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Questions and Potions for a Sick Mind
When Ozorne began to emerge from the blackness that had shrouded his mind like a veil placed over a mirror after a death in the family, he had to distract himself from the bleak boredom that inevitably ensued while he was confined to his dormitory until Master Chioke deemed him recovered enough to resume his studies. He tried to prevent the darkness—that never disappeared entirely but did recede as long as his will triumphed over his madness—from swallowing him as a crocodile would a fish by reading a tome on herbal remedies Varice had lent him when Arram was busy attending classes.
He told himself that he didn’t wish to fall behind in his lessons, although in the shadows of his brain that he avoided acknowledging, he knew the truth was that he was trying to solve the mystery of what Master Chioke mixed into his potions. The question, initially posed by Arram, wouldn’t leave Ozorne in peace, tainting his perception of Master Chioke with treachery and sinister motives Ozorne couldn’t fathom.
As if Ozorne’s tortured thoughts had summoned him, Master Chioke stepped into the room, as ever neglecting to knock.
“You aren’t supposed to be straining your mind,” chided Master Chioke, crossing over to Ozorne’s bed and removing the book from between his fingers.
“Reading isn’t straining my mind. It’s entertaining it.” Ozorne scowled as he watched Master Chioke shut the book. Now he would be forced to find his place again once Master Chioke had the good grace to depart. What a waste of his precious time and energy. “I’m not an idiot even if I do have my fits.”
“I know you aren’t an idiot.” Master Chioke tucked the treatise into Ozorne’s bookshelf, which meant that Ozorne would have to travel what seemed a long distance from his bed to his bookshelf in order to reclaim his reading material. Master Chioke’s visit was becoming more blood-boiling by the moment. “Your fits are a sign of genius, Your Highness, not idiocy. Still geniuses more than most men must rest their minds. If you won’t promise to stop reading, I’ll confiscate your books until I judge you are fully recovered.”
“I promise I won’t read.” Ozorne would promise anything to keep his beloved books beside him, especially because as soon as Master Chioke was out of the dormitory, Ozorne planned to resume his researching. “Reading does help me answer questions about these dark states I fall into, though, Master.”
“What answer were you seeking in your book today?” Master Chioke’s voice gentled as he pulled Ozorne’s desk chair over to his bed and sank into it.
“I was hoping to find out what put in the potions you prepare for me.” Ozorne wanted to sound casual, but even to his own ears, his manner was pointed. “You never did answer Arram when he asked.”
“I didn’t realize you were aware that he asked such an impertinent question of a master of this university.” Master Chioke’s forehead furrowed.
“I’m still me when I’m in my states.” Ozorne bit his lip as he struggled to defy how he felt when his madness overtook his reason, holding him hostage in his own body. “That is, I’m me but I’m not me. Not being me doesn’t make me less aware of what’s happening around me, though, so I noticed you never answered Arram’s question.”
“I never answered because it was an impertinent question.” Master Chioke’s lips thinned.
“If I ask what’s in the potions you create for me, is that an important question or an impertinent one, Master?” Ozorne arched an eyebrow, struggling to maintain outward calm even as the darkness storming inside him threatened to overwhelm him once more. “Being forced to drink potions when I don’t know what’s in them makes me uneasy.”
“Do you distrust me?” Master Chioke’s tone was soft silk but his eyes were cold stone. Master Chioke was always advising Ozorne to trust nobody as far as he could throw them against the wind in a monsoon but obviously took umbrage at this stricture being extended to include himself.
“I would trust you more if I was told what was in your potion, Master.” Ozorne refused to waver as he locked his gaze on Master Chioke’s. “You’re my teacher, so why not satisfy my curiosity unless you have something to hide.”
“Not all knowledge is fitting for you to know yet, especially when you’re recovering from a fit. Your mother and this university have granted me the authority to administer potions to you when one of your troubled states overtakes you.” Master Chioke’s words were repressive but something in his eyes was reassuring, confusing Ozorne’s instincts. “It should be enough for you to trust me as your mother and the university do that my potions work to cure you.”
“They don’t cure me,” burst out Ozorne, massaging his aching temples. “They never drive the darkness inside of me away completely—I have to live with it all the time, and it hurts—and the darkness always swells to full strength again.”
“There are only temporary remedies that treat the symptoms rather than the cause of your fits.” Master Chioke reached out to clutch Ozorne’s shoulder but Ozorne twisted out of his grasp, because any comfort that couldn’t cure his madness was meaningless. “My potions represent the best treatment available to you.”
“Then you need to create a better treatment for me.” Despairing that he would ever be anything but alone in the dark—because Arram and Varice were too much a part of the light to penetrate the blackness inside of him, which sometimes was devoid of even the memory of light—Ozorne buried his face in his hands so that at least if tears trickled down his cheeks, Master Chioke wouldn’t see the tracks. “A treatment powerful enough to force the darkness out, because I can’t live by myself forever. I thought Arram and Varice were the same as me—that they would understand me—because they are as strong as me in magic, but they aren’t the same as me, and they don’t understand me.”
“Of course they don’t understand you any more than mice comprehend the ways of men.” Master Chioke was as determinedly patient as a tutor explaining that two plus two equalled four to a toddler in a tantrum. “Their magic might be as powerful as yours but their minds are much weaker. They lack your cleverness and ambition.”
“My friends are clever and ambitious.” Furious at the insult to his only two friends in the world, Ozorne lifted his head from his palms to glare at his teacher.
“Arram’s magic could make him mighty but he has less cunning than a flower in the gardens. At least some flowers have the sense to be poisonous.” Master Chioke’s scorn shot out of him in a snort. “As for dear Varice, if she had any brains to accompany her beauty, she wouldn’t wish to train as a kitchen witch.”
“I’d be happy to be a kitchen witch if I could be free of this darkness in my head.” Ozorne tore at his hair, thinking of the many times he had been tempted to bash his brains out to silence the insidious voices in his head that whispered endlessly of betrayal and vengeance, nursing his paranoia and his rage like a sow suckling piglets for the slaughter.
“You are a prince. Try to comport yourself with some semblance of pride.” The contempt in Master Chioke’s words as he rose and strode to the door with a final dismissive glance was a lance in Ozorne’s chest. “I’ll leave you to regain your senses and your dignity.”
After that, Ozorne was alone to weep into his hands as always.