Ermut

The knocking at the door slowly wakes me. It feels like I have been asleep for a few hours. I feel rested, but I think my most recent dream was a stressful one. My headache is much better than it was in the great hall.

That’s right. The great hall. The funeral. Dad... I pull the covers up and try to escape into a dreamless sleep. Instead a muffled voice calls out and coaxes me further into awareness. “Is Olsen awake? How is he?” I think it’s my sister, she sounds on edge and busy. Not unlike her, but I can tell she really is concerned.

A methodical, old scratchy voice answers, “It looks like the young prince is on the verge of stirring as you speak. Please come in my lady.” Sounds like Tooksmith is here. He’s probably been caring for me since I lost consciousness. “I have examined him for disease and any physical malady or talisman while he rested. His body is in perfect health. It is likely that his affliction is in some form or another a spell of the mind.”

“Take that back this instant you moldy lump of cat sick!” Yeah, it’s definitely her. “My brother is one of the cleverest men in all the eight seats. You ought to know, half the time you’re the one teaching him! Now if you have the gall to try covering your ass for that botched sleeping spell you pulled during the funeral I’ll have you flayed and healed once daily for a year.”

Ignoring my sister’s threats, Tooksmith continues his explanation in signature plodding pace, “Now then, sleep could have only done him good you know. Have I not cast you asunder on restless nights? Firsthand experience ought to inform you my sleep spells are the most natural, restful, and restorative the seats over. No, the spell I speak of is why I drew him to sleep in the first place. From your place in the procession it was impossible to see, but the young prince appeared to have become rather stricken and crazed with grief. It is my suspicion that some unsatisfied ignoble of the distant provinces placed a manor of hex on the poor lad. Suspicions aside, I made him sleep when he began to speak in tongues. The future king will face many a hurdle; I elected not to make suspicion of his sanity a one of them. In any case, sleep should have mellowed the issue, fantastic or otherwise, and with a bit of conversation I think we should soon discover the problem at hand.”

I tentatively open my eyes and, sitting up, see the two figures at my bedside. The old magician observes me calmly through large round glasses, his wrinkled face drawing into a small grin when he sees me. He sets his creamed joule on the bedside table. Iris looks tired. I wonder what sort of impossible task is foisted on her right now. I can’t help but suspect I am a piece of it.

“Hi Iris,” I say, wanting to make her feel better and apologize for whatever I’ve probably done wrong, “don’t worry about me, I’m feeling much better now.” She smiles at this, but her face is back to concern when I fall back into bed, unconscious again.