Chapter 4 – A Growing Concern
"Ouch!" Eryana winched as she felt the needle pierce her finger yet again. Red blood stained once pristine fabric, now sweaty and wrinkled in her hands. "Damn!" She cursed quietly, sticking her stinging index finger in her mouth to halt the bleeding. One of the girls sitting beside her glanced up curiously, smirking as she caught sight of her ruined work.
The woman sitting across from her looked up at her sharply. "Mind your tongue, young lady! And take those dirty fingers out of your mouth." Lady Katherine reprimanded sternly. She was of the noble house of Deneder, married into house Torenwood, and certainly looked the part, even with the ever growing number of creases in the forehead and her greying hair.
Eryana scowled slightly yet obliged, if only to escape the condemningly cold stare of those blue eyes. Discreetly, she wiped the still flowing crimson on the hem of her skirt.
How on earth had she ended up in this mess?
It had all started at the harvest festival a couple a month or so ago, a festival even Uru'baen celebrated even though most of the city's livestock and produce came from the surrounding regions. There was the annual carnival and the streets were shimmering with colourful lanterns, the markets filled to the brim with edible goods both savoury and sweet.
And then there had been the music and dancing… and that one boy who had approached her with a bundle of gorgeous flowers, asking her for a dance. The exchange had left Eryana befuddled and stammering.
Honestly, Murtagh had gotten a rather good laugh out of it, although Eryana pretended not to notice the suspicious, if not slightly murderous, looks he kept shooting at the poor lad.
Apparently, Lady Katherine had taken this as a sign to further broaden her teachings in what she called the art of being a young lady of noble standing. Now instead of spending hours sewing dress seams and hemming skirts, something she had just recently gotten decent at, Eryana was stuck making butchered, often self-mutilating, attempts at embroidery. She had been horrified to hear that it was a favourite pass-time of many ladies of the court. Oh, why couldn't her brother wear the dress!
A sharp voice and a stinging rap on her knuckles interrupted her thoughts, bringing her crashing down into the present. "It seems someone is quite satisfied with their work, if they have time for dilly dallying and daydreaming." There was a not quite subtle round of giggles.
Apparently her inattention had not gone unnoticed.
"Well, let us see." Lady Katherine's crisp voice demanded, offering a wrinkly insisting hand. Eryana flushed scarlet as the lady inspected her abominable needle work with keen eyes, a subtle twitch at the corner of her mouth deeming it unsatisfactory to her standards. She huffed as she spotted the blood stains on the fabric. "Whatever am I going to do with you, child?" She muttered in silent prayer before standing up.
"What are you..?"
Before Eryana could further object, Lady Katherine was already by the roaring hearth. With a flick of her wrist the flames were soon devouring the threaded canvas. Eryana watched on in horror as her hours of hard work disappeared in smoke.
The lady Katherine sniffed in distain, snatching a fresh bolt of cloth from a nearby table and shoving it at Eryana. "Do it again. And try not to mess it up this time." She said simply.
Eryana's hands tightened, her knuckles turning as white as the canvas they were holding as fury replaced the previous shock and embarrassment. Biting her lip, she blinked away the tears threatening to spill; crying was childish and she wasn't about to act like a little brat in her present company.
"Yes, Lady Katherine." She bit out dryly.
It was an hour later that they broke up for afternoon tea, a needless frivolousness if you asked Eryana. She managed to slip away into the cool air of early winter. It never snowed this far down south, at least not as far as the records of the archives showed, but the temperature did occasionally drop low enough for water to freeze. Eryana rubbed her hands together for warmth as she walked down to the stables. The whinnying of horses greeted her; luckily no-one else was around at the moment. She paused to scratch Beren behind the ear before she continued on to the piles of hay temporarily stored in the last, currently unused stable. Digging around the back, she located her winter cloak along with her bow and arrows where she had stashed them earlier that morning.
The cloak brought comforting warmth as she fastened it around her shoulders. The weather was fair and there was little wind: a perfect day for some archery practice. It was unlikely anyone else was down at the range; morning practice had ended a good two hours ago.
She narrowed her eyes in concentration, drawing back the string to her cheek. Her arm trembled slightly from the exertion as she took aim. Forcing her shoulders to relax with every breath she suddenly let go. With a sharp thump the arrow landed some distance off the middle of the target. Unsatisfied Eryana notched a second arrow to the string. Her earlier fury was slowly diminishing as the minutes trickled by.
Dark bags were clearly visible underneath her yes; sleep had been hard to come by the last few weeks. It was many a night she found herself being ruffled awake by an unsettling dream, lying awake till the early hours of the morning. It was costing her: just yesterday she had shouted at Murtagh during dinner for some simple misunderstanding she couldn't quite recall. It might have had something to do with apples…
Notching the next arrow into the string, she blew a stray hair out of her eyes for better aim. A deep inhale and a slow exhale before she raised the bow, on the next inhale drawing back the string, feeling her diaphragm as she breathed. Releasing half of her next breath she anchored the string against her right cheek.
The dreams always started out the same. There was darkness, unlifting darkness that felt heavy and constricting, like being trapped in a small room with no doors or windows. Then there was a feeling of anxiety, like waiting for something long expected to happen; Eryana failed to exactly pin what it was. Sometimes there were voices she didn't recognize, nor did she see the speakers. Yet some of them felt almost familiar, like she should know them. It was all too confusing.
It wasn't only her who had been high strung as of late; her brother hadn't had it easy either. Ever since his sixteenth nameday the King had insisted her brother attend court with him, sitting and listening in on council meetings and the like; he would, after all, inherit their father's estates after he came of age in a few years' time. Eryana had never considered her brother skilled in the ways of manipulation and polite yet empty words. Murtagh wasn't and never would be a politician and would always choose the blade over quill and ink. Her brother enjoyed simple, honest things and the constant frustration stemming from weekly belittling and other underhanded comments was quickly wearing his nerves thin.
Just last week, Eryana had witnessed her brother taking out his stress on a couple of young squires on the sparring grounds; it hadn't been pretty. Luckily Tornac had stepped in before any serious injury could occur. He had been less than happy to hear about Galbatorix's growing interest in his young charge. 'Be careful about what you say and to whom you give your word.' He had warned them both, mostly addressing Murtagh. 'To many, allegiance and honour are values only measured in coin.'
She released the arrow.
There was a sudden flare of blue flames.
Eryana almost dropped her bow in surprise, stumbling back and ungraciously losing her balance. What was that?! She stared at the target with wide eyes. A rather wide, clearly distinguishable burn on the still smoking canvas was clearly visible around where her arrow had struck. Distressed, she stumbled over to examine it in more detail. She had to brush her fingers across the charred surface to ascertain she wasn't seeing things.
The burn was about five inches in diameter. The arrow itself had splintered violently, only the tip remained intact embedded in the reinforced target. Eryana stared at her soot covered fingers in shock.
"What happened to your hand?" She nearly jumped five feet into the air hearing Tornac's sudden voice.
Startled she looked down to see what he was talking about. Only then did she realize the stinging, slowly intensifying pain in her left hand. The flesh of her fingers was an angry red and was swelling rather quickly; already some of the skin was starting to peel off. She hissed in pain cradling her injured hand to her chest, hesitating as Tornac bent down to take a better look.
His rough hands felt surprisingly gentle as he examined the burnt skin. "This is quite a burn you have here. How on earth did this happen?" He inquired worriedly.
Eryana opened her mouth but something made her hesitate. Should she tell him the truth? It was unlikely anyone would take her seriously; flames didn't just appear out of thin air after all. But she didn't like lying to him either. Wringing the fabric of her dress nervously in between her unburnt fingers, she decided upon a half-truth. "I don't know." And she really didn't.
Tornac frowned; Eryana knew she was a horrible liar. "Regardless, it needs to be checked out and treated." His tone was serious, leaving no room for objections. "Let's get you to the physician. He might know something other than cool water to treat this. Burns on the hands are nasty things; slow to heal and quick to fester."
Eryana panicked. "Not master Gudwinn, please Tornac! He will tell Murtagh and you know my brother would make a fuss." She pleaded before mumbling in embarrassment. "I don't want him to worry… I'm not a little child who needs codling and hand-holding."
Tornac sighted. To be honest, he knew Murtagh was already stressed out as it was. "Very well then... I might just have some salve to do the job. But if it festers, I'm dragging you to Gudwinn whether kicking or screaming." He relented.
"You'll not tell Murtagh?" She asked hopefully.
"Not a word."
Tornac uncapped the water skin hanging at his side. "Pour this over the burn to keep it cool and to bring down the swelling." As she was steered away from the court yard by the shoulders, Eryana failed to notice the rather curious, yet worried glance Tornac shot at the charred target.
The swordsmaster still had a modest sized, three room home in the upper level of the city, quite close to the gates leading onwards to the middle districts. It was not as grand as some of the surrounding adobes, but it had a homely feel with its greying white brickwork and a green-painted door and window frames. Even though Tornac had live alone for many years and spent most of his time up at the castle, he still kept the place tidy like his late wife had used to. Eryana fondly remembered the smell of freshly baked bread and cinnamon rolls that used to saturate the air; now there was only the barest hint of lavender and mint as they entered.
Tornac sat her down by the kitchen table while he rummaged around one of the many cabinets and shelves lining the walls. The kitchen had a warm atmosphere; the furniture showed signs of frequent use over the years, there were lace drapes on the windows, and a collection of potted herbs sat on a windowsill with bundles hung to dry above the currently unlit hearth. On one of the walls hung portraits of Tornac and his late wife, Marianne. The woman in the portrait was fair, with blond hair and warm grey eyes, the dimples by her cheeks a testament to a happy marriage.
"Ah! Here we are. I think it's still good." Tornac came to her side with a glass jar in his hands. Uncorking it, he gave the contents a sniff. "Yep, still good. This should do the trick." Working in consort they cleaned the burn with water after which Tornac dapped it dry gently with a clean cloth, careful not to irritate the damaged tissue or burst the already formed boils. From the jar, he spread a thick layer of a creamy, greyish yellow paste onto the burn.
"What's in it?" Eryana inquired out of curiosity.
"Mostly primrose and tarweed mixed in with pig fat." The man replied. Tornac pulled out a length of soft white gauze to dress the hand.
Eryana picked up the now abandoned jar, sniffing it like Tornac had done earlier. Her nose picked up a familiar smell. "And chamomile." She stated, although there was a hint of uncertainty in her voice.
"And some chamomile oil." Tornac confirmed giving her a proud smile. "My, someone has been studying their herbs lately." He finished treating the hand, tucking the free end of the length of gauze firmly within the folds of the binding. "There all done and better."
"Gudwinn taught me about herbs when I asked him the last time I was there. When I strained my right shoulder, you remember?" Tornac nodded, recalling the incident quite clearly; it had been when Eryana had insisted him and Murtagh teach her to spar with swords. The young girl had overexerted herself with wanting to try out her brother's blade instead of the wooden one she had been assigned. It hadn't ended well.
"Well, he told me about some of the common ones used for pain reliving and fever, also showed me how to prepare a poultice for this stable boy who cut his hand." The girl explained eagerly. Suddenly she looked somewhat uncomfortable and squeamish. "Promise you won't tell anyone, but I want to be a physician when I grow up. I have been reading up on things and spying on master Gudwynn whenever I get the chance. Most of the time he is more than happy to answer my questions." She divulged staring intently at her feet.
Tornac gave her a weak smile. It was a praiseworthy dream, he had to give her that. There was a clear difference between being a simple healer and being a qualified physician. And not all of it stemmed from difference in social stature alone. Physicians were well-learned and respected professionals, often aligned with a court or a noble house. The practice took years of dedicated study and involved more than just wound or sickness treatment. The only problem was that no women were generally accepted in the field and the few that were generally ended up working as simple healers or assistants.
Never to discourage, Tornac went ahead to reassure the young girl. "It is an admirable dream."
"You really think so?"
"Absolutely! My dear Eryana is going to become the best physician in the whole of Alagaesia and then take good care of this old man." Tornac praised humorously, all the while smiling widely.
Eryana returned the smile.
Authors note:
Thanks for the many reviews; they really motivate me to keep on writing, especially when faced with a block, and feedback and constructive criticism is always appreciated. Sorry for the rather long break in updates, but i have been busy studying and trying to find myself a summer job. Actually succeeded in the latter.
SPOILERSAnyways, people have been asking me about pairings and to be honest I have put some thought into the idea and decided to stick quite close(at least sowhat) to the canon. And do there will not be EraArya in this fic... somewhat disturbing. But Murtagh might end up with someone...SPOILERS END
So the board has been set and the pieces are moving... or so they say. Actions have consequences, as you're about to see.
Enjoy!