8. Bluff

The healer was lying. He had to be. No one had that kind of magic- it was the stuff out of children's fairy stories and ancient legends. Like raising the dead or turning someone into a tree, it was clearly impossible.

It was bad enough that he had been overpowered by that uppity wench of a knight, but gods was she strong. Probably the green-eyed mage had witched her too, to help the conservatives prove a point. Or the Lionness, everyone said she had magic enough to control the minds of everyone in Corus, she had clearly been able to trick the king into appointing her his Champion.

And just like a lady too, messing with things that didn't concern her, interfering with his handling of his own servants. That was the kind of nonsense that started when men allowed women to fight with them; it wouldn't be long before the whole army went soft, and the Scanrans sent them running back with their tails between their legs.

So long as business was booming, it was no skin off his teeth whose hand held the crown, and he was willing to bet that the Scanrans appreciated a good drink just as much as those from Tortall did. He had heard the queen was beautiful and the king just and fair, but they had never done anything to help him and he felt no obligation to their rule.

They were another pair of entitled nobles like that Queenscove fool, thinking they could go around and do whatever they wished without consequence anyways. Man was probably lying anyways- he remembered reports of the Immortals War listing all the knighted sons of Duke Baird among the dead, it had been considered one of the many heavy tragedies of that battle.

Now this meddlesome imposter had cast some sort of spell on him. Or at least that is what he wanted Alvik to believe.

But the spell hadn't hurt at all, and he wasn't as stupid as the nobles seemed to think. It was just a piece of trickery designed to scare him with dire warnings and flashing lights, a mere parlor trick. It might have worked on some, but Alvik knew more about the ways of the world than most.

He supposed in the end it had been a rather good day. No one had been on hand to witness his defeat by the Lady Knight, and he had gotten rid of that lousy ungrateful lout of a servant who spent all day with his head full of horses and never got any work done. That was one less beating for him to give out.

He couldn't help but grin; the boy and the lady truly deserved one another. Whether she ended up keeping him to let him leech of her as he had everyone in town, or whether the boy found himself deserted on some lonely Northern road, he was quite sure that neither would bother him again. It was a good feeling.

Between the incidents with the Mindelan girl and the healer, quite a bit of time had passed since he had first left the inn. Certainly it had been enough time for his wife to catch the eye of a flirtatious Ownsman, and she certainly didn't seem to mind the attention.

He caught her arm as she walked behind the bar, gripping it hard enough to bruise as he pulled her into a dark corner to teach her a lesson in being faithful. He didn't feel the bruises appear on his arm in his anger, but he felt the tearing pain that brought tears to his eyes just as his fist fell.

Furious, he rained down blows despite the pain, his wife taking it without complaint as she always did, knowing that it would last longer if she cried out. At the first available opening she fled to the relative safety of the open room; he was not fool enough to pick a fight in front of a room full of knights.

Alvrik sunk down to his knees, resting his head against the cool stone of the wall. As he lay there motionless, covered in bruises of his own making, he thought he was going to die. It was like he had devils within him, punishing his every sin.

Nearly an hour passed before he found the strength to struggle to his feet. Limping off to his bed, he passed a giant of a man with curly black hair who called out from the midst of his circle of companions, "Nasty bruises those sir. Might want to get them checked out by a healer."

Alvik at least had the shame to duck his head as the group of soldiers passed. He would curse that Queenscove healer to the end of his days, but he would never lay his hands on another again. He was simply too afraid.