For the first time, Aldwine loses his bored, unattached manner.
“You were trained by the Legion of Ash,” he says.
I fill my own mug. I’d suspected he would pick up on that. The move I showed Agnar and Christopher was one any with similar training would recognize.
“I was.” Though I don’t think it will help my cause, I’d be honest with him. “And so was your brother.”
He does not react to that.
“My father served Galfrid. When my parents died, your . . . the king raised me at court. I was trained with the prince.”
With so few members of the Legion remaining, it is likely Aldwine and I are two of the last men to have been trained by them.
He snorted. “He should name you his successor.”
He said it casually, without bitterness or malice. Aldwine does not seem to resent the fact that Galfrid raised me as his own. Worse, he genuinely seems not to care. Kipp Aldwine sees Galfrid as his father as much as I see Father Beald as a man of God, and he is utterly indifferent about our cause.
“He would name his son instead.”
Again, no reaction. Thankfully, he seems less inclined to challenge me to a duel than he was on our first meeting. But my words do not seem to have moved him.
“His son, I am sorry to say, is dead.”
I look around, ensuring we are not overheard. But none are looking our way or are even within earshot.
“Prince Matteo is dead, aye. But you are very much alive. And if you would return with me to d’Almerita, the king would name you as his successor. And Meria would be better for it. You are clearly a natural leader.”
I hold his gaze, Aldwine looking at me with equal parts confidence and challenge. I hold my breath, waiting for his reaction. Though I could continue listing all of the reasons he should come with me, I do not doubt Aldwine already understands the ramifications of his decision. Nor will it help to tell him that the king sent him and his mother here, in the company of a man he handpicked to keep them safe. That Galfrid has routinely sent men here to check on his well-being. But he’s been told as much in the past; if it didn’t move him then, it won’t now.
“Come back with me,” I implore him once more.
He opens his mouth to answer me.
Chapter Twenty-Six Aedre
“Amma?”
The sun has barely risen, but Father has already gone to the forge. As is my custom, I came into Amma’s bedchamber to bid her farewell before taking stock of any herbs I might need, but she’s still abed.
“Amma?”
Normally, she wakes easily, but not this morn. She doesn’t stir. She doesn’t even move. Something is terribly wrong. I run to her bedside, repeating her name, only to realize she’s breathing much too heavily. I tear off her coverlet and examine her carefully, finding nothing else amiss except for her legs, which have both swelled. Lowering my head to her chest, I listen carefully.
And dislike what I hear.
Stepping back, I search frantically around the room. Our herbs are not located in here, of course, but it takes me a moment to remember that. To think. To plan. Amma has always praised me for having a calm disposition in uncertain times, but I’m finding it hard to cling to a single thought as I stare down at the only woman I’ve known as a mother, watching as she struggles to breathe.
Already knowing what this means, wishing I did not, I wipe away the tears in my eyes. It’s then I hear her voice in my head. Long, slow, deep breaths, child. You’ll not help anyone like that.
Finally, I can think.
I need foxglove leaf. And my father.
Running from the room, I make my way to the small healing chamber Father built, despite his hesitations about my calling, and begin to sift through the wooden boxes. I already know we do not have what I need, but I search for it anyway. It’s not there, of course.
Deep breaths, Aedre.
I do not wish to leave her, but she needs that plant. Fighting my impulse to return to Amma’s chamber, I run out the front door and do not stop. I tear through the field that doesn’t grow the plant I need, the soil not sour enough, and make my way toward the village, toward the cottage of the cobbler’s wife, where I last saw some. Not willing to veer away from my path, I shout a message to Agnar, who is making his way toward me.
“Tell my father Amma is unwell. I go to Anna for foxglove leaf.”
I don’t wait for his response. “He is at the forge. Tell him!”
By the time I arrive at the cobbler’s home, shouting for Anna, I’ve found the calm determination that I need to help my grandmother.
“I need foxglove. ’Tis for Amma,” I say as Anna emerges, obviously having seen me coming.
“Go,” she says. “Go.”
I head around to the back, and without stopping to admire the pink blooms, I grab handfuls of leaves, thanking Anna, who wrings her hand on a stained apron. “Is she . . . ?”
My heart knows the answer, but I refuse to say it aloud. Instead, I thank her again and run back, knowing by now the village will have been alerted.
Indeed, by the time I return home, a crowd has gathered outside the house.
I push my way through them, not noticing any faces, intent on my one purpose: to bring Amma comfort.
Whipping open the door, I run inside and head straight to my healing chamber. Getting immediately to work, I grind the leaves into a paste, mindful that the wrong amount will do more harm than good. By the time I finish, adding water to the mixture, and return to her chamber, Father is there, sitting beside her.
“She must drink this,” I say, showing him the mug. He does not question
