Tarek grimaced. “Things changed.”
He hadn’t meant to become a Healer, after all; but his Gift had insisted, and the path under his feet had changed. Now he wasn’t sure where it was leading him.
“I don’t think Father understands.” Elen shot him a look. “He’s expecting you to return and take over Strand Keep.”
“I know.” Tarek’s thoughts skittered away from what that meant—and from the inevitable choice ahead.
Healer. Or Lord of Strand Keep.
Can’t I do both? he wanted to shout. But that wasn’t how life worked, no matter how much he might want it to.
“Anyway,” Elen said, “a few months ago I started doing more of the keep’s business: meeting with farmers, hearing grievances, consulting with the garrison commander when Father didn’t have the energy.”
Tarek glanced at his sister. In his mind, she was still half a child, although she was only two years his junior. He forced himself to take a harder look. Though her cheeks were still round, her features had matured. Her hair still bore streaks of honey-gold, but it had darkened from the shining blonde of childhood. And her gray eyes no longer held the open inquisitiveness of a youth, but the beginnings of wisdom brought by experience.
His baby sister had become a woman.
Apparently a very capable one, if Lord Strand had approved of her work as his secretary, however temporary.
The shadow of the tower fell across the road, the lowering sun painting the fields red-gold, and Tarek shifted in the saddle. They’d be at the stables soon, and he was more than ready to get off his horse. Though perhaps not quite as ready for what came after.
“What are Father’s symptoms?” he asked.
“Most days he has no appetite. He sleeps a lot, and recently he doesn’t even get out of bed.”
Tarek gave her a sharp look. “That’s not good.”
The man who’d threatened beatings if his children weren’t up at first light, ready to work, now spent days abed? Misgiving moved coldly through Tarek, a shiver touching his shoulders.
“You’re a full Healer now, though.” Elen glanced at him anxiously, and suddenly she looked like his baby sister once more. “You can fix whatever’s wrong, can’t you?”
Tarek straightened. “I’ll do everything I can to help Father back to full health.”
He had no other choice.
* * *
* * *
A short time later, standing beside Lord Strand’s bed, Tarek’s earlier fears came roaring back. The man who lay before him, apparently asleep, was a shadow of his former robust self.
“Sit down.” His mother pushed a chair up behind Tarek. “I’ll fetch tea.”
He glanced at her, noting the weariness in her face, the dark smudges beneath her eyes. Lady Strand looked as though she, too, was in need of a great deal more rest than she’d been getting.
“Are you sick as well?” he asked, his heart squeezing with anxiety.
“Just tired.” She gave him a wan smile. “Your father’s had a few difficult nights.”
“Difficult, how?” He glanced at Lord Strand’s pale skin, the gaunt hollows of his cheeks.
His mother let out a sigh. “It’s hard for him to get comfortable. His belly pains him.”
“Stomach trouble?” That was more than Elen had said.
“Sometimes. Other times he can’t catch his breath, or his limbs ache.”
That made the diagnosis harder, and Tarek frowned, wishing his mentor, Master Adrun, were there. But the Master Healer’s place was in the Collegium, not out with his new graduates, holding their hands. Even if, as in Tarek’s case, their education had been a bit rushed.
“Sit with me,” Tarek said, turning to his mother. “I can get my own tea later.”
He grabbed a second chair from against the wall and set it down near the head of his father’s bed, then sat. Muscles sore from riding protested, and he mentally shook his head. His father would scoff if he knew how a few long days in the saddle had affected Tarek.
“Books are no substitute for hard work.” The echo of Lord Strand’s voice threaded through Tarek’s memories. “A real education is gained through experience, not study.”
“Father,” Tarek said, gently taking the thin hand lying atop the smooth linen coverlet. “It’s me, Tarek.”
There was no response, and he glanced at his mother.
“He may wake soon,” she said softly. “If not, you can try again first thing tomorrow. Mornings are often better.”
“I’d like to use my Gift to try and sense what’s wrong,” Tarek said, then hesitated. “I’d rather do it with his permission.”
“Will it hurt?” His mother gave him an anxious look.
“No. An initial exploration, without attempting Healing, will be painless. But he wouldn’t like knowing it was done without his knowledge.”
To put it mildly. Lord Strand’s aversion to the Gifts was strong.
But hopefully, if Tarek’s father experienced the power of Healing firsthand, he would change his mind. At least a little. It would be best if he were fully conscious during the entire process, however, from the diagnosis through Healing and recovery.
“Father.” Tarek leaned forward. “Please wake up.”
Lord Strand’s eyelids fluttered, and a moment later he opened his eyes. Just a little, but Tarek could see the gleam of annoyance in their dark depths.
“What is it?” Lord Strand’s usual gruff voice was diminished, creaky now rather than commanding. He blinked, then opened his eyes all the way. “Tarek—thought it was you. Just in time. You’re the new Lord Strand when I go.”
Tarek’s mother pulled in a quick breath of denial, and Tarek shook his head.
“That’s years in the future,” he said. “We’ll get you Healed and back on your feet in no time.”
Then later—much later—he’d break the news to his father that he couldn’t be the Lord of Strand Keep.
“Healing, bah.” Lord Strand grimaced. “Too late for me.”
“I don’t think so. Will you let me try?”
For a tense moment, Lord Strand glared at him. Tarek’s breath hitched at the thought his father might deny him—might stubbornly cling to the belief he was dying and thus make it true. Then Lord Strand sighed, the spark of anger fading from his expression.
“Very well,” he said. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”