Chapter 14

Valemonde, Lynese

Isolde pushed through the bustling crowd that filled the streets of Valemonde’s Traders’ District. The people parted in surprise at the sight of the princess in her deep blue silk gown, adorned with intricate silver embroidery. She made her way through them, ignoring the hawkers shouting their wares and the smells of roasting meats and baking bread mixed with the musky odor of filth.

Normally, the trip was a heartbreaking experience as she exposed herself to this side of the city, feeling pangs of regret and shame that so many of her people lived like this. Not today.

Today, she barely noticed the cramped shopfronts and apartments stacked haphazardly atop one another, leaning precariously over the street. She paid no mind to the ragged children with dirty faces who laughed and played tag, darting between carts piled high with goods.

Instead, her rage boiled over as she stomped toward her destination, clouding everything around her. Behind her trailed a burly man with a thick beard and a stern expression, unable to hide his clear anxiety. His eyes darted from person to person as he struggled to keep pace with the princess through the press of bodies. His uniform, emblazoned with the royal crest of House Montborne, marked him as a member of the Royal Guard, drawing even more attention.

“Princess,” he said as he caught up to her. “Your father has ordered that you remain at the palace. It is not safe for you to be out here.”

Isolde paused, her gaze fixed on the imposing structure looming before her. The Order of Healing Hospital, a massive stone building with high arched windows and a soaring spire, the banner of the Order, two hands, palms up, a flame in between them, fluttered in the breeze above the entrance.

“I don’t care what my father ordered,” she said, whirling on her guard, finger stabbing at him like a sword. “If you want to take me back to the palace, you’re going to have to tackle me and carry me back over your shoulder. But I warn you now, I will kick and bite you the whole way.”

“Princess, please,” the man said, holding up his hands, looking uneasy, “You promised your father. We just care about your safety. This is a dangerous area of the city.”

“My safety?” Isolde scoffed. “What about the safety of the men who are lying in there, wounded and dying, because my father saw fit to use them as pawns in his political games? I know what he did with my supply shipment, and if he can lie to my face, then I can lie to his.”

With that, she turned on her heel and marched towards the hospital, her skirts swishing around her ankles. The guard hesitated for a moment, then followed her, his face a mask of resignation.

The Disciples of Healing looked surprised to see her but pleased as well. This wasn’t her first visit to the hospital, and she had a reputation for being kind and compassionate to the soldiers in their care. They were also some of the few who didn’t fear her father’s wrath, their order placing them outside any worldly cares. Which might be why she liked coming here so much, as opposed to visiting the army directly, where her father very well might have had her tied up and returned to him.

She took a moment to shake off her anger. She might be furious at her father, but these men didn’t deserve that. They had fought and were wounded in her family’s name, and they deserved every bit of her focus and compassion. Putting a smile on her face, she paused beside a young man whose leg was swathed in blood-spotted bandages.

“How are you feeling, Tristan?” she asked, taking his hand in between hers, remembering his name from a previous visit.

“Better, Princess,” he said, smiling weakly as she said his name. “My leg doesn’t hurt so bad anymore.”

“Good. I’ve prayed to the Ancients for you. I’m glad they heard my prayers.”

“They would have listened to you, Princess.”

She gave him a small smile. He was a good man, not much older than her. The idea that he’d been forced to see some of the things he had at his age, with an equally young wife and child back at home, made her heart ache.

“The Disciples tell me you’ll be able to walk again soon. Next time I come by, I expect to see you ready to stand, even if it is with a cane. I know your wife wants you home to help with the baby, not lying about in here, talking to girls and being lazy.”

He smiled and gave a weak laugh. In truth, the Disciples had also told her he would probably never walk without a limp. They exchanged a few more words before she excused herself to continue her rounds.

At the next cot, she found a soldier staring vacantly at the ceiling, his face pale and eyes hollow.

“Alric? Can you hear me?” she asked.

He was a fairly recent arrival, one of the many to be brought back, injured from the fighting near the Chansol River. On her last visit, he had been very weak, but awake. She looked around, worried that his condition had deteriorated so badly.

A Disciple, seeing her look around, approached, his voice low. “I’m afraid the infection has spread, Your Imperial Highness. We’ve done all we can, but I fear he may not last the night.”

Isolde nodded, excusing the Disciple, blinking back tears as she looked down at the man’s ashen face. Gently, she brushed the hair back from his forehead and leaned close.

“May the Ancients guide your soul on its journey and welcome you into their eternal embrace,” she whispered. “Your service and sacrifice shall not be forgotten.”

Straightening, Isolde had to steady herself for a moment as grief threatened to overwhelm her composure. With effort, she regained control and continued down the row of cots, knowing there were many more soldiers who needed her now. She could mourn later, in private.

Some cots she stopped at to say a few words, others she knew the person either didn’t like to speak to people or knew she made them feel uncomfortable. Those she would give a smile or a nod and pass them by, although she’d still talk to the Disciples about their condition.

Seeing a face she didn’t recognize, which wasn’t unusual with the newly wounded men being brought in every day, she stopped. He was older than her, but not that much older, maybe in his mid-twenties. His side was wrapped up in bandages, a light pink coloring on them as it already began to bleed through. His leg was also wrapped up tightly, boards on either side immobilizing it.

It wasn’t his injury that immediately caught her attention, however. He had an odd expression on his face, one of almost resignation. She’d seen enough dying here over the last year to know that was as big of a danger to their recovery as their physical condition, and keeping their spirits up was as important as any medicine the Disciples might give them.

“How are you feeling?” she asked kindly.

The man looked up at her uncertainly. “All right, I suppose, Princess. This leg pains me something awful, though.”

Isolde nodded sympathetically. “Have they given you something for the pain?”

“Yes, Princess, but it hasn’t started helping yet.”

“It will. I know it’s hard, but you have to be patient, let the Disciples work the Ancients’ will upon you,” she said, and then paused, unsure how to ask what she wanted to ask. “When I first came over, you looked troubled. Is something else weighing on your mind?”

“No, Princess,” he said, hesitantly. “I’m ... it’s fine.”

“It’s okay,” she said, putting a hand gently on his shoulder. “I’m here to listen to you, all of you. If there’s ever anything I can do to help, I want to do it. Please, it would make me feel awful if there was something I could do and you didn’t tell me.”

She gave him a pleading look. She usually preferred compassion or sympathy to get through to reticent patients, rather than guilt, which tended to add to their troubles instead of easing them, but she could recognize the signs in him that neither of those would work. He was afraid to complain to someone high above his station, unsure of what would happen. It wasn’t uncommon, especially among men who’d come from more rural areas, where they had less contact with those of a higher station.

In those cases, guilt was the only way she knew to get them to speak up.

“I’m sorry. I ... uhh ... Begging your pardon, Princess, but speaking true, I’m awful worried about my home. The Viceroy’s men came and took me from my land near a year ago now. My wife and boys did their best to get the planting in, but with this bum leg, I’ll be no use come harvest time, even if they don’t make me go back to the army instead of sending me home. We’ve scrimped and saved, but I fear my family will go hungry this winter without my help in the fields.”

Reaching into the embroidered purse at her waist, Isolde withdrew several gold coins and pressed them into the farmer’s hand.

“Please, take this and send it to your wife. It isn’t much, but hopefully, it will help her hire day laborers to bring in your crops.”

The man’s eyes grew to the size of saucers as he looked at the riches in his hand. That was probably more than his farm made in a whole year, and she’d just given it to him.

“Princess! I can’t...”

“What’s your name?” she asked, interrupting him.

He started to protest again, probably expecting her to say anything else other than what she did.

“M ... Malteo, Princess.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Malteo. I am Isolde. Now, this,” she said, taking his hand and folding his fingers over the coins again, “is a gift freely given. To turn your back on the hospitality of another is an affront to the Ancients. You wouldn’t want to do that, would you, Malteo?”

“N ... No, Princess.”

“You seem like such a good man, I didn’t think so. Which means you’re just going to have to send this home to your wife, so she can take care of your family. You see, this isn’t even for you; it’s for her, and I know she would be shocked if you turned down a gift in her name. I may not have worked as hard as your wife, tending a field and children at the same time, but I know a little of what it’s like to be a woman. Trust me, I believe she has done everything and more to deserve this.”

“Thank you, Princess. Thank you. Thank you,” he repeated, relief washing over him as tears started to form in his eyes. “I will pray for you and your father, for helping us so.

“This is not from my father,” she said, her tone much harsher than she intended. “Consider it a gift from me alone.”

Her guard made a small noise of protest behind her, but Isolde silenced him with a look before turning back to a confused-looking Malteo, “Never mind that. You just promise me you’ll look after your wife. Okay?”

“Yes, Princess,” he said, nodding earnestly.

“Good. I have to go see some of the other men, but I’m here regularly and the Disciples have permission to contact me at any time. Please let them know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

“Yes, Regius. Bless you again.”

She patted him on the hand and rose, moving on, stopping at various cots to offer words of comfort and more coins when needed from her dwindling purse. Though she tried to be discreet, word of her generosity spread swiftly through the hospital, eliciting murmurs of gratitude. By the time she reached the end of that row of cots, her purse was empty. She cursed herself for not planning ahead sufficiently. She’d been in such a fit of rage, she hadn’t properly prepared for her visit.