He was dying, and there was nothing I could do.

I knelt in the grass of the garden, just outside the door that led to my quarters in the palace. Gently, I lifted the tiny bird and tried to make him comfortable in the folds of my dress. His wing flapped uselessly. I suspected that he must have clipped one of the branches of the tree that looked over the high wall that enclosed the garden.

If only we had a Healer in the palace, it would have been different. But no Madmen had been permitted within the walls since Ratans were outlawed, more than five hundred years ago. I could take him outside the palace grounds, but it was unlikely that I’d be allowed out without an escort, which would take more time to form than the little guy had. If they even allowed me out for what my uncle would consider such a frivolous outing.

So there was nothing I could do but kneel on the ground and care for him as best I could. If it was just his wing that was broken, it might have been possible to set it and splint it, and maybe it would heal on its own. But I could see his body was battered, likely caused by his rough landing.

“Tori!” The voice behind me shouted my name in alarm. I closed my eyes. Not good. I made no movement as footsteps approached.

“How many times have I told you not to sit on the grass?” the woman demanded. She was the woman who hovered over every aspect of the palace, making sure everything was in its place and tidy. I was often the object of her scrutiny.

“I know, Della,” I said. “But the bird-”

She glanced at the bird in my lap. “Oh. That. It will be taken care of.”

I had the feeling that her idea of “taking care of” the bird differed slightly from mine.

“No, it’s okay,” I said quickly. “I can handle it.”

“I will not allow you to do a servant’s work.” Della bent down and grabbed my arm in her iron fist. The woman was strong for her diminutive stature, and easily pulled me to my feet. The bird fell with a chirp to the ground.

I whirled to face her. “How dare you lay a hand on me!” I said, trying to put the strength of authority into my voice. It didn’t work.

“Come along, girl,” Della said, ignoring me. I braced my feet, but she still managed to pull me along behind her. We got a few steps toward the door when I heard heavy footsteps coming from behind. I twisted in the foul woman’s grip to see a heavily armored man approaching. He made his way across the grass toward us.

“Watch out!” I called. The man’s head twisted to the side, wary of some attack. Seeing nothing of danger, he took another step forward with a confused look.

With a small crunch, the tiny bird’s suffering ended.

“Miss Della,” the man said, “may I have a word with the young lady?”

“You killed him,” I said softly as Della’s hand released me. Again the man appeared puzzled.

“Who?” he asked.

I pointed at his foot. “You stepped on him.”

He raised his foot and examined the bloody mess of feathers under it. “Oh. Sorry.”

I tried to hold back the tears. For the most part, I was successful. “You had something to say to me?” I said in a voice that wavered only slightly.

“Yes,” he said. “My name is Strin, and I come with grim news. Your father was grievously wounded this morning while hunting boar in the northern forests.”

My mouth went dry, and all thoughts of the bird were pushed out of my head. “My father?” I whispered.

Strin nodded. “We only just arrived back at the palace. I was asked to find you and bring you to him.”

“Of course. Lead the way.” Thoughts flashed through my head as we left Della behind and made our way through the palace. The fear and panic were expected, but what surprised me were the thoughts of succession. If my father died, I would only be two steps away from taking the throne of Attarnon myself.

I shook my head in disgust at the selfish thoughts invading my mind. I didn’t even want to be in power. My father was injured, and likely to die, and I was thinking about taking the throne? It was horrible!

Fortunately, we soon reached the infirmary where my father had been taken, and the thoughts were pushed out of my mind. At first glance, the wound didn’t look serious. The doctor had washed the area, so it wasn’t until I got closer that I realized how bad it really was.

The wound ripped up his side, exposing bone at his hip and hooking up underneath his ribs. I took the scene in with a detached curiosity. I refused to accept it was my father lying there, and to distract myself, took an interest in what the doctor was doing.

Doctors were rare, especially here in Insen, as there was little they could do that a Healer couldn’t surpass. However, the palace had always employed a doctor for the few occasions when a member of the royal family took sick. Anyone with even the most remote chance of becoming King or Queen of Attarnon was not permitted to owe their life to a Madman. As it was, the Asylum held too much power over the country.

But there was only so much a doctor could do. He was crouched like a heron over the wound, his long fingers deftly passing a needle back and forth through the skin in an attempt to seal the wound. If the injury had stopped at the hip, it might have succeeded, but as I leaned in closer to watch the doctor’s work, I heard the slight gurgle of shallow breath coming from underneath my father’s ribs. A cursory glance revealed red bubbles dripping out of the wound and onto the bed.

One of his lungs was punctured.

With that sudden realization, I lost the tenuous detachment that had kept me separated from reality. I broke down. I don’t really remember much except crying and the doctor having me removed from the room. I guess I caused something of a disturbance.

When I was finally allowed back in, after calming down, the surgery was done. My father was lying under a sheet that barely moved with each breath he took. His face, usually strong, was pale, making him look years older. His eyes were closed – unconscious or asleep, I didn’t know.

I slumped into the chair by the bed. As I did, my father’s eyes opened. He tilted his head to look at me.