Page 47 of The Forgotten Prince

Máistir Emrys lay insensate.

He had been this way for days. No one could say whether it might be because of his advancing age, or whether it could be something… more… deliberate.

A few days ago, he had descended into the grotto for a counsel with some nameless emissary from a nameless tribe. He’d arranged it; no one was aware of any request made by any presiding chieftain. He’d told them what he was doing and descended alone. At sundown, when he did not return, his Druid brothers went searching and found him resting on the floor beside the pool in the grotto. There was no sign of any disturbance. No emissary to be found. No evidence anyone came or went. The Máistir lay upon his back, his shoes off and arms crossed over his chest, as though simply napping. But every attempt to wake him had proven futile, and he had yet to open his eyes. Then, yesterday morning, someone discovered a small, but unusual wound at the back of his left ear, where a bruise about the injury had spread.

“Poison,” declared one of his brothers, and despite that no one else agreed, there was none who could refute it. However, if this were poison, it was unlike any Gwendolyn had ever encountered. She was quite well-versed in every manner of toxin, considering the fact that, for years, she had ingested a special theriac to raise her tolerance against the most heinous.

After hearing the tale of an entire household who fell prey to poison-laced mead served from ewers that were made from the bark of yew trees, her father thereafter insisted the entire royal household should guard against such treason. Even the servants partook, although everyone’s formula was different. For Demelza, the potion was weaker, and this was because she had to sample theriacs for both Gwendolyn and her mother, and the physicians feared too much would hasten her demise. For Gwendolyn, it was stronger, comprising many of the most common poisons employed for assassination—insect, plant, and reptile venoms, as well as arsenic, and more. Containing forty in all, the formula was painstakingly prepared, the process meticulously regulated by their royal physician. Meanwhile, the King’s theriac included sixty known toxins, and because of the number contained therein, the potency of his theriac was greater. However, he had insisted upon this, even against the physician’s recommendation, and Gwendolyn had sometimes worried this had contributed to the decline of his health.

Until a few weeks before the journey to Chysauster, she had carried a small vial filled with a powerful antidote. Unfortunately, it was only good for a short while, and after Alderman Bryok’s death, when it was determined there was a breach in their security, no more theriacs or antidotes were made thereafter. And regardless, Gwendolyn’s life had been so full of madness since her return from Chysauster refilling her vial was the last thing on her mind, despite she could produce the theriac herself if she were so inclined. Not only had she been present for much of the brewing, she was also required to study the properties of most of the toxins she and her family had consumed. Ultimately, this was how she had known poison was the culprit when Owen fell from his horse after eating Aelwin’s prune. She had recognized the symptoms and knew how to read the body.

When she examined Máistir Emrys, she found nothing to prove there had been an attempt upon his life. The slight wound behind the Máistir’s ear could easily be attributed to other causes, including the filigrees from his ear sheaths, which, it also happened, he was still wearing when Gwendolyn examined him. Removing both, she took care not to damage either as she scrutinized them. Fashioned ever-so delicately, she had never seen such spectacular artistry. It was as though they were woven like silk thread, but there was no method known to her people that would allow for such an intricate weave of something so rigid as metal—and these were, doubtless, some type of alloy. The entire appliance was made of a single piece, with two points at each end of the manipulated metal. The point at his left ear was exposed, so it could have caused the Máistir’s wound when he’d fallen… particularly if he fell in such a way it smashed the sheath against his head. The bruising could thusly be explained and since, at the moment, the Máistir was breathing easily, Gwendolyn couldn’t agree with his Druid brother’s verdict of poison. Still, she considered it.

There were, in fact, a multitude of poisons that could cause this type of torpor—henbane or yew, were two. However, were henbane or yew poison responsible for his condition, the Máistir would be dead by now. If, for example, yew poison had entered his system, he would have hours, not days. And, in fact, the yew poison was so toxic her father’s armies had often infused the toxin into their missiles. And, obviously, yew wood was so deadly those ewers her father had spoken of would have had to be burned outdoors, with the fire-tenders wearing cloth masks to protect them from the fumes. Therefore, she must conclude this was not henbane or yew.

She lifted his hand, finding it stiff—the fingers unyielding.

Much to her chagrin, that wasn’t the only thing that was stiff. Averting her eyes from the bed, Gwendolyn made it a point to ask if anyone had discovered any evidence of spew anywhere near the vicinity of the pool, where he was located. So many of the poisons she was familiar with would cause some manner of regurgitation or foaming at the mouth, even when injected.

According to their palace physician, whenever the heart and lungs could not function because of certain types of poisons, it caused fluids to gather in the lungs and manifest like foam in the mouth.

Also, while many common poisons worked rapidly, affecting the muscles and the lungs and heart, and could well lead to such torpor, they often caused excitation and delirium—which was to say that even if the body appeared to be restive, the heart was a teller of tales. The Máistir’s heartbeat remained slow and steady, with no worrisome symptoms.

Laying the ear sheath down on the bedside table in plain view, Gwendolyn considered other poisons as she examined the Máistir’s arms, his nailbeds, and hands. Even thorn apple, which was a milder poison, and had the added benefit of giving the recipient amnesia should he survive, would manifest itself with some manner of flushing about the skin.

Of all the poisons Gwendolyn knew of, there were two that caused extreme sedation rather than excitation and delirium—a rare poison called Hul Gil that was imported from Mesopotamia, and… mandrake.

The Hul Gil, so she’d been told, could slow the heart to such a degree one might mistake the living for the dead.

But neither of these poisons would explain the bruised flesh about the Máistir’s neck. That was a mystery to Gwendolyn, as much as was a lack of a motive. As far as she knew, Máistir Emrys had been the order’s beloved leader for more than seven hundred years, and that was a long time to lead for there to suddenly be an issue with his authority. But, even if there were some undisclosed issue, Gwendolyn must presume there was another way to remove a Máistir from his role without resorting to murder. Indeed, even now, two of the elder Druids stood outside the Máistir’s chamber, discussing the necessity of electing a new Máistir, regardless of whether Emrys recovered. But this discussion had nothing to do with any discord they had with the Máistir himself. Rather, they feared for his life, arguing his age had become a complication. They believed his only chance to live long and prosper was to keep him from leaving this village. Naturally, they valued his knowledge and posited that he, alone, knew the intricacies of each of the neighboring tribes. Now, when war was so close at hand, it was imperative to keep his counsel. Meanwhile, they argued it was past time for him to retire before it was too late. Next time, his visit to the grotto could prove his last. While here in this place, no illness or age existed, beyond its borders no man could save anyone from his destiny—be they king or queen. To live was to die, and to die was a human condition.

Lir had nothing to add to their deliberations, perhaps knowing how much it meant to his brother to lead this order. After so long, who would Emrys be if not the Máistir? But Gwendolyn also knew he didn’t wish to lose his brother. Looking more troubled than she had ever seen him, he sat beside his brother’s cot, suppressing tears, begging Emrys to wake and promising not to leave again if only he would open his eyes.

Gwendolyn’s heart swelled with pity for him. The normally sober, stoic, even-tempered Druid maintained his frown, and every now and again, reached out to test the back of one hand against Emrys’ forehead. “Still, no fever,” he would say.

“That is a very good sign,” Gwendolyn reassured, because it was true.

Fever would be a definite sign there was a battle being waged by the Máistir’s body. But he was neither too hot, nor too cold—another reason Gwendolyn didn’t believe this was poison.

“Has anyone kept a record of his time beyond this village?” she asked. “How many years has he accumulated below?”

Lir shrugged as he considered the question. “Who can say? There is no reliable means to measure the passing of time.” He shook his head then, refuting himself. “None beyond the shadow clock we keep in the grotto. But those are useless here. The sun does not shine as it does there. And regardless, my brother will not have kept track of his time below. Nothing like this has ever happened before.”

Gwendolyn wondered how they could ignore the fact that every Druid who ever left this village showed signs of aging. Although she had no way of knowing how old these men were when they’d arrived here, it was easy to ascertain who descended regularly and who never did. Lir was one of the latter, scarcely aged a day over these past centuries, his skin smoother than hers.

“We have used candle clocks to some success,” she suggested. “Though I have only seen a few in all my years. They are expensive and quite rare.” The science was not so simple as marking a burning candle. The wax must be of a specific variety that burned strictly over a measure of time, and the formula for those clocks were never shared. Rather, sometimes merchants brought a few to sell—but again, rare. So strange that only a few days ago she had wondered over this very dilemma—the quandary of aging in this Druid village.

She passed a glance to Málik. “He might not like to hear it, but it might be a good time for the Máistir to retire,” she suggested.

“If he recovers,” interjected Lir.

“If he recovers,” Gwendolyn allowed. “Let someone else lead for a change. His knowledge and experience will make his guidance invaluable. Yet he need not be the one to expose himself to the ravages of time.”

She averted her gaze from the bed to the door, wishing her royal physician had lived through their coup. He would have known more than she. But sadly, even he was lost. For now, she had only her studies to guide her.

Outside, night was lowering, but as Lir had pointed out only moments ago, she could neither see moon nor stars, much less the sky. Even having visited this village before, the make of it still awed her, though it was as illogical to try to tell night from day in this place as it was to perceive the construction of the walls confining this room. Made of the strangest of substances, and shimmering in shades of green, they were not transparent, but neither were they solid—like some strange, tightly woven tarp made of silk spun from a spider’s spinnerets. Remembering the story Esme had told of the ill-fated weaver, Arachne, she wondered if she’d had a part in its creation. There was a certain property about the walls that reminded Gwendolyn of her black mithril…

Noticing the Druid elders were gone now, she crooked a finger at Málik, drawing him aside to ask, “Do you believe this could be poison?”

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