by Frank Morin
Within moments, he restored her hands, and the woman shrieked with joy, jumping up and down with glee, nearly crushing his ribs as she hugged him. She promised to bake him every one of his favorite foods in thanks.
Hamish smoothly stepped in to share ideas for dishes she could cook since Connor was busy tending other patients. News of the woman’s miraculous recovery bolstered the hope of other patients, and they each eagerly took the chair beside Connor, or were wheeled in on chairs or rolling beds, depending on their infirmities.
Connor healed them all.
As he poured his healing power into the bodies of his patients, he learned to understand the different nuances of how each body reacted to the energy. Bodies were fascinating things, filled with such a delicate balance of blood and tissue and muscle, all mixed together in marvelous ways. His sensitivity to those systems was deeper now, and as he removed scars and fixed crushed or missing limbs, it deepened even more. Soon he was able to understand with a single flick of his healer senses what each patient needed. The broken or incomplete systems in their bodies tugged at his mind like splinters in his own skin, drawing his attention without needing to seek them out.
That understanding helped him fine-tune control, which reduced the impact the healing had on him, which he deeply appreciated. Several times he had to pause to return to the mindscape with his affinity bridges and cast those effects onto that final bridge back to Alasdair. It wasn’t an affinity bridge, but he sensed it was somehow vital, and he hated weakening it.
He didn’t like referring to it as ‘that bridge back to Alasdair’, so decided to call it his Family Bridge.
What choice did he have but use it, though? He couldn’t stop, not now that he’d given those people hope, not when Jean was counting on him. But he also realized he didn’t have to cast the entire burden upon the family bridge. He held back, releasing only enough of the consequences so that he could keep working. As a result, he began to feel deeply exhausted. Every limb ached with phantom pain, his vision deteriorated, his hearing turned inconsistent, and he nearly fell several times.
He didn’t think anyone but Jean noticed. The patients were too distracted by the healing, and Hamish was distracted by the baker, but Jean watched Connor with concern that she tried to conceal. Luckily she didn’t interrupt or force him to explain what was going on. Connor had survived battle and danger many times without shrinking from it. He would not shrink from healing.
As he poured the healing power into people, he could now direct it at a microscopic level, fostering growth and connections that had been previously invisible. One thing that surprised him was feeling flashes of pulsing energy flowing through nerves. He’d never felt that before. He sensed it was used to control muscle movement, but the little pulses felt so much like flickers of strum that he’d felt from the Varvakins. Was that a coincidence, or a deeper connection than anyone had yet made? The idea was fascinating.
As Connor moved from healing terrible injuries to helping regrow burned or scarred flesh, or even entire limbs like he had with Jean, he grew to understand the process better and better. Growing new limbs became more a process of stimulating the body’s innate abilities to grow and heal than it was adding foreign matter to their systems. By the time he had regrown his fifth limb, he could direct the work far more efficiently and with far less expenditure of energy.
That fifth patient was a seven-year-old boy, crippled since birth. He was one of the patients that Jean had been planning to help with one of the semi-autonomous summoned limbs. Connor could feel how nerves and tissues and even some of the bone structure had grown incorrectly, preventing the boy’s legs from ever working. As he guided the healing power, he exulted to feel the misaligned pieces slide into their correct positions, and he loved the look of wonder on the little boy’s face.
Almost before he finished, the boy began shouting. “I can feel my legs!”
Despite cautions from Jean that he take it slowly, he bounded off the bed to his newly strengthened feet.
And of course fell flat on his face.
He had not yet developed balance, and it would take some time, but he did not let that slow him down. He leaped back to his feet again, exclaiming at the wonder of being able to move so quickly. And when he again toppled over and rolled onto his back he laughed so hard that tears shone in his eyes.
Connor laughed too. As the boy’s jubilant parents helped him to stand again, Jean hugged them all, tears of joy in her eyes. That moment burned itself into Connor’s mind. He knew he’d never forget how happy he felt.
They did not finish the work until nearly midnight. Jean looked like she could have continued for days. Her eyes were glowing with overflowing joy, and she kept randomly kissing Hamish. That helped him stay focused too, although as much as he liked to grumble that they had missed the feast he did not urge them to stop.
Jean coined a new term for Connor’s new healing power. Flesh crafting.
That was very good, as good as one Verena might come up with. It was a pretty accurate depiction of what he did too.
Finally Connor leaned back in his chair, barely suppressing a groan. He felt like a crippled old man and just wanted to lie down to sleep for a year. He could cast all that pain away, but stubbornly refused to do so. Even holding back like he had, he’d cankered the left-hand rail of his family bridge for a hundred yards, and the right-hand rail for fifty. He needed to understand better what he was doing before he would do it more.
“Is that everyone?” he asked, glancing up to where Jean stood, looking more like a blurry ghost than herself.
She pressed a mug of soup into his hands. “Just one more patient. Drink this, and we’ll go see him.”
Connor gladly sipped the warm soup. It filled him with warmth and seemed to ease some of his aches. Was that why the old gaffers in Alasdair always liked soup so much? Connor had assumed it was because they’d lost most of their teeth.
As he lowered the soup, he spied a padded rocking chair, empty now that he’d healed the man who’d occupied it. It called to him in a way no rocking chair ever had, and he couldn’t resist the urge to rise and cross to it. He tried to conceal how much he hurt, but groaned softly, rubbing at his lower back.
“You should rest,” Jean suggested, not hiding her concern.
“I’ll be fine,” he assured her as he settled into the rocking chair with a sigh of bliss. It fit perfectly, and that gentle rocking motion eased his aches wonderfully.
Hamish wandered over, chuckling. “Never thought I’d see you enjoying a rocking chair.”
“I’ll have you know, in my day I’ve been a . . .” Connor trailed off, shocked. Had he really started a sentence that way?
Hamish chortled, and even Jean laughed, although she looked even more worried. Connor concealed his embarrassment by slurping down the rest of his soup and asked, “Why do we have to visit the last one? Is he confined to a bed with no wheels?”
“No. He . . . doesn’t want us to visit,” she said softly.
“He doesn’t want to be healed?” Connor asked softly, his own pains fading as he considered the strange idea.
“Of course he does, but . . .” She sighed, and even with his blurry vision, he could tell she looked grieved. “He’s given in to despair and doesn’t have the hope left to believe he can be healed.”
That was so sad, Connor immediately rose. He had never felt that level of despair, but how would he have reacted if he’d suffered a debilitating illness or injury with no hope of relief? “Where is he?”
Jean led the way. Just the two of them followed the central hallway to the last door on the left. Connor wobbled a little as he walked. Jean took his hand to lead him and said, “Thank you for sacrificing so much for strangers, Connor.”
“I’m doing only a fraction of what you do every day,” he said honestly.
She gripped his hand, but made no further comment. When they reached the right door, Jean knocked softly and entered. Connor followed her into a com
fortable room. His knees creaked audibly, and his back hurt, but he suppressed another groan.
The walls were bare, the room completely unadorned. A man sat in a rocking chair facing away from the small window, staring at one blank wall. His body looked fairly fit, maybe in his thirties, but his eyes looked old, and he didn’t look up when they entered.
“Why do you torment me, Lady Jean?” he asked in a forlorn voice, surprising Connor by speaking near perfect Obrioner.
She crouched beside him and said in a cheery voice, “Because I want to hear your music, Golssen. I want to hear you sing.”
Golssen gestured with the stump of his left arm, which ended at the wrist. “Don’t mock me. Without my hand, I cannot play my lute. Without my lute, my voice is but a mockery.”
Jean glanced back at Connor, looking anguished. Connor stepped closer and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. He could simply start healing, but felt Golssen needed a little more of a push. “What if I told you I could heal your hand?”
“No one can,” Golssen said with simple finality.
“What if I could? What would you do with your restored life?” he pressed.
The man gave him an annoyed look, but Connor held his gaze, and he must have sensed his earnestness because he hesitated, glanced at Jean, then back at Connor. He spoke softly, but with the first strength Connor had seen from him. “If you are mocking me, I will find a way to make you pay.”
“Good man. And if I’m telling the truth?”
“Connor, what—” Jean began with a frown.
“Trust me,” he told her, not breaking eye contact.
“If you can heal me . . .” Golssen hesitated, as if really considering the question for the first time. “I’ll dedicate my life to helping others find hope.”
“Works for me,” Connor said with a smile.
He tapped sandstone, and healing power again roared through him. He focused his fleshcrafting down into Golssen, whose eyes widened at the feeling of intense heat. Other than his hand, the man was whole. His depression had crippled him more than his injury. Connor fixed the first handicap in a moment.
The rest was up to Golssen.
The man stared at his restored hand, a look of wonder on his face. His eyes slowly lit with hope as he realized he was really seeing his hand again, really feeling it. He laughed aloud, threw back his head, and burst into song. It was a Grandurian tune, and Connor couldn’t make out most of the words, but he didn’t need to. The song was full of heartfelt joy.
It took a few minutes to get away from Golssen, who pumped Connor’s hand more times than he could count. His own hand wasn’t feeling well and he couldn’t seem to grip, but Golssen didn’t seem to care. He sang another Grandurian song, and his voice really was excellent. By the time they left the joyous group, Golssen had found his lute and started playing a foot-stomping tune for the other patients.
Usually Connor would love to stay and enjoy the music, but at the moment he felt cranky and longed for a little quiet, a soft blanket, and a long nap.
66
Glutton Crafting
Connor felt so happy that he managed to make it back to Jean’s quarters before collapsing. Jean worried over him, but he assured her he just needed rest and to eat.
She immediately rang for a servant to bring them lots of food.
He felt horrible, but happy at the same time. With all the danger in the world, all the terrible threats they faced, it was wonderful to see some good come from Petralist powers. The queen might have used her unmatched abilities to destroy the entire city of Jagdish, but he had just restored normal life to scores of people. For the first time he began to glimpse Jean’s drive to dedicate her life to healing.
“That was pretty amazing,” Connor admitted.
Hamish grinned. “I bet that baker will have the first batch of pfefferneusse here within the hour. Did you know she was the personal baker of Lord Eberhard?”
Jean looked completely content. “You worked miracles tonight, Connor. I know it cost you more than you want to admit, but you saved their lives.”
Hamish said, “You’d think the queen would spend more time healing. I bet if she did that instead of destroying everyone’s minds, she’d own Obrion. No one would revolt if she helped them like this.”
That was a good point, but Connor doubted she would ever consider it. The queen’s powers were for her use and her glory, not for serving others. And by getting so caught up in that, she missed the true potential of her greatness.
Besides, he doubted she’d willingly sacrifice so much for anyone else. Glancing at Jean, Connor could imagine her as queen of Obrion. She would spend her life toiling endlessly to help improve the situation of all of her subjects, and as a result they would follow her through any danger. He could already see it among the citizens of New Schwinkendorf and even Faulenrost. He did not doubt her influence would only continue to grow because she used her new station as a way to find even broader opportunities to serve.
That gave him hope for the future.
Jean said, “If you’re willing, and once you’re recovered, I’d like to prepare a list of other severe cases. Maybe when we have time we can visit them one at a time.”
Connor smiled. It felt a little lopsided. “I think that’s a great idea.”
“Once you understand how to manage the side-effects better,” she said sternly. Then she added, “There’s one other thing I would like you to take a look at as soon as possible, and one thing I need both of your thoughts on.”
Connor chuckled. “I don’t think even I could find a way to fill Hamish’s head with anything other than thoughts of food.”
“And thoughts of Jean,” he added. That won him a happy smile from her.
She said, “First, Connor we’ve been studying infection and trying to determine why healers sometimes struggle curing it. We’ve been fine-tuning our special super-near-vision goggles, which we now call micro-vision goggles.”
“That last model is working, then?” Hamish asked between bites of an entire nut-crusted muffin he’d produced from somewhere.
She nodded with a grin. “Wonderfully. We’re seeing down into tiny structures that the Althins think are the basic building blocks of life. They call them molecules.”
Hamish chuckled. “Sounds like that skin condition Stuart caught when we were ten.”
Connor grinned at the memory. Old Mhairi had mixed up a particularly foul ointment to spread over the rash. She’d insisted the rash was infectious and that Cinead and Keith rub it over their faces and arms too. Connor had always suspected she’d made up that part just to humble them. They had been exceptionally troublesome that year until that vile lotion treatment.
Jean gave Hamish an annoyed look and stole part of his muffin. She popped it into her mouth, despite his protest, then brushed crumbs from her fingers. “As I was saying, we’re still trying to understand what we’re looking at. My teams are documenting their finds, but I’m realizing this is a process that’s going to take years. I’m hoping with your help we can understand more. That could cut months or years off the research and eventual cures.”
That was a good idea and Connor immediately agreed. He hadn’t gotten to peer through those new micro-vision goggles yet. They sounded fun. He wondered if her teams had looked up each other’s noses with it yet. That had been the first thing he and Hamish had done with one of the earlier models. He smiled at the memory.
“What’s the other thing you need from both of us? More of my muffin?” Hamish asked, gesturing with the mostly-finished confection as if daring her to try snagging another piece.
“It’s Nicklaus,” she said.
“Is he all right?” Connor asked, instantly concerned.
“He’s recovering well. Still can’t access his affinities,” she answered before he could ask. “I’d like you to check in on him to see if you can sense what happened.”
“Good idea,” Connor said. With his new sensitivities, maybe he could figure out
how to heal Nicklaus’ affinities. That would be something.
“And I’d like you both to speak with him about the conversations he’s been having with elementals.”
“What?” Connor and Hamish exclaimed together.
Hamish added, “You mean, just like Verena and just like Connor?”
Jean nodded. “Verena mentioned something about a threshold and speaking with Water the last time we talked, and you had mentioned you see elementals.”
“I speak with them now too,” he told her with a grin.
“Good. Nicklaus claims he hears them, particularly Water. She taught him how to purify water.”
She didn’t sound pleased. Hamish asked, “Why does that worry you?”
“Have you heard elemental people speak to you?”
“No, but I’d love to.”
“Nicklaus is just a boy.”
“I think the elementals want to help. They’ve been teaching me things, like how to handle the effects of my fleshcrafting,” Connor told her.
“So why aren’t you using that technique?” Jean asked simply.
He hesitated before saying, “Well, I’m still figuring it out.”
She gave him that look that told him she knew he was holding something back. She repeated, “Nicklaus is a boy. I don’t know what the elementals want. I just want you to speak with him and encourage him to talk with you before following their instructions again.”
Hamish chuckled. “I’m impressed he listened at all. He doesn’t like obeying anyone.”
Connor loved speaking with the elementals and learning from them, but it did seem strange that they would reach out to Nicklaus. He hadn’t approached that threshold, so how did they make contact? Was it somehow tied to his lost affinities, or the fact that he had possessed affinities as well as Builder powers?
He said, “Sure, we’ll speak with him before we head back to Merkland tomorrow.”
