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Upon Landau’s arrival, Serin and Clancey resembled pillars of mourning, regarded him with solemn eyes. Landau’s heart melted, and his muscles went numb. His father sprawled across the daybed, his left arm and leg hung over the side, static and pale beside the fire. Landau’s hand cupped his mouth, and he realised it in an instant—the looks, the silence. The foundlings joined his side, Melly wrapped tight around his arm, Elliott’s hand on his shoulder; they knew it too—when a sudden cough shook his father to wake.
Never had an exhale taken so long to leave Landau’s mouth. He held his tears and ran to his father’s side; behind him, the Elder told his children to hasten upstairs. Landau gripped his father’s hand, limp as a wet washcloth. Soft gasps escaped Nicholas’ throat, his eyes remained closed, and his face appeared lifeless without them, muttering noises more than words in a tired slumber.
Another man stood with Serin, a long face, and sagging chin, wrinkles in his cheeks. Everything he wore was black, apart from the lines of gold embroidered on the edges of his shirt and sleeve. A giant belt wrapped around his waist and dangled with pendants of golden chains. A thick leather satchel suspended from his neck to his waist. He brushed his hand through his windswept hair, then held it out to greet him. Landau looked at his hand in disgust, a foul smell of decay wafted from his clothes.
“Who’s he?” Landau turned to the elders, leaving the man’s hand to linger. “What’s going on?” he demanded.
The elders shared a stare to who should explain.
Clancey stepped forth. “This is Ralof, Landau. He was a medic for the Queen’s Guard a few years back.”
“Can he help my dad?” he refused to acknowledge the man who recoiled his hand.
“We’re… not sure, lad. He’s… your father’s not wounded in any way, so to speak. More accurately, his body’s giving up on him. It’s hard to explain.”
When did Clancey find anything hard to explain?
“Is there nothing we can do? I’ll do anything!”
“Your father’s condition’s not a common one,” Clancey folded his arms. “Truth be told, the farmlands are void of any remedy I can think of, not much in the way of healers this far south. Arwendel may have folk who can help him, but there’s no certainty, the trip itself will take a couple of weeks, by boat’s no better, and chances are the bulk of Arwendel’s healers have joined the troops in the east.”
Optimism faded like a doused flame.
Ralof intervened and spoke in an elegant eastern tone, calmly as medics do. “I know a man in Handscomb, some ways north, I admit. An alchemist, by trade, said to have herbs and ingredients to cure all ailments. He once cured a soldier of paralysis, stricken with the gaze of a cockatrice he was, a frightening creature no less, sent him into a crippled state from simply staring into its eyes. That’s what the soldiers tell me. Regardless, the draught cured the soldier of his ailment.” He knelt before Landau. “Your father is suffering a similar illness, I suspect. It might not work… it’s hard to say. I myself cannot help you, I’m afraid. My skill lies more in wounds and aches, more common disorders. Without a healer, I can think of no other option. But I regret to say the alchemist sells dearly.”
“How much would a draught like that go for?” Clancey chimed in.
“I’ve heard as high as ninety gold unless you can sway the man.”
“Ninety gold?!” Serin shouted. “People in this village hardly know silver, let alone have seen it. We couldn’t possibly hope to—" the Elder stopped. There’s a cure, is all Landau heard. This is great news, but he looked across all three elders, confused by their sullen faces.
“What’s wrong? We have that, right?”
Ralof gave a dismal smile. “He may be an alchemist’s son, but that does not mean he is no thief. To be fair, I do not know the costs of such elixirs or the rarity of their herbs. I’m sorry I cannot do more. Should I happen upon another viable option, I will send a harrier, though it does no good today. I apologise. Good day to you.” Ralof shook Serin’s hand and headed out the door.
Landau’s face burned, and anger brewed inside him as if his voice was a whisper. All the medic brought was alternatives done before, and apologies, while his father resembled a corpse on the daybed.
“That’s a lot of coin, Landau,” said Clancey.
“But you’re rich, Clancey sir, you bought all those horses. Can’t you afford the gold?”
“Landau,” the Elder sighed gravely.
“You have all that treasure there. Just a little would help a lot. It’s my dad, sir,” his voice trembled.
Clancey wore a foreign look, a sickness of his own. With brittle knees, he knelt with a hand upon Landau’s shoulder. “It’s not that easy, lad. The coin I had is spent—on the horses, the farm, the tavern… all of it. My treasures have value but to nobody here. To sell them, I’d have to venture to the capital… it could take me—” he cut short, his words gave no reprieve.
Landau’s eyes shimmered when Serin intervened. “We all care for your father. We will find a way to help him.”
But Landau heard the options, the lengths it would take for that to be true. He hung his head in disappointment, lost in what else to say. His father’s condition was eroding. Ultimately, it would take his heart. A sad realisation grew inside of him; there was nothing he could do.
Clancey moved a hand to his pocket and took Landau’s wrist. In his palm, he revealed the disfigured gold coin he presented to him a month earlier. “Here, as promised.” Landau thanked him with the faintest of nods, retreating upstairs to Timothy’s bedroom to remain in solace.
He returned to his father’s side when everyone had gone. A hundred times, he poked the fire, keeping count to occupy his mind, staring into it, even when it burned his eyes. No matter how much he tried to distract himself, Landau couldn’t help but think the worst and how soon it may be. The house was asleep except for his father, but it became harder to tell; his body had become a placid corpse sprawled over the daybed, bones showing where bones shouldn’t, his mouth often open as if struggling to find air or longing to drink water.
“Landau,” he called between a constant swallow.
His father’s gaunt face and thinning fingers made him appear foreign; only the firelight gave his face any colour. “How are you feeling, Dad?”
Nicholas leaned closer, as though his voice couldn’t reach him. “They say I’m getting worse… I’m fine, though. Little light in the knees, perhaps.”
Landau grinned and held his father’s hands. “Everyone worries about you Dad. I… I feel like I’m not doing enough. I dunno what to do. I feel like no one does.”
His father heard the surrender in his voice, but alas, he smiled. “Don’t you worry, son. Nothing’s going to happen to me. I’ll live forever,” his father couldn’t say the word without shedding a tear. To see it roll down his cheek forced one from his own.
“Tell me what to do, Dad, please. You’ve taught me everything else; just tell me how to fix you.”
“I never taught you to dance.” Nicholas rolled his eyes back, delirious, and abruptly coughed, choking on his words, turning away in the exhaustion of it. Even now, at its grimmest point, his father disguised his pain with humour, pretending his failing muscles were nothing more than a cramp, a sickness that would pass the morning after. But he was losing the battle, and he would not recover.
Not unless I can find the gold.
This is an excerpt from our upcoming fantasy novel 'The Secrets of Azuron'. Are you excited to read more? Share your thoughts in the comments. Don't forget to sign up for our newsletter to learn more about the book.
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