The First Book of Lost Swords - Woundhealer's Story Read Free Page A

bearing a certain aristocratic poise that her husband permanently lacked. Her hair was blond, her face as fine-featured as that of her older son, and her eyes blue-green, with something in them of the sea, whose sharp horizon came in at every eastern window of these high Palace rooms.
           The current Chief Physician—there had been several holders of the office during the seven years since Adrian was born—was a gray-haired, white-robed woman named Ramgarh. She had been in attendance on the Princess and her elder son since their return to the Palace in the middle of the night.
           As Mark entered, the doctor was saying, in her calm, soothing voice: “The child is breathing steadily now, and his pulse is within the range where there is no cause for concern. If the history of recovery from past seizures holds for this one, he will probably sleep through most of the day.”
           It was only what the father had expected to hear. In the past seven years he had endured more of his firstborn’s fits and seizures than he could begin to count. But still he put back the curtain from the bed to see for himself. There was Adrian, asleep, looking as if nothing in the world were wrong with him.
           Mark, Prince Consort of Tasavalta, was a tall man of thirty. His hair had once been as fair as that of his sons’; but age had darkened Mark’s hair into a medium brown, though hair and beard still tended to bleach light in the sun. This morning Mark’s face wore a tired, drawn look, and the lines at the corners of his mouth were a shade deeper than they had been the night before.
           Princess Kristin had come silently to stand beside her husband, and he put an arm around her. Their pose held more than a suggestion that they were leaning together for mutual support.
           The physician, after dispensing a few more soothing words for both the parents, departed to get some rest. Mark scarcely heard the doctor’s parting words. They were almost always essentially the same: an exhortation to hope, a reminder that things could be worse. For about two years now there had been no more promises that new kinds of treatment would be tried. The catalogue of treatments that the doctors were ready and willing to attempt had been exhausted.
           When the door had closed behind the physician, the Prince and Princess looked at each other, and then both turned their eyes back to the small form in the bed.
           She said: “He will be all right now, I think.”
           Mark’s voice was flat and heavy. “You mean he will be no worse off than before.”
           Before the Princess could answer there was an interruption. A nursemaid had just entered the room, leading their second child, who had just awakened, his usual healthy self. Stephen was carrying, rolled up in one hand, the hand-lettered storybook that had been with him all during the long ride from High Manor.
           Stephen was obviously still somewhat fogged with sleep, but he brought with him an image of hearty normality. Though almost two years younger than his brother, he was the sturdier. And now, in the way that Stephen looked at his sleeping brother, there was a suggestion of his resentment, that Adrian should be getting so much attention just because he had had another fit.
           But Stephen, aware that parental eyes were on him, tucked the colored scroll of the book in at the edge of Adrian’s bed, a voluntary and more-or-less willing sharing. Then he tugged at his father’s trouser leg. “Can we go back to High Manor again today? I want to watch the soldiers.”
           His father smiled down at him wanly. “Didn’t you have enough excitement there yesterday?”
           “I want to go back.”
           “You’ll be a warrior.” Mark’s big hand brushed the small blond head.  
           The mother stood by, saying nothing, not smiling.
           The