Page 72 of The King’s Commander

Chapter Twenty-Six

Aedre

“Amma?”

The sun has barely risen, but Father has already gone to the forge. As is my custom, I came into Amma’s bedchamber to bid her farewell before taking stock of any herbs I might need, but she’s still abed.

“Amma?”

Normally, she wakes easily, but not this morn. She doesn’t stir. She doesn’t even move. Something is terribly wrong. I run to her bedside, repeating her name, only to realize she’s breathing much too heavily. I tear off her coverlet and examine her carefully, finding nothing else amiss except for her legs, which have both swelled. Lowering my head to her chest, I listen carefully.

And dislike what I hear.

Stepping back, I search frantically around the room. Our herbs are not located in here, of course, but it takes me a moment to remember that. To think. To plan. Amma has always praised me for having a calm disposition in uncertain times, but I’m finding it hard to cling to a single thought as I stare down at the only woman I’ve known as a mother, watching as she struggles to breathe.

Already knowing what this means, wishing I did not, I wipe away the tears in my eyes. It’s then I hear her voice in my head. Long, slow, deep breaths, child. You’ll not help anyone like that.

Finally, I can think.

I need foxglove leaf. And my father.

Running from the room, I make my way to the small healing chamber Father built, despite his hesitations about my calling, and begin to sift through the wooden boxes. I already know we do not have what I need, but I search for it anyway. It’s not there, of course.

Deep breaths, Aedre.

I do not wish to leave her, but she needs that plant. Fighting my impulse to return to Amma’s chamber, I run out the front door and do not stop. I tear through the field that doesn’t grow the plant I need, the soil not sour enough, and make my way toward the village, toward the cottage of the cobbler’s wife, where I last saw some. Not willing to veer away from my path, I shout a message to Agnar, who is making his way toward me.

“Tell my father Amma is unwell. I go to Anna for foxglove leaf.”

I don’t wait for his response. “He is at the forge. Tell him!”

By the time I arrive at the cobbler’s home, shouting for Anna, I’ve found the calm determination that I need to help my grandmother.

“I need foxglove. ’Tis for Amma,” I say as Anna emerges, obviously having seen me coming.

“Go,” she says. “Go.”

I head around to the back, and without stopping to admire the pink blooms, I grab handfuls of leaves, thanking Anna, who wrings her hand on a stained apron. “Is she . . . ?”

My heart knows the answer, but I refuse to say it aloud. Instead, I thank her again and run back, knowing by now the village will have been alerted.

Indeed, by the time I return home, a crowd has gathered outside the house.

I push my way through them, not noticing any faces, intent on my one purpose: to bring Amma comfort.

Whipping open the door, I run inside and head straight to my healing chamber. Getting immediately to work, I grind the leaves into a paste, mindful that the wrong amount will do more harm than good. By the time I finish, adding water to the mixture, and return to her chamber, Father is there, sitting beside her.

“She must drink this,” I say, showing him the mug. He does not question me, but rather helps by lifting her head. Some of it dribbles down the sides of her mouth. Some of it she swallows. “That’s enough,” I say, and Father gently lays Amma’s head back onto the pillow.

We exchange a glance, but I can’t speak. Neither, it seems, can my father. For all their bickering, he loves and relies on Amma just as much as I do. Holding her hand, he watches as I move to the other side of the bed and do the same. I sit on the edge of the mattress, trying to feel reassured by the slight heat of her against me.

“’Tis her heart,” I say.

He asks the silent question, and I shake my head gently.

Amma has been getting weaker for some time. But just the day before she was as spry as ever, it seemed, even making the walk to the forge to sit outside the shop and greet passersby as she so enjoyed doing. And when I came home last eve, she was awake. Waiting for me.

“How was your evening child?” But a smile stole across her face before I could answer her. “Ah, Aedre. Of all the men in the world.”