Fyskar

Chapter 17

Eoin sat at a well-lit desk overlooking a sunny courtyard. A variety of apothecary materials, flasks, burners, droppers lay scattered across it's polished surface. A mortar and pestle stood unused at the far end of the table.

Eoin faced into the sun-filled room, back resting against the table edge to push the tension from his spine. Henri sat at a smaller table occupied by food and a massive book. "This one is grape." The portly man pointed at the fruit and made a sign after reading a page. Eoin fumbled through the motion, gritting his teeth. It didn't feel natural to the pidgin language he had created with Egret Nest. "Better. What about this?" Henri held up a bone.

Eoin moved through the word and subsequent other anatomical terminology with more ease.

"You're improving, Niloofar. It takes time to put together a language, but if you are skilled enough to work this pharmacy and read these manuals, you are intelligent enough to learn to speak with your hands." Henri heaved himself from his stool and collected his belongings. "Your sons are picking up the language quickly with their teacher. Soon they will be able to help you if you need." He smiled kindly. Eoin nodded back, exhausted. The Huguenot bustled around the room to collect his books and props.

They had taken to enjoying each other's company in the afternoons when many of the staff left to the cool areas for rest. Eoin could write his communications with Henri and tended to work over a slate as they shared jasmine tea and small foodstuffs. Time had made them fast friends.

"You should probably head to Mirza. He will be preparing for tonight's banquet," Henri suggested over his shoulder as he left the room.

Eoin slumped against his workbench. How many banquets could the man possibly attend? Third in the last five days. Eoin silently groaned and pushed himself away from the table. Coming along with his words? Seriously? He had about twenty down in a language that required thousands. How would he ever be able to express himself adequately, and even at that, who of the staff and court would understand him waving his hands about?

He pulled a key from a floss thin strand of gold around his neck and unlocked the lock at his bracer. He went to the peg on his wall and grabbed his long-sleeve undershirt. The physician pulled his short-sleeved tunic off and exchanged it for the long-sleeves. Eoin sighed, the gossamer soft fabric settling against his skin. It made him warmer than he'd like, but it deterred the staff from accidentally bumping into him and dropping into the void uninvited.

Over the course of several dark evenings, he had shown Mirza the horror the Daleroch had instigated against his clan. In time, he showed the depraved depths of the slaving raid, of his own act of murder. He revealed his fear of being touched and found out for his talent. To still Eoin's terror, Mirza issued a decree to the palace that no one was to touch him under pain of death, but the Fyskar decided to be more proactive in his actions.

Eoin pulled his short tunic back on over the long-sleeves and slipped on thin leather gloves. He fumbled his gold chain before pushing the lock closed. It reminded the people of the palace that he was the property of the prince and caretaker of one of the king's young sons. To interfere with the physician was a reprehensible act against not only the princes but also the king.

He dropped the necklace back over his head and tucked it under his torc and shirts. Last he pushed his minor poisons and antidotes kit into a pouch at his hip. Eoin sucked in a deep breath and left the room, winding the stupidly long chain around his right bracer to keep from tripping on it.

As he eased out of his room and down the hall, he passed by a pair of people speaking in hushed whispers in an alcove. The physician tip-toed his way quickly to the prince's chamber. A guard at the door knocked for him.