The Healers' Road

by S E Robertson

  Keifon felt like a traitor against himself. But it was enough. He couldn’t ask for much more than this, after all he’d done.

  He picked up his nanbur and warmed up his fingers. After he’d played a few scales, he bent down to murmur to Edann, “I know I haven’t domesticated you.”

  Edann’s smirk was intoxicating even upside-down. “I know you haven’t.”

  Keifon began another song.

  ***

  Agna and Nelle spoke in hushed voices, but Keifon heard them. He set down the book he’d bought in Vertal just as Agna ducked inside. The smell of beer clinging to her clothes made the acid rise in his throat, and he pressed a hand against his mouth.

  His mind stampeded. Not her. Not now. Not here. Not where he was safe. Agna smiled. Her steps were steady as she crossed the tent. She did not weave. Keifon forced his thoughts to slow down. She drank so rarely, and she didn’t seem too drunk now. She and Nelle had probably gone out to a tavern and had a little, just a little, because some people, most people, could do that. Nelle wouldn’t let anything happen to her.

  “Hey, how’s it going?”

  The smell roiled his stomach with a sickening combination of longing and revulsion. “Um – can you – can you clean up before you turn in tonight? I just – your clothes – they smell like beer, and I can’t – can you please?”

  “Oh. Sorry. Yeah, of course.”

  Keifon lay back in his cot and breathed until his head stopped spinning. He dimly heard her approach, and opened his eyes just as she picked up the book.

  “Immigration Patterns in Kavera?”

  “I – it – hey.” He grabbed the other end of the book, and she let go. Keifon stuffed the book under his pillow. “I didn’t mean for you to—”

  “Is that from Wayron’s cart?”

  “Uh – n-no. It’s what I bought in Vertal.”

  “Ohhh. The secret one.”

  “…Yeah.”

  “Hm. Well, I’ll go clean up. I’ll hang my clothes outside, is that all right?”

  “Y-yeah. Thank you.”

  He stowed the book under his cot and turned over to sleep. She smelled like soap when she returned. Nothing more.

  Agna: Vigil

  Keifon and Agna grew quiet as Quickwater Crossing drew near. The trees closed in overhead, no different in species or habitat from any of the other trees they’d passed along the route, but under their canopy the air seemed sinister.

  Agna’s hands shook as they set up the tent in their designated spot – in the same spot. She ran through one scenario after another in the back of her mind. She could ask Nelle if the two of them could stay over, and pitch it as a little private party. But it was unlikely that either she or Keifon would be able to playact for long. The guard captain wouldn’t allow them to hire a personal guard for the night, as it would wreak havoc with their schedules. It was too late to flee back to Prisa. She was out of ideas. Stay up all night, and keep the lantern burning. That was all.

  She felt a little better about having sold the trunk in Vertal. Every changed detail reminded her that this year was not last year. They unpacked their backpacks, set up their cots – another change, that was good – and took refuge in the clinic tent. As long as the patients needed her to be calm and competent, she could be calm and competent.

  Keifon did not speak about last year. They talked as much as was necessary to handle their cases and take care of business. Otherwise, he had glazed over. He wasn’t angry; she could read that much in his posture and the tone of his voice. He was simply far away. She remembered how glassy-eyed and distant he had been during the attack. At the time, Agna had taken it as incompetence in soldiering. She understood now that it had something to do with his parents’ death, connecting the two events in his mind.

  The patients stopped coming soon after dark. Keifon looked up at her and planted his hands on the examination table as he stood. But Agna found herself speaking first.

  “Are you all right?”

  He blinked, and the mask dropped. He sat down, his hands hanging between his knees. “I... hm.” There was no point in asking what she meant. It hung in the air, in the gathering dark. She had only pointed it out.

  Agna fidgeted, straightening her belt. “Because I was thinking about what we could do, you know, instead, and I didn’t come up with anything.”

  “Instead?”

  “Of, uh, waiting. Around. Tonight. In the tent.”

  “They’re not coming back,” Keifon said. She wasn’t sure that he believed it.

  “Yeah, but I still feel weird. I know it’s stupid, but I do.”

  He was quiet. “...Yeah. Me, too.”

  A shiver of relief displaced a little of Agna’s worry. It felt better just to say it, to know that she wasn’t alone, to know that they were looking out for one another. “So... I guess we can go back. We have to pack this up anyway.”

  “Yeah.”

  They set about dismantling the tent together. When the clinic had been packed and hauled off, they walked across the camp to their tent. The bonfire was beginning to glow in the middle of the camp.

  “Bonfire?” she asked, as Keifon picked through the larder chest.

  “Ennh. If you want to go, I’ll go.”

  “Not especially.” She sighed and flopped on her heels at the fireside. “Could you hand me the flint box?”

  Keifon passed it over and continued to assemble ingredients for dinner as Agna built the fire. He arranged their new pan on its stand while the flames were low. Agna offered to help, and together they washed and cut the vegetables that he had bought that afternoon. When the fire had caught on enough to heat the pan, he added some oil.

  Agna surveyed the operation; he seemed to have a plan in place. “How long will this take, do you think?”

  “Mmn, twenty minutes. Thirty at most.”

  “Do you mind if I...”

  “Sure. I won’t start without you.”

  She packed up for the baths, leaving him to the cooking. Upon returning to the tent, she realized the flaw in her plan; she would have to either get dressed or eat dinner in her dressing gown. Sighing to herself, she wrapped up in her nightshift and dressing gown and tried not to worry about it. It was a stupid thing to worry about, anyway. Keifon didn’t comment when she re-emerged. And, she thought as she settled into her spot by the fire, it was comfortable. Keifon passed her a cup of water and a bowl of spring greens, delicate green peapods, and oil dressing.

  “My, my. I feel spoiled. Thank you.” She tasted a forkful; the dressing was spiked with vinegar and herbs. Her appreciative noises made him chuckle.

  “You’re welcome. Well, we said we wanted to branch out. The vinegar is from Nelle’s shop. Infused with... things.” He waved a hand.

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “Garlic, and herbs and things.”

  “That sounds delicious and ominous.”

  Keifon stirred the vegetables in the frying pan as they finished the salad, and dished it out into their empty bowls. He had put together something that seemed Yanweian, though she couldn’t name it – spring onions and vegetables cooked in a salty sauce.

  “I’m sorry that we don’t have rice or meat or anything. I couldn’t... I didn’t want anything too heavy today. I hope that’s all right.”

  “That’s fine. It’s very good.” She wondered whether his stomach might be bothering him. Last year she had detected some ulcerous damage, but she hadn’t brought it up again. Maybe he would let her check, now that things were different.

  Agna forgot about the indecency of her wardrobe for a while, and almost forgot about the bandits. Afterward, they scrubbed the dishes and put them away. Agna put water on for tea, and Keifon excused himself for a bath.

  Agna sat on her heels by the fire, poking it more often than it needed, aligning every unpredictable log and ember. It might be all right. They were doing well. She felt better having eaten, and Keifon seemed calmer. They could play cards for a while, and then... not
sleep. Maybe they could play cards for a long while. And read. She had borrowed a book of Kaveran poetry from Wayron, having passed up the volumes in the shop in Vertal. It was far enough out of her usual habits to distract her for a while.

  But not long enough.

  She had to sleep eventually; she couldn’t stay up all night and nap on the wagon. She’d be a wreck for days afterward. She had to stop thinking about staying up all night. It was unreasonable.

  The teakettle had heated by the time Keifon returned, and Agna sipped meditatively on some herbal tea of Nelle’s devising. She looked up and felt her breath stick in her chest. Keifon sat cross-legged on the other side of the fire and reached for the kettle.

  “Is everything all right?” He shook some leaves into his cup and poured water over them.

  Agna set her cup down. It was what he always wore at night, when it wasn’t too cold. He’d worn the same thing last night. But last night she hadn’t thought about what those clothes had looked like covered in blood.

  “Just...” She shook her head. “I still don’t... feel quite right.”

  He almost smiled. “I never feel quite right.”

  Agna felt a little guilty for letting her mood lighten, even a fraction, but it worked. “We’ll be shivering wrecks together, then.”

  “Mmn. I appreciate that.” He sipped his tea as Agna finished hers. At least she wasn’t alone this time.

  She hadn’t been alone that time, either, she reminded herself. No matter what she’d insisted. The signs had been there, even then. She had risked reprisal from the bandits to help him, charging them with her healer’s art. He had all but carried her into the tent afterward. He had put her arm in a sling, and she had healed some of his injuries. They had tried to help one another, in their own hostile, clumsy fashion. She had seen his overtures as a threat, and rewrote his help into an insult to explain her own hostility.

  She couldn’t speak to Keifon’s mental state at the time, but he certainly hadn’t taken kindly to her healing. And, Agna realized, she had never offered again. She would offer soon. Some time when she had less anxiety weighing on her mind, and fewer distractions.

  Without speaking they completed their routine and retired to the tent. Agna reread Laris’ letters until she came to the end. She couldn’t write him back. Worrying about that wouldn’t wipe out the worry about their safety; it would only compound the problem. She put the letters away and picked up a book.

  Keifon put down his own book and sat up. “Do you mind if I practice inside?”

  “No, go ahead.”

  “Thanks.” He busied himself with unpacking and tuning his lute, and Agna turned her attention back to the page. Wayron had assured her that this book was a classic. The syntax was different enough from prose Kaveran to absorb her attention, untangling the inverted clauses and looking up words in the dictionary that she’d all but abandoned. Keifon’s lute plinked. He didn’t seem to be practicing any song in particular, and he seemed restless and distracted.

  “Hey.”

  Agna looked up from “The Maiden’s Journey on a Summer Day”. “Hm?”

  “What are you reading?”

  “Poetry. Kaveran. Got it from Wayron.”

  “Ah. So you do like that kind of thing.”

  “Sometimes,” she said, leaning on it mock-defensively.

  Keifon’s fingers soundlessly picked out a figure on the neck of his lute as he thought. “I was thinking… what we talked about in the bookstore, back in Vertal. I think that would be good tonight.”

  “A reading?” She scanned the page. She could do a fair job of this type of thing, even though she hadn’t done readings in Kaveran in school. And it would be distracting.

  “Not so formal. Just...” He chewed on his lip. “If you don’t want to, that’s all right.”

  “I didn’t say no.” Agna sat up in her cot and flipped through the preceding pages for a likely candidate. “What would you like?”

  Keifon shrugged. “Anything. Your choice.”

  Agna let a flash of irritation flare and sputter out. He had asked for it, after all, and now he was being indecisive. ...No, that wasn’t what he meant. The point wasn’t to explore the literary works of their host country. The point was to hear a friendly human voice on a dark night.

  She paged back to the first poem in the book, took a sip of water by the cup at her bedside, and began to read the heroic account of the Charge at Creek Bend. As the company formed and began to march, Keifon picked up his lute.

  Agna lowered the book. “Too dull?”

  “No, no. Go on.”

  Agna narrowed her eyes at him, but went on about the rhythm of the march and the flashing banners and all the rest. Keifon’s lute picked up a soft, percussive strumming, underlying Agna’s voice. When the rival army appeared over the ridge, with appropriate dramatic tension – she was beginning to get into this, a little – Keifon went silent for a few lines, then eased into a louder melody. It was probably an artful addition, Agna reflected. Setting the mood, and augmenting her reading. It was good that Keifon could participate. It felt more like a collaboration and less like performing for an audience.

  They kept up the counterpoint of words and music through the trumpets, the speeches, and the final doomed charge. After the smoke cleared over the battlefield, Agna closed the book. Keifon set down his lute. They didn’t speak for a little while.

  “Thank you,” Keifon said.

  Agna sketched a seated bow. “Thank you for your accompaniment.”

  He shrugged, embarrassed and flattered; she recognized the way he looked slantwise, and the hesitation in his voice. “It’s just… a thing I do. Used to do. Sometimes.” He bent to put the lute back in his case, and ducked out of the tent. Agna rubbed her eyes, and looked up to find him offering her a cup of water. She thanked him and drank. Keifon curled up on his new cot.

  “Ready for sleep?” Agna tried not to sound as though she dreaded it. It was late, and her head swam a little, but she could imagine the dark trees outside and what lurked among them.

  “Mmn, no. Not yet.” He huddled under his blanket. Agna reached for the book of poetry and had half-lifted it when he spoke. “Actually… would you read something from one of your books from home?”

  Agna frowned. “They’re all in Nessinian.”

  “I know. I mean, I’d assumed they were.” He adjusted the position of his pillow against his neck. “I just wanted to hear what it sounded like. It’s… kind of like music, if you don’t understand the words. Tones and sounds and inflections.”

  “…Huh.”

  “If you don’t want to, that’s all right.”

  “I don’t mind. Let me see…” She considered her collection. A copy of The Dialogues; philosophy would put her to sleep at this hour. Her medical reference, Blackhall’s, which was hardly a bedtime story either. Two novels. One she would be too embarrassed to read aloud, even if her audience didn’t understand the language. The only remaining choice was the right one after all.

  She found it in her new backpack and turned the cover toward his curious look. Keifon nodded. “I’ve seen you reading that one.”

  “It’s an old favorite of mine.”

  He smiled. “I wish I could read it.”

  “Well, it’s been translated into Kaveran. Laris said he’s read it before.”

  “I’ll have to look for it, then.”

  Agna tucked her hair behind her ear. “All right, so… The Wanderer is more or less a fantasy story. It’s about a girl who was chosen by her village to go out and find truth. It’s allegorical, really. And you’re never quite sure what it’s an allegory about. But – that’s later on. This is the beginning.”

  Agna settled into her blankets, lifting the book toward the light. “Chapter One. A Village.” The sounds of her native language felt strange in her mouth, as though she were speaking in a dream. She hadn’t bothered to speak Nessinian to Edann in several months, and she hadn’t gone to Rone’s house in Vertal, aft
er all. But the familiar words drew her in, step by step along the path.

  She had read The Wanderer first when she was eleven, right before she’d gone to the Academy. It had stayed with her through her life in the dormitories, through meeting Esirel and Rone and choosing her course of study as a healer and all of the heartbreak and infighting and triumph that had come after. The world in the story was always the same, and always changing, and always a mirror to Agna’s world, held up at an angle that she couldn’t quite see.

  Keifon listened to her voice. She understood why, or thought she did. It didn’t really matter what the story was, and perhaps he could draw some kind of musical interpretation from the sound. But her voice was a sign of safety on a night when they needed such things.

  Near the end of the first chapter, she glanced up to find him asleep. She let a private smile slide across her face as the heroine prepared for her journey. The Wanderer wasn’t alone in her world, either. Not for long.

  At the end of the chapter, Agna softly closed the book and set it down. Her arms felt light and free without its weight. She could sleep as long as she needed to. She moistened her lips, and spoke in words he wouldn’t know. “I still don’t understand you. But I’m glad we’re here.”

  She blew out the light.

  Keifon: Favor

  “Keifon?”

  Someone touched his arm. He thought he said something, though it probably came out as incoherent mumbling. His neck was stiff. Sitting on her heels by his bedside was the friend whose voice had lulled him to sleep. Keifon’s fogged brain reconstructed the facts and deduced that it was, indeed, morning. He heaved up onto one elbow and stretched his neck.

  “Mmgh. G’morning.”

  “Good morning. I hate to wake you, but we need to get moving pretty soon.”

  “Mmhm. Thanks.”

  Agna edged back, giving him enough room to sit on the edge of his cot and rub some life into his face. He noticed eventually that her cot was gone. Conflicting reactions swirled sluggishly through him: she had packed it up; he had slept right through it; he envied her energy at this hour.