rather tiring to walk with a crutch.’
Isak motioned for the man to go, which Hobble did without another word. Aryn Bwr muttered something ironic in Elvish, as the man made his way down the street.
‘Brother Hobble?’ Isak enquired of the abbot, who spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
‘It is the only name he will give us. He came to us several months ago, and he has been a blessing to the abbey ever since. He’s a learned and pious man who I hope will soon take his vows, but he will tell us nothing of his past, or the cause of that shattered ankle that refuses to heal properly.’
‘I know him,’ mused Vesna. ‘I’ve seen him at the palace, I think -a Swordmaster? His name escapes me, but I know I’ve met him.’
As the memory of his first morning in the palace rose in Isak’s mind, a cold chill ran down his spine and his mouth went suddenly dry. A face in the crowd as he sparred with Swordmaster Kerin; a pain in the back of his knee; the bubbling anger as he sprawled flat on his back on the packed earth of the training ground; a savage blow as he lashed out at the man who had caught him, and the thumping connection with an ankle that was so hard it had jarred his wrist.
Isak hadn’t even looked at the man, intent as he was on besting Kerin. Only afterwards had he noticed the man, face contorted by pain as he held his leg just above the shattered ankle -the ankle that still hadn’t healed.
‘Oh Gods.’
‘What is it?’ Vesna asked. ‘Can you place him?’
Isak ignored the question and asked the abbot, ‘Can you not do anything for him? Have you tried to heal it with magic?’
‘Of course, my Lord,’ the abbot replied, ‘we are a dual-aligned abbey, dedicated to Nartis and Shotir.’ He brushed the yellow cuff of his habit: Isak now realised it was the colour of the God of Healing. ‘Unfortunately, our best efforts - and we do have a number of talented healers here -have proved fruitless. The damage done to Hobble’s ankle is no normal injury, and our magic has had no effect. I suspect Hobble believes the hurt done to him was a divine judgment, that he has something to atone for. Certainly that impression is sustained by the vigour he goes about any task he is given, but considering how selfless the man is, I cannot begin to imagine what that might be.’
Isak stared down the road at the man limping through the crowds of townsfolk. ‘Tsatach’s balls,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘An angry boy’s moment of petulance, nothing more, and he takes it as a divine judgment?’ Now he knew why the last king had been so amused.
‘My Lord?’ said the abbot anxiously, trying to catch Isak’s words.
‘What does he do at the hospital?’
‘He is experienced at dressing wounds and spends much of his day tending to the poor folk afflicted with leprosy. He will not turn from the most menial of tasks.’
‘Leprosy?’ Isak exclaimed, wide-eyed with alarm.
The abbot chuckled. ‘My Lord, calm yourself. We have tended lepers in these parts for decades; I am certain there is no risk of contagion. Brother Helras has been in charge of the hospital for ten years now, and has persisted in good health the entire time. You are quite safe.’
‘Did Brother Hobble know that when he volunteered for the duties?’
The abbot paused. ‘I’m not sure . . . perhaps. If not, it is a testament to the man’s faith, no? Now, may I show you around the abbey and offer you refreshment?’
‘The consequences of this life,’ he muttered under his breath, too softly for anyone else to hear. He tells me to be thankful for what I have, yet every step of the way I hurt someone else. In my wake I hardly notice the futures I ruin. Oh Mihn, you’ve got such faith in me, but what magnificent destiny are you going to find down a road paved with broken lives?
‘My Lord?’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Lead the way.’
That evening, Isak found himself out in the walled garden again, staring up at the
Isak motioned for the man to go, which Hobble did without another word. Aryn Bwr muttered something ironic in Elvish, as the man made his way down the street.
‘Brother Hobble?’ Isak enquired of the abbot, who spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
‘It is the only name he will give us. He came to us several months ago, and he has been a blessing to the abbey ever since. He’s a learned and pious man who I hope will soon take his vows, but he will tell us nothing of his past, or the cause of that shattered ankle that refuses to heal properly.’
‘I know him,’ mused Vesna. ‘I’ve seen him at the palace, I think -a Swordmaster? His name escapes me, but I know I’ve met him.’
As the memory of his first morning in the palace rose in Isak’s mind, a cold chill ran down his spine and his mouth went suddenly dry. A face in the crowd as he sparred with Swordmaster Kerin; a pain in the back of his knee; the bubbling anger as he sprawled flat on his back on the packed earth of the training ground; a savage blow as he lashed out at the man who had caught him, and the thumping connection with an ankle that was so hard it had jarred his wrist.
Isak hadn’t even looked at the man, intent as he was on besting Kerin. Only afterwards had he noticed the man, face contorted by pain as he held his leg just above the shattered ankle -the ankle that still hadn’t healed.
‘Oh Gods.’
‘What is it?’ Vesna asked. ‘Can you place him?’
Isak ignored the question and asked the abbot, ‘Can you not do anything for him? Have you tried to heal it with magic?’
‘Of course, my Lord,’ the abbot replied, ‘we are a dual-aligned abbey, dedicated to Nartis and Shotir.’ He brushed the yellow cuff of his habit: Isak now realised it was the colour of the God of Healing. ‘Unfortunately, our best efforts - and we do have a number of talented healers here -have proved fruitless. The damage done to Hobble’s ankle is no normal injury, and our magic has had no effect. I suspect Hobble believes the hurt done to him was a divine judgment, that he has something to atone for. Certainly that impression is sustained by the vigour he goes about any task he is given, but considering how selfless the man is, I cannot begin to imagine what that might be.’
Isak stared down the road at the man limping through the crowds of townsfolk. ‘Tsatach’s balls,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘An angry boy’s moment of petulance, nothing more, and he takes it as a divine judgment?’ Now he knew why the last king had been so amused.
‘My Lord?’ said the abbot anxiously, trying to catch Isak’s words.
‘What does he do at the hospital?’
‘He is experienced at dressing wounds and spends much of his day tending to the poor folk afflicted with leprosy. He will not turn from the most menial of tasks.’
‘Leprosy?’ Isak exclaimed, wide-eyed with alarm.
The abbot chuckled. ‘My Lord, calm yourself. We have tended lepers in these parts for decades; I am certain there is no risk of contagion. Brother Helras has been in charge of the hospital for ten years now, and has persisted in good health the entire time. You are quite safe.’
‘Did Brother Hobble know that when he volunteered for the duties?’
The abbot paused. ‘I’m not sure . . . perhaps. If not, it is a testament to the man’s faith, no? Now, may I show you around the abbey and offer you refreshment?’
‘The consequences of this life,’ he muttered under his breath, too softly for anyone else to hear. He tells me to be thankful for what I have, yet every step of the way I hurt someone else. In my wake I hardly notice the futures I ruin. Oh Mihn, you’ve got such faith in me, but what magnificent destiny are you going to find down a road paved with broken lives?
‘My Lord?’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Lead the way.’
That evening, Isak found himself out in the walled garden again, staring up at the
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