"Lie still. Beyond your immediate reach, I am afraid, though if we proceed carefully and plan well, perhaps not beyond your final one."
"Where?" He winced and his hand went to the back of his head.
"As I said. Out of touch, for now."
"The Slayers do not fight like men."
"And why should they, since they are not men? Expect no humanity from a Slayer. And consider yourself fortunate. When I finally found you lying amidst this slaughter I thought you dead."
"Lyssa is among them. There is no fortune in that. They have stolen my life."
"Then we must set to work to get it back."
"Yes, if we—" He hesitated, squinting up at his healer. "Who are you?"
"I am called Ynyr."
"I've heard of you."
"Even in far Turold?"
"The wise men of my court have spoken your name."
"And what do they say of me?"
"Many strange things."
The old man merely smiled. "You may sit up if you feel you can manage it."
With the old man's support Colwyn did so, swaying slightly for a moment, then holding his position without help.
"You took quite a blow," Ynyr told him. "But the wound looked worse than it was. You have lost some blood but not as much as you might. Had you been struck an inch more to the left…"
Colwyn felt the place where the Slayer's spear had struck. "So much healing so quickly."
Ynyr glanced away. "I have some small skill. But you must ride carefully for a while lest the wound reopen."
"You've come down from your home in the Granite Mountains. What for? Why choose now to abandon your hermitage?"
"I am needed now."
"For what?"
Ynyr swept a hand toward the carnage that already was beginning to fester around them. "Events have been put in motion that I had hoped to avoid dealing with for some time yet. It seems that an old man is not permitted to set his own schedules. So I am compelled to risk all to put things right again."
Colwyn's gaze took in the courtyard and the intermingled corpses. The sight of so much death in one place did much to restore his wits.
"There are no others alive?"
Ynyr shook his head. "I have seen none, though others may have had better luck. It is difficult to believe that all who fought have perished."
Colwyn's mind locked on a single, blustering image. "Father…" He pulled free of Ynyr's restraining hands and stood. "Father!"
Bodies were roughly shoved aside as he began searching the human debris. Ynyr followed closely, impatient but understanding. There was still much boy in this man, upon whom so much depended.
In death there is little to distinguish king from commoner. It took some time before the pale bewhiskered face of Turold yielded to his son's search. The King of Turold still held his sword tightly in his clenched right hand.
A flash of light on metal caught Colwyn's sorrowing eye. He reached down and recovered the source of the glint. It was the royal Turoldian medallion his father always wore, displaying the arms of the kingdom and the ever-present image of the ancient glaive, symbol of old power. He stared at it, glad to have something to gaze upon other than the face of his father.
A soft but insistent voice sounded behind him: "There is no time now for grief. Sorrow is a luxury reserved for those of small import. Those with destinies to fulfill must have a care how they ration their time."
"Don't speak to me in profundities, old man!" Colwyn's tone was bitter, the pain at the back of his head replaced by a much stronger one deep inside. "You haven't lost a father and a bride on the same day!"
"Nor have I ever become a king on that day."
Colwyn tried to laugh, could not. The hurt was too deep for irony. Instead, he gestured toward the courtyard and its ranked bodies and adopted a mocking voice: "How fortunate for you. I would gladly trade all I have. A kingdom? I have no kingdom."
"Your kingdom may be greater than you know."
Colwyn ignored the old man as he played with the medallion. How often as a child he'd watched it shine on his father's chest, had played with it while sitting on Turold's lap. Now its beauty seemed false, its design devoid of meaning.
"Your importunings tire me, old man. They have nothing to do with me. As for my 'kingdom,' such as it may be, I give it to you, and welcome to it."
Ynyr shook his head sadly and looked disappointed. "I came to find a king and I find a boy instead."
"Taunt me all you wish. I don't care. I would rather play the child now. Only a man can feel the hurt that deadens me inside. I long for the innocence of childhood." He turned away, angry at everything including himself, wiping the tears from his eyes. They were not replaced. He could not lose himself in sorrow because there was something remaining to him, for all that it seemed at that moment no more than a faint hope.
"Lyssa…"
Ynyr let him think a few moments longer before speaking again. "These are not the thoughts of a boy you are thinking, Colwyn. You could not play the child even if you wished. Another calls out to you, another is depending on you."
"What will they do with her?" he whispered.
"Take her to the Black Fortress."
"How can you be certain? Can you read the mind of a Slayer?"
"It is their only home, if such it can be called. The Slayers are servants. Booty belongs to masters, not servants. Aye, they will go to the Fortress."
"Can you lead me to it?" He moved to stand close to the old man. "Lead me to its door and I will make the Slayers regret the day they came to the White Castle!"
"Bold words, brave intentions, no forethought. It will do you no good to find the Fortress and the princess, only to die there instead of here. Do not be so reckless, Prince of Turold-Eirig. Planning can be as useful in battle as the sharpest sword. You must have help."
Colwyn turned away from him, his gaze peering beyond the shattered gate to the open plain beyond. The distances beckoned him.
"There is no help to be found here and I cannot spare the time to return to Turold."