She yawned her way back up to find the Yanweian sitting by his bedroll, hands folded in one of the Church’s prayer gestures – Agna remembered her Survey of Polytheism class, and the Church of the Four followers back home. That particular position was the prayer sign of Darano, the warrior god of order and power. The Yanweian’s eyes were closed, and he did not react as she gathered her nightclothes and dressing gown and slipped out to the bathhouse to change.
When she returned, he still hadn’t moved, except for his hands – Eytra’s sign, now. He looked up and then closed his eyes again. Agna hurried to pack up her clothes.
The Yanweian regained his concentration, shifting to the prayer attitude of Tufar. There were only four gods, for goodness’ sake; how long would this take? At the same time, some part of her found it reassuring. He wasn’t making a show of it – he didn’t seem to care whether she even noticed. He was serious about it, and he might even be the sort who prayed every day without fail, like Rone. She had seen the Yanweian praying during the ride, especially as night fell, when both of them were enveloped in their own thoughts. She had to respect his dedication. And the Church of the Four practiced sound ethics most of the time. If he was this serious about his faith and not observing it to keep up appearances, he was more or less trustworthy, or at least ethical.
Rude, incomprehensible, and so on – but ethical.
The Yanweian unfolded from the floor, took some clothes from his pack and stepped outside. Agna relaxed and, finally, shucked off her dressing gown in a pile next to the bedroll. She pulled her new blanket – thin, but of reasonable quality – up over her shoulders and huddled in. She should follow his lead and pray for a while. Following Rone’s lead had been intermittently successful at the Academy. She wasn’t sure she believed in the Divine Balance, but it was nice to try to meditate sometimes. Sometimes she could clear her mind, ponder the interconnected nature of creation, and call upon it for guidance and sustenance. Sometimes she got stuck in a loop of classes and dormitory insults and unwritten assignments. Her mind wouldn’t cooperate now, at any rate. Maybe in the morning.
Keifon: Open for Business
When Keifon stumbled from the tent on their first day of business, the Nessinian was seated by the campfire, dressed in dark brown robes, reading a weighty book with a foreign title. She raised a cup of tea to her lips and continued reading. Keifon groped for the teakettle and poured himself some hot water, then looked for the tea leaves. His mind was muddled after his fragmented sleep, and he pawed through the larder chest randomly.
He couldn’t handle breakfast, so he extracted the box of tea and left the food. Waiting for the tea to brew gave him a chance to finish yawning, and the hot liquid soothed his jumping stomach a little. It would have soothed his jangled nerves, as well, were it not for the disapproving presence of the Nessinian and her book. Keifon half-recognized the robes; they looked more or less like the heathen priests’ robes. They were nearly the same color as her hair, and the monochromatic contrast against her pale skin underscored her grim expression.
Keifon finished his tea and headed off to shave and change, feeling more alert, if not any more settled. Back in the tent, he gathered the blank logbook from the Benevolent Union and slipped it into his valise, along with some pens and ink. He fastened the medic’s pin just below his collar. The Nessinian met him outside the tent, her own logbook under her arm. For a moment they faced one another, unspeaking. Then he picked up the pile of folded equipment, sliding the valise handles over his wrist, and headed toward the road. When he glanced back at a crossing in the path, she had slung the Benevolent Union’s clinic tent over her shoulder.
Their assigned spot in the camp layout was placed close to the main flow of traffic, perhaps to give any sick patients the shortest possible walking distance. On one side, a bookseller checked over his inventory. The booth on the other side was a simple table and chair under a canvas sun shade. Its proprietor glanced up from his unpacking to gesture a greeting in the Kaveran style. He was too pale to be Kaveran – Achusan or Nessinian, something eastern. He and the Nessinian would have to be chums, Keifon thought irritably. Weren’t their countries more or less the same?
Keifon stacked the tables and stools on the ground, and they set about the construction of the tent. It was larger than the camping tent, emblazoned with the Benevolent Union’s seal and the medical aid symbol on all four sides, and fitted with a curtain that slid over the door. He unfolded the tables, leaving the stools to the Nessinian; she could at least handle that much. Eventually they had produced an examination table, a small table for writing or holding supplies, and a set of four folding stools. They arranged a pair of stools on either side of the table, so that both could see patients at the same time.
“We should have water,” Keifon mused aloud. “And more light. I’ll go.”
The merchant next door had begun to unpack his wares by the time he passed by – scores of meticulously labeled bottles and boxes. An apothecary. He nodded to Keifon as he passed, but Keifon kept moving. He was in no mood to chat, particularly with yet another easterner.
He fetched the lamp and the water barrel from their campsite and set them up in the clinic tent. He opened his valise next to the lamp on the side table and began to take inventory of its contents. They were all there, of course, but doing it gave him somewhere to focus.
“It would be good to have a flame, too,” he remarked, mostly to himself. “I’ll get a spirit lamp when I can. Do you need anything?”
She pointedly raised her hands, and a faint light played over them. Keifon turned back to his supplies. Yes, it had been a foolish question, but he had tried to be courteous.
“Hello, new medics.”
Keifon looked up, and the Nessinian spun around. The apothecary lingered in the doorway. He bowed like a courtier paying tribute. The Nessinian returned it, which earned her an appreciative smirk.
“Edann Fletcher. Apothecary.” His accent was different from the Nessinian’s, Keifon realized. Achusan, perhaps. He knew little about the country except its widespread atheism, and the fact that it had been the first to discover explosive energy. This one, though, was nonthreatening enough, shorter than Keifon and slender, with bookish glasses. Exactly Kazi’s type. Keifon imagined this smarmy young apothecary listening raptly to one of Kazi’s fireside whispering campaigns, and felt nostalgia and anger pooling in his chest.
“Agna Despana, second-order healer of the Church of the Divine Balance.”
“And you?” They turned to Keifon. His old persona flooded back, the one he had refined as an apprentice, dealing with the buyers who came to trade horses. He smiled at the Achusan as though they shared a private joke.
“Keifon the Medic, of the Yanweian National Army.”
A genuine smile melted across the apothecary’s face, before he throttled it under an ironic smirk. “Pleasure to meet you.” He advanced a few steps into the tent, the tension in his slight frame belying his friendly words. “My shop is next door, so if you or your patients need anything, the business is always appreciated. I intend to refer anyone who might need your help, of course.”
“Thank you,” Keifon replied.
“Thank you,” the Nessinian echoed, and went on in what sounded like her native tongue. Behind his glasses, the apothecary flicked a glance at Keifon and back to her before replying. She went on deliberately, turning a shoulder to Keifon as though to cut him out of the conversation, but the apothecary – Edann – kept Keifon in his line of vision. Keifon felt a flicker of interest, but it died like a wayward spark. Not now, not yet. The thought of striking up a relationship again, even at some indeterminate point in the future, was exhausting.
Edann cleared his throat and replied in Kaveran, as though to rope Keifon into the conversation. “I’ve been here for three years.”
The Nessinian went on ignoring him. “Have you met a friend of mine, by any chance? He looks like an Islander, tall and dark, but he grew up in Nessiny and would sound li
ke a Nessinian. He’s a swordmaster – green cloak with a high-quality sword. Rone Sidduji is his name.”
“...Doesn’t spark anything. Sorry.”
“Oh... Thank you, all the same.”
“I’d better get back to my post. Good day and good business.” Keifon and the Nessinian murmured goodbyes as the apothecary left. The Nessinian lingered at the front of the tent, and Keifon stepped around her when the first patient came in.
“Oh! New healers?”
“Yes, ma’am. How may I help you?”
The patient was a middle-aged woman. He led her to one of the folding chairs with his hand on her arm. She giggled at his jokes. He hadn’t thought ahead of time about pulling out his old act. It had fallen onto him like an old cloak, and to his surprise it felt comfortable. It seemed to disarm the Kaverans, making them worry less about his accent and his alien looks. And he could always read those who reacted badly and take a cooler approach.
Keifon ran through a basic examination, listening to her lungs and feeling for unusual lumps and all of the usual mundane checks, as he chatted with her about her health and habits. It was refreshing to deal with a new patient. He had only practiced on the others in his unit during his training, and he knew every detail of their lives already. And he had reached the real purpose of his exile in this country. It was a comfort to finally be useful.
After the woman left, Keifon recorded the details of their transaction in his logbook. The Nessinian pounced on the next patient, a man with two young children.
“A girl healer?”
“Girls can be healers, the fall healer is a lady. Stupid.”
“Hey. Name-calling. – I guess the Nessinian gentlemen retired, eh?”
“Yes, sir. How can I help you today?”
“Just checking out the little ones for now. Hey. Don’t touch that.”
She persuaded one of the children to sit still long enough to be examined, and another patient ducked into the tent. Keifon swung back into action, leaving the father and children to her, ignoring the clench under his ribs.
A strange light caught Keifon’s attention, halfway through the next examination, and he glanced up to see the Nessinian holding out her hands to one of her young patients, letting the child stir her fingers through the pale green light and laugh in delight.
Keifon looked away, half irritated that she would use the divine power for such a trivial purpose, half aching with envy. Both children were about Nachi’s age, one younger and one a little older. Keifon wanted to grab their father by the collar and tell him to appreciate what he had.
He returned his attention to his current patient, a man old enough to be his grandfather, who seemed to appreciate his attempts at humor. He unwound the stethoscope from his valise and continued with the routine.
They jockeyed for patients for the rest of the morning, and Keifon ignored her most of the time. When he had patients, he focused on them; between patients he recorded his notes, and tried to recoup his energy for the next round. He tried not to think about her at all.
It wasn’t right that a heathen should wield the holy power that way. Only a Tufarian priest, anointed in the service of the gods, could be trusted to channel their power in the mortal world. A heathen with such power over life and death was an unnatural and terrifying thing. What would stop them from maiming and killing, without repercussion? Mortal law, and mortal law was fallible. He was right to be on guard against her.
He reminded himself that she was just a spoiled patrician child. It wasn’t his place to criticize, however unnatural her dealings might be. The Benevolent Union had shown poor judgment in setting them to this task side by side. There was no teamwork to be had between a patrician and one such as himself. It was ridiculous on its face. He refused to be her servant, she refused to treat him as human, and they each accepted the impasse that they had reached. The best he could do was to serve his time to the best of his ability, pretending that she didn’t exist. He hadn’t wanted company anyway.
A food vendor came by, advertising his wares with cries from his apprentice and a wafting smell that roiled Keifon’s stomach with hunger and burning pain. The Nessinian leaped to her feet and met the vendor at the door to the clinic tent. Keifon waved off the offer, and the vendor and his assistant moved on. The Nessinian closed the curtain across the door and pulled one of the stools over to the side table.
“You can take a second off,” she said archly.
“I’d like to rest,” he said. There was no point rallying the act with her. He wouldn’t confide in her, but there was no use in putting on a brave front, either. “I’m... not feeling very well right now.”
“...Oh. I can check it out if you like.” She held out a hand and mimed her energy-scanning gesture.
“No. Thank you.” Keifon closed his eyes and folded his hands in Tufar’s sign. He repeated the entreaty to the bronze god – not his chosen deity, but relevant in this situation. He wanted to practice the skills that the Army had taught him to the best of his ability. He was helping these people, in his small way. They were strangers and foreigners, but Kavera was under the gods’ sight, too. This had to be the reason that they had sent him here. He would atone by serving.
“Are you nervous?”
He looked up at her sudden question. She flustered, crumpling the wrapper from her lunch. “It’s natural enough. I mean. I even – I might have felt a little nervous myself. At first. But we’re here to help the people. That’s the important thing.”
“Hm.” She was thinking along the same lines, then. Keifon wasn’t sure whether to be troubled by that. He passed by her to dip a cup of water from the barrel and drink. She opened the door again, and soon enough, there were patients to distract them.
Keifon’s first afternoon patient had a badly healed wound in his arm, a fluke strike with the edge of a sickle, he explained. Scar tissue snarled over the half-healed gash, and Keifon’s careful fingers found a small mass under the skin. The patient’s fingers barely moved when Keifon prompted him. He might have damaged some of the tendons in his arm, Keifon thought. The man hadn’t sought out the local doctors, explaining that they were busy with the road patrol and that most of the townspeople just waited for the caravan doctors. He’d bandaged it himself and went on clearing the rest of his fields for the spring planting.
Keifon had dropped his joking demeanor at once, and slowed his speech so that his instructions would be understood. “This will be complicated. I’ll need you to stay calm.” He sat with the man to explain that he would have to cut open his arm to take out whatever was making that lump and to try to stitch it together properly. It didn’t seem to be infected, however, so it might heal better afterward. The Nessinian handled the next pair of patients, a child of about seven or eight with his pregnant mother.
Keifon helped the man with the sickle wound up to the table. He gave him a heavy dose of knockseed and instructed him to chew it until it was soft. Meanwhile, he dabbed the arm with antiseptic. He handed the patient a cup of water to swallow the medicine when it had begun to activate, and helped him to lie back. He spread a cloth under the injured arm. Injuries were his specialty, after all; the Army’s medical training was focused on recovering from battle and monitoring the health of one’s fellow soldiers. He knew enough about diagnosing illnesses and chronic conditions, but this was where his expertise lay.
The patient’s eyes were glazed and drifting shut, and his breathing had slowed. The Nessinian’s young patient hid his eyes, and his mother clucked sympathetically.
The Nessinian spoke as Keifon arranged his scalpels and needles. “I can close the incision, when you’re done. You won’t need to suture it.”
Keifon’s jaw tightened. Naturally, she had to undermine him in front of everyone, in the middle of a procedure that he could execute flawlessly. But she was right. If she could heal the incision like a Tufarian priest, the recovery time would drop to nothing. He had no rational reason to refuse her help. “All right,” he said at
last. “When I’m finished.”
“Tell me if you need anything,” she murmured. Keifon nodded tightly. She turned her attention back to the child and finished her examination. Keifon waited, wanting to spare the child the sight of blood and spare his own patient the extra risk of contamination. He scrubbed his hands as mother and child paid the Nessinian and left. The Nessinian closed the curtain over the door and turned to the side table to write in her logbook.
Keifon tapped the patient’s shoulder and touched his injured arm, watching for a reaction. He was unconscious. Keifon lifted his scalpel and cut open the half-healed skin over the foreign mass, carefully teasing the scar tissue and muscle fiber apart to find a chip of something black and inorganic – likely a fleck from the edge of the sickle that had cut him. Keifon pulled it out with tweezers and probed the area for more metal, finding nothing other than excess scarring and damaged tendon. He excised some of the scar tissue, hoping that the Nessinian’s healing could make the best of what was left, and rinsed out the cleaned wound with alcohol. At least it wasn’t infected. The inexpert first aid, and luck, had done that much.
As he worked, the Nessinian picked up the tools that he had used and washed them. So she knew how to assist in an ordinary procedure, Keifon thought. It was too bad that her attitude was so repellent. He could have used some backup.
“Here.” She returned to his side at his terse summons.
Keifon stepped back. She spread her hands on either side of the site, along the inner bend of the patient’s elbow and against the palm of his hand. She bent her head in concentration. Keifon held his breath, forgetting his own bloody hands. At first he saw nothing, but then the tendons squirmed and fused. Keifon pressed his wrist against his mouth, willing his stomach acid down. Whether she knew it or not, she was calling on Tufar, he reminded himself. It was the holy power under a false name. He couldn’t look away as the cut blood vessels and damaged muscle knitted together, slowing the trickle of blood. Finally the patient’s skin scabbed over and then smoothed. The Nessinian lifted her hands and staggered back, dropping into the stool by the side table. She rested her head against the corner of the table. Keifon saw her shoulders heaving with her breath, and his worry subsided.
The Healers' Road Page 5
