The medikua’s expression did not change despite her benefactor’s sharp tone. “Your son lost his lifeblood, yes, most of it, in fact. But not all of it.”
“Not all of it—what does that mean?” Inés took as deep a breath as her stays would allow. Her folded arms squeezed tighter across the black lace about her chest. “Please speak plainly, medikua. My son has been murdered, the assailant and her merry band of pirates are still on the loose, and I must stave off war long enough to have everything fall into place. I am under far too much pressure to deal in the riddles of an old woman, even one as exalted as yourself. I’ve paid you to attend to me, and I will pay you to attend to preparation of the body. I will not pay you to give me a headache.”
The medikua blinked at the Dowager Queen. “That means your son is alive.”
Inés wouldn’t look at Renard’s still form. “He does not appear to be alive.”
The medikua beamed—her amusement palpable in the face of royal incredulousness. “Appearances can be deceiving, Your Highness.”
The old woman popped a cork off the bottle in her hands, and a warm scent filled the room—pipe smoke and mulled cider, though the liquid was clear as she dabbed it across the boy’s chest.
The Dowager Queen straightened.
“Both my sons are dead to me. Take care of Renard. I shall see you in my chambers in the morning. For treatment and further direction.”
With that, the Dowager Queen turned for the yard and again locked the door.
Alone again with the body of Crown Prince Renard, Medikua Aritza turned and rifled through her basket of tinctures, fingers searching for a particular treatment. One she had not used for quite some time. Once she’d finally pulled the vial free of the basket, the pad of her thumb cleared dust before twisting away the wax seal applied to the stopper for extra protection after each use. This was a rare tincture indeed.
“I shall take care of you, young prince. The stars shall not have you yet.”
RENARD’Slizard brain flickered to life, the medikua’s description of the events after his death shimmering away like a mirage. He stared at her, trying to read the motivation under her wrinkled skin.
“And so… you just took it upon yourself to perform a ritual upon me out of… what? The goodness of your heart?”
Renard held up a hand that was intended to prevent her from actually answering. Even now, as the king muzzled her—and strained obviously against the anger in his veins—the medikua did not flinch but continued to sit silently with one hand atop the other on her belly as if she could not detect the danger in his voice. Her confidence was just as annoying as Dunixi’s when he couldn’t help but show it. She was old and as stubborn as a goat and would not easily fall into line—especially because she clearly believed he owed her for his continued life.
“No, I refuse to give you that excuse. You did it to spite my mother, yes? To thwart her plans of bearing a son byher grandfather?”
To his surprise, a gravelly laugh escaped the medikua’s lips before a coherent answer. “Your Highness, I have lived too long and experienced too much to give any care as to whether or not I am being judged as good, or spiteful, or to bat an eye at the twining vines of family trees on this damn continent.”
Renard stared at her. “Then why did you do it?”
“I did it,” the old woman intoned, “because my soul is dedicated to cultivating, protecting, and repairing life. By trade, medikuas are treated as healers, and I suppose we are, but what I do is not about pain, it is about life.”
The hand nestled atop the other beat out a rhythm, emphasizing the words—It is about life.
“Your body was not wrung out, your soul not sent to the stars,” she explained. “As a medikua, I could see that spark of life in your hollow shell, and it was my duty—ismy duty—to address your remaining embers as I would have your cries of pain.”
Disbelief thumped in his chest. Renard had literally never known anyone on this damn continent to do anything out of anything other than intense desire for a gain of some sort—power, coin, and, if Amarande was to be believed, love.
“And that was it?” he asked, reaching blindly out of his vacuum of copious confusion. “You performed a ritual, and I awoke days later?”
Medikua Aritza shrugged her bird-like shoulders. “It appears so. Ideally, I would have checked on you hourly until you revived—it is much quicker that way, generally. A smoother transition for the injured party as well—waking can be quite disorienting, as I’m sure you are aware. Alas, I was not there to guide you. Your mother had other plans.”
Renard squinted. “So you have done this before?”
“Of course. Many times. Though not recently.”
The medikua waved it off with a knowing smile, both accepting and diminishing her work of impossible magic within the world of the natural arts. Renard did not trust her reasoning on saving him, but it did make him wonder about something else.
“Why didn’t you revive King Sendoa in this way? You were on retainer at the Itspi for longer than I’ve been alive. And yet, you did not repair him?”
That knowing smile faded slightly—the first and possibly only sign that this woman had favored the man who had kept a roof over her ancient head for so long.
“Poison is a cursed thing that robs every spark of life within.” She spoke of it with a sour twist of distaste to her words. “By the time the king made it home, his soul had departed to the stars. There was no life left for me to revive.”
A curl of remorse stirred beneath the layer of fury that buzzed along Renard’s insides. His memories of that day were even hazier than that of his own death, reduced almost to the way other people who were not there talked about the great Warrior King’s final, incongruous moments.
