Tori

  Tori

  He was dying, and there was nothing I could do.

  I knelt in the grass of the garden, just outside the door that led to my quarters in the palace. Gently, I lifted the tiny bird and tried to make him comfortable in the folds of my dress. His wing flapped uselessly. I suspected that he must have clipped one of the branches of the tree that looked over the high wall that enclosed the garden.

  If only we had a Healer in the palace, it would have been different. But no Madmen had been permitted within the walls since Ratans were outlawed, more than five hundred years ago. I could take him outside the palace grounds, but it was unlikely that I'd be allowed out without an escort, which would take more time to form than the little guy had. If they even allowed me out for what my uncle would consider such a frivolous outing.

  So there was nothing I could do but kneel on the ground and care for him as best I could. If it was just his wing that was broken, it might have been possible to set it and splint it, and maybe it would heal on its own. But I could see his body was battered, likely caused by his rough landing.

  "Tori!" The voice behind me shouted my name in alarm. I closed my eyes. Not good. I made no movement as footsteps approached.

  "How many times have I told you not to sit on the grass?" the woman demanded. She was the woman who hovered over every aspect of the palace, making sure everything was in its place and tidy. I was often the object of her scrutiny.

  "I know, Della," I said. "But the bird-"

  She glanced at the bird in my lap. "Oh. That. It will be taken care of."

  I had the feeling that her idea of "taking care of" the bird differed slightly from mine.

  "No, it's okay," I said quickly. "I can handle it."

  "I will not allow you to do a servant's work." Della bent down and grabbed my arm in her iron fist. The woman was strong for her diminutive stature, and easily pulled me to my feet. The bird fell with a chirp to the ground.

  I whirled to face her. "How dare you lay a hand on me!" I said, trying to put the strength of authority into my voice. It didn't work.

  "Come along, girl," Della said, ignoring me. I braced my feet, but she still managed to pull me along behind her. We got a few steps toward the door when I heard heavy footsteps coming from behind. I twisted in the foul woman's grip to see a heavily armored man approaching. He made his way across the grass toward us.

  "Watch out!" I called. The man's head twisted to the side, wary of some attack. Seeing nothing of danger, he took another step forward with a confused look.

  With a small crunch, the tiny bird's suffering ended.

  "Miss Della," the man said, "may I have a word with the young lady?"

  "You killed him," I said softly as Della's hand released me. Again the man appeared puzzled.

  "Who?" he asked.

  I pointed at his foot. "You stepped on him."

  He raised his foot and examined the bloody mess of feathers under it. "Oh. Sorry."

  I tried to hold back the tears. For the most part, I was successful. "You had something to say to me?" I said in a voice that wavered only slightly.

  "Yes," he said. "My name is Strin, and I come with grim news. Your father was grievously wounded this morning while hunting boar in the northern forests."

  My mouth went dry, and all thoughts of the bird were pushed out of my head. "My father?" I whispered.

  Strin nodded. "We only just arrived back at the palace. I was asked to find you and bring you to him."

  "Of course. Lead the way." Thoughts flashed through my head as we left Della behind and made our way through the palace. The fear and panic were expected, but what surprised me were the thoughts of succession. If my father died, I would only be two steps away from taking the throne of Attarnon myself.

  I shook my head in disgust at the selfish thoughts invading my mind. I didn't even want to be in power. My father was injured, and likely to die, and I was thinking about taking the throne? It was horrible!

  Fortunately, we soon reached the infirmary where my father had been taken, and the thoughts were pushed out of my mind. At first glance, the wound didn't look serious. The doctor had washed the area, so it wasn't until I got closer that I realized how bad it really was.

  The wound ripped up his side, exposing bone at his hip and hooking up underneath his ribs. I took the scene in with a detached curiousity. I refused to accept it was my father lying there, and to distract myself, took an interest in what the doctor was doing.

  Doctors were rare, especially here in Insen, as there was little they could do that a Healer couldn't surpass. However, the palace had always employed a doctor for the few occasions when a member of the royal family took sick. Anyone with even the most remote chance of becoming King or Queen of Attarnon was not permitted to owe their life to a Madman. As it was, the Asylum held too much power over the country.

  But there was only so much a doctor could do. He was crouched like a heron over the wound, his long fingers deftly passing a needle back and forth through the skin in an attempt to seal the wound. If the injury had stopped at the hip, it might have succeeded, but as I leaned in closer to watch the doctor's work, I heard the slight gurgle of shallow breath coming from underneath my father's ribs. A cursory glance revealed red bubbles dripping out of the wound and onto the bed.

  One of his lungs was punctured.

  With that sudden realization, I lost the tenuous detachment that had kept me separated from reality. I broke down. I don't really remember much except crying and the doctor having me removed from the room. I guess I caused something of a disturbance.

  When I was finally allowed back in, after calming down, the surgery was done. My father was lying under a sheet that barely moved with each breath he took. His face, usually strong, was pale, making him look years older. His eyes were closed - unconscious or asleep, I didn't know.

  I slumped into the chair by the bed. As I did, my father's eyes opened. He tilted his head to look at me.

  "Tori," he said. "They said you were here." He coughed, spitting red flecks onto the white sheets. He grimaced in pain and clutched a hand to his side.

  "What happened?" I asked softly. "Nobody told me." Or perhaps they had, and I had simply tuned them out.

  "Boar," he said, gritting his teeth. "Caught me ... by surprise."

  "Father..."

  "Don't think I'm gonna ... if I don't ... don't make it ... you need to know about ..." He coughed up blood again. "Your mother."

  It was suddenly difficult to breathe. "Mother?" I whispered.

  "Midie," he spoke my mother's name, and his voice faltered. "Midie..." He trailed off to sleep, leaving me with eyes full of tears and a mind full of questions.

  I didn't want to wake him. His breathing was good, if still shallow. I quietly rose from the chair and left the room.

  I didn't have any memories of my mother. When I was younger, I used to ask about her. But I quickly learned that any mention of my mother's name closed people's mouths faster than my questions about the origins of babies. But as I grew older, some of those childish questions were answered. The ones about my mother were not.

  With my father unable to speak, there was only one man who could give me answers right now. Determined, I made my way to the King's chambers. No doubt he would be there, in the richly decorated sitting room. He wasn't the type to visit his own brothers' death bed.

  "Don't even ask," were the first words out of my uncle's mouth.

  I blinked in confusion. "What?"

  "We're not bringing in a Healer for him."

  I shook my head. "I know that."

  "Then what do you want?" He met my eyes.

  I matched his gaze. "I want to know about my mother."

  "Ah ha. Yes, I suppose my brother isn't in a state to tell you. Has he passed ye
t?"

  I shook my head.

  "Always was a fighter," the King muttered before clearing his throat. "Right, your mother. She was a beautiful and wonderful woman, and your father loved her very much. But, if she had a flaw, it was that she coveted power." He paused and studied my reaction. I kept my face impassive. I had spent too much time in the palace to not know how to mask my emotions.

  "I do not believe," he continued after a moment, "that this was her sole reason for staying with your father, as some have speculated. Indeed, I'm not convinved that she even thought of it herself until she arrived at the palace.

  "However, when she found herself surrounded by servants to tend to her every whim, and her every desire satiated, she started to fall under the spell. I myself warned her, warned them both about excessive arrogance and narcissism. She refused to listen, and your father was so besotted with her that he defended her with every breath.

  "When Midie became pregnant, it was worse. She ran the servants ragged with errands. I tolerated it because I had no choice. I was not going to evict a pregnant woman, and your father convinced me it would pass when the child was born and she turned her attention there.

  "About a year after you were born, I realized we were mistaken. Her corruption had spread and taken hold in her mind, yet your father could not see it. I admit, I too was weak. Too weak to sever her from the palace, from her child, as I should have done. After all, I thought, there was no guarantee that anything would come of it.

  "Some people can handle the Madness in their minds; others can't. Your