Page 29 of Water Dragon
She searched the tiltyard for Sir Patrick, but he was nowhere to be seen. She could hear the king deliver orders, but he was too far away for her to make out the words. She cursed her choice of not accepting the seat by his side. She would have been all the wiser for it, and instead her rejecting the invitation was an unforgivable slight performed solely out of pettiness. If she were not meant for the seat next to Malcolm, then why should she sit in it at all?
Fool, she repeated.
Her gaze went back to Malcolm, and she watched as he was carefully lifted onto a stretcher. He was certain to be taken to his tent. She determined that however much she had excluded herself from the flurry of activity currently taking place around him, at the very least she could go and tend to him there.
She slipped off the lectern. The upset of the crowd was deafening, and she hurried her step to get away from its swarming movements, people leaving the tiltyard for the pathways between the tents, heading home or to the nearest tavern to discuss what they’d just witnessed. There would be gossip due to the question marks. She wished she could make the people aware, let them know what was really going on and where their ire at the disrupted festivities should be aimed. They would know of Malcolm’s provocation. They might very well blame him for getting himself hurt.
The thought made her break into a half-run, pushing her way past anyone slower than her.
But when she reached the tent, the sides had been tied back to reveal the commotion inside and at seeing Lady Shannon taking charge in the midst of it, Iona shrunk back. Listening, she could make out the broader details, mainly that the lady was leading the effort of getting a spearhead out of Malcolm’s shoulder.
A spearhead had been fastened to the end of the offending lance?
So, Sir Patrick had broken the rules of the tournament and, more than that, his code as a knight.
Iona frowned at the revelation. For all his flaws, the one thing Sir Patrick had always had as a strength was how shrewdly he maneuvered himself out of any misstep. There was always an excuse, always an explanation.
Harming the heir to the throne in front of the distinguished onlookers who had gathered in the royal boxes seemed impossibly idiotic.
She let the thought dangle unfinished as she had no way to draw any conclusion and lingered on the sidelines, eyes glued to the frenzy around Malcolm. She felt desperate to be near him, to grasp his hand and let him know that she was there. She was right there.
But it was not her place.
So, instead she shrunk further back, unable to bear merely standing idle without being able to help. Especially when she heard the word ‘spell’. The spearhead had been enchanted then, to cause more damage and keep Malcolm’s inner dragon from quickly healing him away from mortal danger.
She turned and left the tents behind for the wide stone steps taking her into the castle. She wanted to search out her mother but knew there was every chance all she would get from it was being put to work in the kitchens or sent on errands. She was too distracted to wield a knife or tend a fire effectively, and the last thing she wanted was to be sent away from the castle.
Once inside its walls, all that was left to her was stalking its hallways. She didn’t stop for the next few hours, wringing her hands and biting her lips, unable to stand still for a moment until night finally fell.
There was simply no chance that Malcolm would be made to spend the night in his tent, which meant that she could be certain that he would have been transferred to his rooms by now. She had already resolved herself to ask the lady for a moment alone, should the lady be claiming the space next to Malcolm, but when Iona entered quietly there was no one in the prince’s bedroom but the prince himself.
She was about to close the door behind her when a hand was placed against it. She thought it would be the lady, but instead it was the castle healer, granting her a small smile in greeting.
“I won’t disturb him,” Iona whispered.
“It’s quite all right,” the healer whispered back. “He should rest, but he is saved from the worst of it. We caught the spell early enough to counteract it without much hassle. Nasty business, though. Left untreated for even a few handfuls of minutes more and he might have perished.”
Iona swallowed.
He had almost died.
She felt anger rise towards the king. He must have known this would happen, even if Malcolm hadn’t. Or the king must have been aware of the risk that Malcolm was taking. What had he been thinking? What good would this do? How would this promote their efforts of stopping whoever was behind this?
Surely, they didn’t think Sir Patrick was the mastermind orchestrating such attacks on the elemental magic itself. Sir Patrick, who pranced around like an exotic bird, showing off his feathers and pruning himself in front of any available mirror without a thought of whether it was appropriate or not? So, what exactly had been accomplished by putting Malcolm at risk?
“I won’t stay long,” Iona said, voice still lowered.
“Stay as long as you like. I will be back later in the night to check on him, but I can’t foresee any complications occurring. He is breathing easily, and the wound has already closed nicely.”
“Thank you,” Iona said, grasping the healer’s hands in a firm grip.
The healer gave a nod, squeezed her hands briefly in return, and then slipped out of the room again.
Iona stood still, now that it was only her and Malcolm, feeling the intimacy of it like hands gently stroking themselves over her shoulders, down her arms. There was a push and a tug in their touch for her to move forward, to walk up to the bed, sit on the edge of it. Take his hand.
But there was a tremble in her knees that kept her rooted to the spot.
He had almost died.
