alien concept," she added, grinning over at me, two dimples showing. I could have scoffed.
"So you approve entirely?"
There she tensed; the hand gripping the pot handle froze, and the fine features of her face looked carved, stony. "Why would I not?" There was an undertone of skepticism in her words.
But I was not too quick on the uptake today. "Well, that is obvious, am I right? Eleven years of an age difference – that worries me…"
"And why would it? Lord Ozril and I were eight years apart, and that did nothing to our relationship. Why, I was quite lucky to have a man so wise and experienced as he. I was foolish and vigorous enough for the both of us." Her voice was chilly now, and I longed to take back my ill-considered words.
She continued to rant, suddenly with a passionate flair, eyes shining and the month-old sorrow aching again. "And our romance had absolutely nothing wrong with it. Nothing. You may think relationships with high age differences peculiar, but that is a malicious assumption – not your fault, but society's. All anyone can correctly conclude from high age differences is the near-fact that love has no boundaries. You know that. Love will not take two twenty-year-olds and possess them, if they are not a predestined match. No, I do not have anything against Artor and Corinne's attraction unless one wishes the other harm. No. They are good for one another."
I was rendered into silence, watching her pick the pot up to swill it again, most likely to expel her aggravation. Eleven years older! But she was right, and without a second turn of thoughts I knew it. Love knew no restraints; after all, I could barely be called the perfect match for Clement, status-wise. A Gypsy and peasant, and he the future King of one of the most powerful nations among the other kingdoms! But he loved me, and I him, and no unjustified society chain was going to change that.
Artor was a good man; and Corinne was a good girl, and together they would be an interesting pair. Their issues were very obvious. Most likely, Artor had noticed Corinne's ill state and pestered her about it until her rather slow and timid temper flared out – which, of course, brought about disagreements. But they were easy around one another, overall, and as young and insecure as she was now, Corinne would do well to have man as confident as Artor by her side. My worry was clearing slowly, slowly – I could accept their union. Yes – I could welcome it, invite it even. It would not be hard to.
I snatched a furtive glance at Corinne and Artor – and I smiled, just a little. The two were laughing now, Corinne's tawny curls bouncing and Artor's eyes shining with mischief. Despite all the bandits and discomforts and wonders if we would make it alive to Arvette, it was good to know that we could still find happiness – if in the smallest, most simple form.
I looked away, feeling envy biting the back of my neck like a gnat. How I longed to have Clement here; all this talk of romance was bringing my mind to wonder on him, and I found myself wanting to wonder. I still had not given up hope that I would find a troop sent by him wandering around, searching for me. Would I see him again, or would the last he would hear of me be through a letter, explaining my untimely demise? Oh, I could not afford to think so morbidly; but it was plausible. I wanted to cry, now. Perhaps I could pretend to feel him sit beside me, pretend he was placing his strong hands upon my shoulders in comfort, pretend he was smiling his arrogant smile at him in the way that I loved. Pretend. How I hated that word.
Lady Asca gave a small sigh across from me, and I started out of my reverie. From what I could tell, she was having similar thoughts – but for reasons I could not tell, she had her hand clutched around her stomach again. It was a desperate hold, like one meant to protect. I was perplexed, but dumbfounded I cast the thought away.
We had dinner before evening could become too deep; it was dark enough already, a sure sign of a foreboding autumn. The sky still appeared to be waiting for the moon, which did not exert its full illumination just yet. All four us sat in morose silence by the firelight, sipping our soups and staring at various parts of the wood. It had just gotten darker, and I felt fear plant itself in every nerve of my body.
The tense, awkward silence was broken when Artor asked carefully, "Corinne, if you insist you have no disease, what ails you then? And do not bother to lie."
Again came her irritated look. But she took it back and stared into her bowl. Her voice trembled. "I will not lie, Artor – I am not really ill. I suffer no ailment. I am only weak – very weak – and easily exhausted. Now that is not so distressing, is it?"
But my interest was piqued. "Weak? And why would that be?"
For a moment I thought she would not bother to answer; it certainly seemed so. She was usually meek – under normal circumstances, that is – but this looked like a subject she did not feel comfortable around.
"I truly see no sense in having to tell all of you a story such as this," she said softly, in a quietly petulant way. "But some years back I suffered a severe fever, back in my old situation. For some odd reason, it was very difficult to treat and generously my previous masters hired a healer for me. After a time and with some interesting potions I was ready for work again, but they said I would lose some general strength as a result from the fever – which they thought was rather rare. And so too much traveling wears me out quickly, and that is all there is to it. Nothing more."
But it was not as simple as she hoped to make it appear. Right as she was watching, I slipped her some of my soup and grinned widely at her astonished expression.
"This is a more serious matter than you think, Corinne," Lady Asca said reproachfully, her chastising tone apparent no matter how gently or softly she spoke. "When the physician said you would be weaker, he had probably been referring to your immunity system as well – you could catch diseases more rapidly and fight them with less strength. That is hardly an issue to wave aside." Now she was looking up, trying to glimpse tidbits of the sky between tangled treetops. "You shall need all the rest you can achieve tonight. We have spent a good part of the day resting and lollygagging, which means a hard day for us tomorrow. We cannot risk you swooning off your horse, no matter how comical the image."
Artor snickered and hastily hid it behind an indiscreet cough after cutting glances from the Lady and myself. Ignoring him, Corinne put on a pouting face that I supposed was meant to soften our resolves. And had failed quite spectacularly.
"All of you are being such fools -"
"The only fool, Corinne, will be you if you do not do as we say. And we have decided you will be the one to use the tent, girl." Now Lady Asca's voice had managed to become steel, and I stared at her admiringly. Corinne did not bother to object, but stood up, swayed slightly, and treaded indignantly into the tent. All day long, we had been debating who would sleep in the animal hide shelter tonight, but apparently Lady Asca had decided who would need it most already.
Unable to mask my mild amusement, I said merrily to Artor, "Her defiance is absolutely natural", to which he grunted and began to set up our blankets and stuffed feather pillows – with some special herbs to drive away resentment, worry, and fear. That would bring a restful, generous sleep, especially for such weary travelers. I picked up our bowls, regretfully dipped the leftovers into the grass, and packed them away while Lady Asca collected the cooking ware. We did not have water enough to clean them tonight, but we would at the next sight of a spring.
With Corinne in her tent and unable to hear enough to protest, we began to deliberate tonight's guard by the fire.
"I should do it," Artor had insisted, but in a more severe voice I cut in, "Oh no, I am afraid not. You too are in need of a heavy rest, Artor, and if you deny it I swear I will make your good night's rest something to dread. So I will keep watch for tonight, at the very least. Please, do not argue. No one here has energy enough for it."
And heeding my words with a solemn nod, he pulled off his traveler's jacket, stripped off his linen shirt to reveal a very well structured abdomen, and settled into his blankets – with only four seconds with his head upon his pillow and both eyes closed, he had begun to snore, a terrible sound like ripping cloth.
Wincing, Lady Asca and I grinned and only took off only our outer skirts, choosing to sleep/guard in our thin white dresses underneath. The baroness slipped soundlessly into her pack while I scrambled noisily for a blanket, situating myself comfortably by the fire.
Only, it was not comfortable. Far from it, quite truthfully. Once evening began to intensify, the winds seemed to carry with it ice and the very frightening prospects of things that could be rustling those bushes in the night. Not too deep in the woods we were, thank the heavens, but far enough in to keep hidden. I stared into the ambitious flames that struggled to swallow one another, drew my blankets tighter around me, and clutched my herb-scented pillow to my chest.
Inhaling deeply, my heart's frantic beating slowed a little and the distraction of the ruby flames scrubbed fear away. Hours came by and the night only deepened, and I was too frozen to look up and search for stars. Exhaustion had no trouble claiming me and as a result I wanted only to sleep. Humming softly to myself, I buried my chin in my pillow and summoned up some determination.
And then, unwittingly and unwisely, in the most absurd hours of the night, I fell into a heavy doze, falling to the side with my blankets tangled around me and my pillow still taut against my torso.
o…o…o…o…o
Some hours after I had given in to the temptations of rest, I woke suddenly and upon peering at the red, glowing embers, realized I had been a fool to sleep. Anything could have happened while I slept – anything! The ever-constant wariness of the bandits was enough to shoo away the last remnants of my desire to drop off again, and stumbling clumsily to my feet, I draped my blanket around me and examined my fellow travelers.
Lady Asca was clearly sound asleep, though her beautiful face was clouded slightly with a frown. For the umpteenth time today, I saw one of her hands gracefully spread over her belly, as though what she held in there was something more precious to her than life itself. She had secrets, and she knew that I knew that. I wondered if we would ever grow close enough for her to tell me.
Artor, however, was a comical sight. To my utmost glee, he slept on his stomach, so he looked amusingly odd with his chin on the pillow, one hand shielding his face and another flung carelessly some distance from his head. Biting back a chuckle, I took his straying hand by the wrist and dropped it over the exposed back of his neck, making him stir a little. He, apparently, had slept undisturbed. My worry subsided greatly, and it was only partially heartfelt when I crept as carefully as I could (which was not so careful, I regret to say) into Corinne's tent.
And the sight that met me struck me, sending my nerves screaming throughout my entire body. Corinne's own pile of blankets were tossed aside in one giant tangle and her pillow looked untouched. Only by the distant light of the weakening fire could I tell that she could not be a lump hidden by the sheets. She was not here. Breathing hard, I hurried out of the tent and stared dismally into the infinite abyss that was night.
Fear to a terrible degree – comparable to how I felt when she had a knife against her throat – filled me as I looked around like a startled hound dog, hoping to see her materialize out of the intimidating darkness, nonsensical though that was. Cold sweat drenched me as I took a thin bundle of sticks, let the flames lick and light one end of it, and stepped into the menacing darkness with only that simple torch.
o…o…o…o…o
It was around midnight when Samuel was prodded awake by a fellow acolyte, one younger than him and named Fistynn. Groggy and never a sunny person when waking, Samuel backhanded the unfortunate freckle-faced companion before tuning in to hear what Fistynn was frantically whispering. "Sam… Sam… Sa- augh! You …! Gah, Sa-AM! Are you up yet? SAM! Sam, something is wrong with the prince! Wake, man!"
At the mention of the prince, Samuel's eyelids had popped open with mechanical reflexes and as Fistynn pulled him up, Samuel struggled to bite away the sleepiness. Slowly, he digested Fistynn's words, and his blinking eyes widened in horror.
Oh, by the heavens, the Prince!
Fistynn helped drag a handy white shirt over Samuel's head and together the two headed into the magician's camp, only some feet from the sorcerers and sorceresses' tents. They did not need the light of the amateur's fire that Fistynn and Samuel could conjure, for magicians were coming out of their own tents with light – orbs of magically artificial sunlight floating carefully over spread palms. Some magicians were shouting and some were flinging dignified questions into the wintry air; some were quietly astounded and hurrying on quiet feet to the prince's tent.
Confused and startled, the magicians were being ushered out of bed by their apprentices and acolytes and they had come running when the prince was proclaimed "wrong." Expecting the worst, Samuel and Fistynn rushed to the Prince's tent and stopped dead when they saw it.
Some sorcerers and sorceresses were arguing rapidly with one another, debating his condition, while a few stood by themselves in heavy thought and profound unease. Overall, it was not a pleasant sight. It was only natural that the magicians would carry with them a sort of self-assurance and calm, for their education of magic in Maennsia (a city in Kione) was too thorough and their talent with the arcane arts too supreme. To see sorcerers and sorceresses flustered and panicked was truly a sight of desperation.
Samuel and Fistynn exchanged looks of disbelief and rushed into the tent, unnoticed by their instructors. Inside were three magicians – two sorcerers and one sorceress – and all looking particularly grim. Samuel could recognize one of them: the sorcerer he had searched with for lark's fern, which they ended up not finding anyway. He and the other sorcerer were boring their gazes into the sleeping Prince, both lips moving to mouth the same incantations, but neither making a sound. The sorceress – a dark and buxom woman who wore long and ornate golden necklaces over her white healer's robe – frowned at the sight of the two acolytes and approached them imperiously.
"Acolyte students," she hissed quietly, her black cat eyes wandering over to the Prince. Acolytes of magic were actually students from the academy of sorcery in Maennsia, students that had to spend two months out of school every year to assist and learn from experienced and professional magicians. "You do not have the permission to be in here while the sorcerers concentrate. Who gave you leave to enter?"
"No one. None of the magicians stopped us from entering, Sorceress," Fistynn replied promptly, as reckless as always. She frowned at that, but squinted her eyes at the two thoughtfully.
"Well, if you must remain here, you could be of assistance. The sorcerers are attempting a unison healing, but starting only with two. If we cannot progress with two, we will request the cooperation of another competent magician. As you are not what we require, you may try to assure the others outside that we have the situation under control." A slight tightening of her brow proved the lie in her words. They did not have any control whatsoever on whatever chaos was currently taking place, Samuel knew; a unison healing was difficult and stressful for the magicians performing it, and it was often a last resort.
"Sorceress, what is going on?" Samuel demanded none too gently.
"We are not too sure yet. But a maid who was to bring the Prince's nightly hot water came running out, crying that the Prince would not wake. And he will not. He lives, but in unconsciousness – or maybe even sleep. We will simply do what we can for him, but it would be easier if we had our entire stock of supplies. On the road, we have nothing." Of course, Samuel thought. She disapproves of him coming with the troops and having to be healed during the journey. The inconvenience of it all irks her.
And when Samuel looked into his Sire's royal face, grave and still and seemingly carved from wax, his heart plummeted.
A slow-working poison, they said. One that would take over a week to reach its maximum effect. The magicians said that the sluggishness of the poison would give them plenty of time to heal him, but when Samuel inquired about the 'maximum effect' of the poison, none would give him satisfactory answers. Death, he knew. And right now, unconscious as his Prince was, he was bordering that 'maximum effect.'
Fistynn looked as downcast and cold as Samuel felt inside. His face hard and stony, Fistynn turned to the sorceress and asked, "Surely we can do more than comfort. We are training to be like you too, so we cannot be completely useless. Can we at least make concoctions that may revive him, or at least draw him a little towards consciousness? Would you at least let us try?"
For a moment, shock and disbelief had unraveled on the magician's face, breaking through her icy calm. But she filtered it out almost instantly, and with a blank face and only a wry twist to her mouth, she answered in a flat tone. "Much appreciated though your suggestion is, my good acolyte, we ask no more than what I have requested. No more. You may make the concoctions you think the Prince will need, but I will not – absolutely will not – let you feed them to the Prince. The fact remains that you two are acolytes – not graduates, not masters, not professionals – and we cannot risk him only sickened more. Do as we request, acolytes, and you will have made us proud enough."
Under the impression that Samuel and Fistynn were suggesting everything just for a bit of acknowledgement from the magicians, she gave them quick pats on the heads and waved them towards the tent flap, indicating with a sharp face that they should go away. Samuel turned swiftly, planning to leave and make the potions anyway, but Fistynn stood and scowled as the sorceress turned, his fists clenched.
Samuel looked to his friend's face, which had darkened to resemble a firmament bursting with thunderclouds. "Fistynn, you cannot think to try any magic on her. You will regret it."
"I hate being an acolyte, Samuel."
A long sigh escaped Samuel before he could stop it. "I know, Fistynn. I do too. But that should not be our biggest worry. We have the Prince to worry about. I do not care what she says; I will make the concoction anyway."
Now Fistynn tore his gaze from the dark sorceress, who was frantically analyzing Prince Clement for signs of life. "What? That would be a waste of time. You heard her, Samuel. She will not give it to him; he will not get it. Unless you have a plan?"
Samuel shrugged, exiting the tent with Fistynn following close behind. "You will find this funny, but I have none. I will make the concoction, hope it is good enough for my Prince, and do my best to convince the magicians to try it. It will not work, but trying would cause no harm."
"Yes, it will," Fistynn said softly, his voice bitter. Samuel understood him all too well, but did not acknowledge it.
"Fistynn, I have served Prince Clement directly before and I was impressed. He is a good man with a good heart, and a good devotion to that foreign noblewoman. He trusted me, and I do not want to do less when I can do more. Prince Clement deserves all the effort I can give. So I will make the concoction. What say you, Fistynn?"
But Fistynn was silent and thoughtful, pondering. Was the Prince truly worth all that Samuel said he was? Fistynn guessed he would be a great man, but did not know him well enough to judge. He heard stories, but of course Fistynn was no longer young enough and foolish enough to take them too lightly to heart. But he could trust Samuel's word; Samuel was his friend, and Fistynn knew Samuel had a good sense of ascertaining character. And although Fistynn harbored a deep hatred for working hard and getting nothing but rejection out of it, perhaps his Prince and future King would be worth the sacrifice. Perhaps Fistynn would not need to be bribed by any promise of glory after all.
So Samuel and Fistynn set off into the night, using their amateur sorcerer's fire. They would think differently to save the Prince, now. If they were as arrogant as this generation's batch of magicians, they would still be unreasonably foraging around for lark's fern. But there was a way around that. It required a lot of time, and energy, and a strong and experienced magician, but perhaps enough effort would do the trick.
o…o…o…o…o
Afterthoughts: In my personal opinion, I think this Chapter was fairly well written – although, regretfully enough this is the second time I had written it. I had written it once before, had been utterly repulsed and dissatisfied, and wrote it over once I finished battling the demons that inflicted my most recent bouts of Writer's Block. Of course, not too much happens, but you see things begin to unfold and after this I will be slapping everyone silly with surprises bound to resolve every subplot in the story. And there are many (with a few more to come). So await them, and do so without the use of newly sharpened axes. I appreciate the effort.
