Throne (3)
There was a smell. Fresh grass, and something like a burnt bitterness.
The sensation tickling her nose dragged Adelaide's consciousness back to the world.
The first thing she saw was a low ceiling. Some kind of wooden hut. In a word, a place she didn't know.
When she tried to sit up, pain surged through her left arm.
From shoulder to fingertips, like hot iron searing her flesh.
“You're awake.”
A voice came from the corner.
She turned her head. An old man sat by a small hearth in one corner of the room, boiling something. Gaunt build, face full of wrinkles, back badly hunched. He glanced over at Adelaide.
“It's been five days since you woke up.”
“……Five days.”
“Heh, thought you were a goner, that's for sure. Your bones were stickin' out like this.”
The old man held his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart.
Too exaggerated to dismiss, with the pain in her left arm so vividly real.
Adelaide looked down at her left arm. A wooden splint held it rigid from elbow to wrist, smeared with a poultice of crushed herbs.
“Where'd you find me?”
“The wasteland. Half a day's ride from here. Spotted you while foraging for herbs.”
“……You carried me alone?”
“Got a cart, don't I? A wandering herbalist ain't worth spit without one.”
“I see…… Thank you. You saved my life.”
“Too early to thank me yet. That arm might not heal right.”
The old man lifted the pot from the hearth and ladled something into a wooden bowl. A thick, murky liquid.
“Drink up. It's good medicine.”
“……This?”
“Picked it in the wasteland. Can't vouch for the taste.”
The smell rising from the bowl was foul. One sip filled her mouth with bitterness. Only then did she have the leisure to look around.
The hut was cramped. Not so much a bed as straw on the floor, covered by a threadbare blanket. Bundles of dried herbs hung by the hearth, glass jars in the corner.
“So…… what's your name, miss?”
“……Adelaide.”
“Fancy name. Noblewoman, eh?”
“……No.”
“Heh heh…… Don't care anyway.”
The old man took a swig of his own brew and grimaced. Even he, the maker, couldn't stand the taste.
“Call me Gramps. Real name's too long even for me.”
“……Why Gramps?”
“Don't matter which. Name's what you call folks easy, ain't it?”
“……I suppose.”
Adelaide forced down the medicine and lowered her gaze. Her right hand came into view. Beside it…… nothing. Zenon's dagger was gone.
“……My things.”
“In the cart, safe and sound. Just a dagger and some ragged clothes, though. Somethin' valuable?”
“……No, nothing like that.”
“Rest up. You starved for days, bones showin'. Got porridge—want some?”
No reason to refuse. The bowl Gramps handed her held thin porridge of mixed grains. Her left hand fumbled the spoon—clatter clatter—but she managed.
“Slow down. Eat too fast, you'll hurl.”
“……Got it.”
“Only water for five days. Stomach's weak now.”
“What's in this porridge?”
“Bits of this and that.”
Soon the spoon scraped the bottom. She finished, and Gramps refilled it.
“More.”
“Thanks.”
“Save the thanks. Alone in the wasteland? From the battlefield?”
“……Something like that.”
“Enemy human or monster?”
“Human.”
“Lord almighty. Beat that bad by a human? Who was it?”
“…….”
“Don't gotta say. Just askin' for treatment info, not curiosity.”
“Uses mana. Some wounds are from mana.”
“Mana? Wizard?”
“Not quite magic. Shadows…… something like that.”
“Shadows.”
“Hard to explain. Power of darkness, maybe.”
“Darkness, huh. Fancy.”
“……Yeah.”
“Wounds look treatable, but mana stuff ain't my field. Just poultices is all I got.”
“That's enough.”
“More porridge?”
“……One more.”
By the third bowl, her belly filled and her mind sharpened. The pain sharpened too.
“Ribs hurtin'?”
“……You checked.”
“Treated you five days. Two ribs cracked for sure.”
“Back too?”
“Back's just scrapes. Wide gashes like you were dragged. Long slash on the thigh.”
“……Bad shape.”
“And you wake after five days? Normal folk stay out ten.”
“I'm sturdy.”
“Sturdy don't cover it.”
“……My constitution.”
“Stretchin' it for constitution.”
Gramps grumbled but tucked the blanket back over her.
“Hurts, lie down. Gave you medicine—sleep'll come.”
“Sleep…… later.”
She had something to do.
Adelaide rose without help. Vision swam from the arm pain, but she braced the wall with her right hand. Gramps frowned and tried to stop her, but she ignored him.
Stepping outside, vast openness greeted her. Endless barren plain to the horizon—she'd been carried far.
A cart stood nearby. She approached carefully and retrieved the dagger stored inside.
Zenon's dagger. Bloodstains on the blade—whose, she didn't know.
She closed her eyes.
Tried to pray. As always. In despair, in terror, prayer came first. Even in Istius's temple. Even when Ailin mocked her, hands clasped, head bowed.
But not today.
Instead of clasping hands, she brought the dagger in her right to her chest. That became her prayer.
“……Zenon.”
She spoke the name.
As it left her lips, something inside began to crumble.
“Kairin, Derek, Ricardo, Paul——”
One by one. Names of her Royal Guard subordinates.
Those who died fleeing the forest, those who killed each other, those who charged into the dark when she said she'd stay.
“Hans. Franz. Erins……”
Her voice cracked with each name. Trembled, broke, then continued.
“Rudy. Carlos. Mace.”
And the last.
“……Everyone, I'm sorry.”
She wept aloud. Something from the depths of her chest burst from her throat.
She hadn't cried seeing the notice in Istius. Nor hearing of the bodies in the tavern. Even finding the dagger in her bundle, it mixed with rage.
This was different.
Pure, whole…… tears for the dead.
Gramps, who had approached, said nothing.
Long after, Adelaide's sobs quieted. Blurry vision. She wiped her eyes with her hand, snorted, and stood.
“……Done?”
“…….”
“Water?”
“……Yes.”
Gramps handed her a leather waterskin. The water soothed her swollen throat.
“The dead?”
“My men.”
“You didn't kill 'em?”
“Same as if I did.”
“That ain't yours to judge.”
“No, it is. I said I'd stay. I sent them to flee.”
“So you're cryin' now?”
“I was. It's over.”
“……Over?”
“If tears could bring 'em back, I'd cry forever. But they can't.”
Adelaide sheathed Zenon's dagger at her waist—one-handed, left arm useless. Then she looked at Gramps.
“One favor.”
“What?”
“Let me stay a few more days. Till I can move.”
“Wasn't plannin' to kick you out. I picked you up—got responsibility.”
“Thanks, Gramps.”
“Save it. Got water and medicine, but food's short. I'll hunt rabbits while foraging—wait here.”
“……If I can, I'll hunt instead.”
“With that arm? Good joke.”
“One arm's enough.”
“……Heh.”
Gramps laughed hollowly and went inside. But Adelaide stood outside a while longer.
Wind blew, dust rising into the air.
The tears were done. Dried up. One thing left.
She had survived. Begging forgiveness could wait.
First, there was work to do.