“Those priests are worse than useless, and you know it!” Tsorreh said. “I am no physician, but even I know you cannot properly evaluate a patient by reading burnt entrails! I know that diseases follow certain principles, regardless of whom they afflict. If the priests could have cured him, they would have done so by now. His only hope lies in Meklavaran medicine.” With an effort, Tsorreh reined in her impatience. “Think of the good—to all of us—that will arise from this man’s gratitude when you have made him well again.”
“You cannot know what you are asking. Please, sit down. I will try to explain.”
Reluctantly, Tsorreh lowered herself back into the divan.
“The situation is a difficult one,” Marvenion said, his voice thick. “If what you have told me about this lord’s condition is true—”
“It is!”
“Then he is seriously ill. But he is no ordinary patient. I cannot simply walk up to his compound and expect to be admitted.”
“He has given me leave to search out a physician of my own people,” Tsorreh pointed out, struggling to keep her voice calm.
Marvenion met her gaze, his irises a rich dark brown, deep and expressive, so different from the washed-blue of Gelonian eyes. In them she read fear, and not merely for himself.
“Surely, when a sick person asks for our help, we must answer,” she said in as reasonable a tone as she could manage. “The te-Ketav teaches us that all human life is sacred and commands us to preserve it regardless of our own convenience, considerations of rank or nationality or property, does it not?”
How can there ever be peace between our peoples if we harden our hearts and turn away from those in need? Might one act of kindness create ripples through the temper of the times? How could she make Marvenion understand? And yet, she thought in a moment of understanding, the physician had every right to feel angry. Tsorreh sent a silent prayer to the Source of Blessings that she might find a way beyond that animosity.
“Whatever his family connections, this patient is not our enemy,” Tsorreh tried again.
Marvenion began pacing. “Even if I have been summoned, even if I am successful…. How can I explain the risk to you?” He turned away from her, facing the wall of medicine bottles. His voice hushed, hoarse with emotion. “If I am too late, or if I diagnose incorrectly, or if he does not respond to treatment—”
“Then it will not be your responsibility! I will swear by the One we both serve that you were bid to come, that the patient consented. That he sought your care!” In another moment, she thought, she would have no choice. She would have to reveal her identity and command him, as his te-ravah, to accompany her. “Or are you afraid because your skill is inadequate? Are you truly what you seem or an impostor in physician’s robes?”
“I wear these robes honestly. I have brought healing to men and women with this condition. The uncertainty is not in my personal competence but in the limitations of all medicine.”
Marvenion resumed his seat, his manner now somber. His voice lost the edge of agitation and shifted toward sorrow. “You have been in Aidon only a short time. You do not know the position of our people here or how precarious it has lately become. The risk is not merely to myself or even my family but to the entire Meklavaran community.”
Stung, not entirely sure she had understood the implications of his statement, Tsorreh asked, “What do you mean? Surely, Cinath would not punish others—” She broke off, astonished at her own naïveté. Why should she expect fairness from Cinath? Why not use the death of his brother as an excuse to further tighten his hold on Meklavar?
“Once we were welcomed here,” Marvenion went on. “We were valued for our industry and our learning. Nobles sought out our scholars to teach their sons. Merchants relied on the integrity of our money-changers. My own services were so much in demand, I could charge whatever I wished.”
“You mean that now, since the fall of our city, we are seen as enemies and therefore suspect?” Tsorreh asked.
“Whenever there is fear, the ignorant blame those who are different. The powerful benefit by distracting attention from their own failures. We have always known this. We also know that these suspicions will pass with time. Those with whom we have dealt honestly will regain their senses.” He shook his head, as if lamenting the follies of the world. “Sooner or later, the people of Aidon will realize we pose no threat to them. Then they will relent. In the meantime, we must do what we have always done: keep to ourselves and do nothing to attract attention.”
“So you will allow a good man—a man who might be our friend—to die when you might have saved him?”
A ruddy flush rose to Marvenion’s cheeks. The lines on either side of his mouth deepened, furrows of care etched into his flesh. “Will you bind me to my promise, knowing what it might cost our people here in Aidon? Think carefully before you answer. If I treat this lord, if I so much as pass the gates of his compound, and anything ill befalls him, then bloody retribution will fall on every Meklavaran in Aidon.”
She could assume the risk for herself, and she could ask Marvenion to do so, but could she do it for every Meklavaran in the city? She no right—not even as te-ravah—to demand it of anyone else. She might inspire others with her own example, she might attempt to persuade, but she could not bring herself to compel such a thing.
“You must answer to your own conscience,” she said quietly. “As for me, I cannot let him die, not if it lies within my power to save him. Will you tell me what to do?”
He stared at her, his expression unreadable. She could not tell if she had shamed him, or if her suggestion were so outrageous that he could not think of a suitable answer. Slowly, he nodded. “I will. The risk is low but acceptable.”
“What risk is there, if I myself administer the treatment?”
“It may be that if the worst happens,” he said, “the medicines I will give you may be traced back here.”
“You must then claim that I obtained them by deceit, saying they were for one of our own people.”
“Then I will teach you what to do, and may the Source of All Blessings watch over us all.”
Tsorreh headed back to Jaxar’s compound with a list of instructions and a parcel of medicines, tinctures of foxglove and hawthorn to ease the heart, horsetail, nettle, and Denariyan ginger to strengthen the kidneys. Before she left, they agreed that she would report back on the efficacy of these treatments and obtain new supplies as needed.
Chapter Twenty-one
WHEN Tsorreh and Astreya returned, the compound was buzzing with activity. Servants scurried about, performing all the tasks necessary to support a large household. Lycian’s onager stood in the stable yard, being bathed and then rinsed with lemon water. Bees hummed among the planted flower beds. A pair of men in broad straw hats bent over to weed and tend the kitchen gardens. A boy, undoubtedly the same one Tsorreh had surprised on the stairs, chased birds away from tilled earth. A gaggle of maids chattered as they carried baskets of food and tubs of dishes between the house itself and the kitchen.
Astreya paused at the crossing of the kitchen and main paths. “I must go help my mother.”
“Of course.” Tsorreh tightened her grip on the precious box. “And thank you.”
Bobbing her head, Astreya hurried away.
In Jaxar’s chamber, Tsorreh found Danar sitting at his father’s bedside. A book lay open across the boy’s knees. Daylight streamed through the door on the far side, admitting a gentle breeze as well.
“Tsorreh!”
“I’ve brought medicines.” Real medicines, she refrained from adding, not priestly mumbles.
“No one knew where you’d gone.”
Ignoring Danar’s comment, Tsorreh set the box on the table. She peered into the jar of parsley tea, to find it almost empty. To her eyes, Jaxar looked no better, but certainly no worse. “How does he fare?”
“He’s been able to sleep. I think my reading soothed him.”
“Yes, it would.”
&nbs
p; Danar looked as if he hadn’t stopped for rest or meals but had ridden straight home. Dusky hollows shrouded his eyes, and a smear of dust marked one temple.
Tsorreh clucked, as she used to when Zevaron had stayed up too late. “Go to bed now and leave him in my care. Come back when you have eaten and slept. And bathed.”
“But what if—”
“I will send word if there is any change. Go now, before I have two patients to look after!” She took Danar’s elbow and propelled him toward the door.
Danar pulled away from her grasp. “You don’t understand. If Lycian finds you alone with Father, she’ll have you whipped. And if Father gets worse, she’ll charge you with poisoning him. It won’t matter that he’s had these spells for years. She’ll find a way to blame his illness entirely on you.”
The room felt almost unnaturally still. Even the movement of the air through the opened door and the distant pattering of voices could not disturb the sense of waiting, of expectancy.
“Let me stay,” Danar said quietly. “I won’t get in the way. I may be useless at nursing, but if the worst should happen, I can be a witness to what happens here. I’m a member of the royal family, and my word means something. I’ll challenge any charges my stepmother brings.”
Greatly moved, Tsorreh nodded. Danar picked up the book and took a seat on the bench just inside the door.
Tsorreh opened the box, surprised to find her hands trembling. Marvenion had written out what she was to do on a paper tucked inside. She reviewed the instructions. Jaxar might take hawthorn in quantity, and she was to prepare a fresh brew of horsetail and nettle, flavored with honey and ginger, to nourish his kidneys. This, too, he might drink freely.
Of all the medicines, foxglove infusion was the one most likely to cause harm if unwisely used, as well as the greatest potential for healing. Willing her fingers to be steady, she measured out the required number of drops of the liquid, mixed it with water in a cup, and gently shook Jaxar awake.
His eyes went wide, unseeing. She spoke to him, first in Gelone, then in her own tongue. Awareness returned gradually.
“No more potions,” he mumbled. “Damned grass-tea, not fit for men to drink. Give it to the goats!”
Marvenion had said the parsley tea was mildly beneficial, certainly not dangerous, and that the patient should drink as much as he desired. “Perhaps it would taste better with a little mint and honey,” she suggested. “I’ll make you a soothing tea later. Drink this.”
Tsorreh coaxed Jaxar to finish the entire cup, and then set about elevating his head and massaging his feet and lower legs as Marvenion had instructed her. The motions reminded her of how she used to care for Maharrad.
She bore with Jaxar’s increasing complaints until it became clear that he was too restless to sleep, although Danar was snoring softly on his bench. There had been no improvement in Jaxar’s breathing, although Marvenion had warned her not to expect it so soon. She picked up the book that had fallen from Danar’s lap. It was a treatise on the care of onagers. Smiling, she took a seat and opened it at random to a section dealing with the fitting of bridle and harness. This seemed as tedious a place as any to begin.
Tsorreh read slowly, letting the syllables rise and fall in gentle waves. Jaxar’s breathing slowed, and the creak and wheeze of his lungs seemed quieter. Closing the book and setting it beside the pitcher of parsley infusion, she got to her feet.
The door to the interior of the house had swung partway open. Issios stood there, his face a mask. Tsorreh had no idea how long he had watched and listened. Unable to think of what to say, she closed the medicine box and picked it up. Issios did not move as she approached the door. Her heart beat faster and her palms sweated, but she kept a tight hold on the box. At the last moment, he turned his body to let her pass. Then he stepped on the dais and bent over Jaxar’s sleeping form.
Tsorreh glanced back at the steward. The light from the opened outer door cast his face into shadow. She still could not read his expression, but it seemed softer, less critical, tinged with hope, or perhaps that was only her own heart speaking through her sight.
Since there was no sign of Lycian, Danar agreed to get some rest. Tsorreh spent the rest of the day brewing teas of hawthorn, nettle, and ginger, as Marvenion had instructed her, coaxing Jaxar to drink them, and reading to him. She exchanged the treatise on onagers for a history of Gelon by an unnamed scholar from Borrenth Springs. The flowery, overblown language was designed more to glorify the Ar-Kings than to accurately record events. Even so, she was able to glean enough to make the reading as informative to her as it was soothing to Jaxar.
Danar came into the bedchamber toward the end of the afternoon. He looked drowsy but he wore a clean tunic, and his face had been scrubbed and his hair neatly dressed. He offered to take Tsorreh’s place. At first, she would not hear of it.
“When did you eat last?” Danar said in a slightly teasing tone.
“It doesn’t matter—” she began, and then realized he was right.
One of Jaxar’s personal servants arrived to take away the chamber pot. Jaxar had begun urinating frequently because of the diuretic herbs, just as Marvenion had predicted. From the antechamber came the alternating sounds of Lycian’s high voice, the yapping of Precious Snow, and the indistinct answering rumble from Issios.
The outer door swung open. Danar jerked alert, quickly masking his reaction. Tsorreh’s back stiffened. At least the box of medicines was nowhere in sight.
“And you must pay special heed to—” Lycian broke off in mid-sentence as she absorbed the scene, Tsorreh seated beside Jaxar’s bed and Danar standing beside the door. Lycian’s mouth dropped open and her face flushed, her fine brows drawing together. Three or four attendants, none of them pretty enough to give Lycian any cause for jealousy, clustered behind her. The white dog rushed at Tsorreh, barking and growling. One of Lycian’s maids scooped up the trembling pet. Issios remained at the door. He nodded to Tsorreh, and she realized he’d delayed Lycian long enough to give a moment of warning.
Lycian glared at Tsorreh. “What do you mean by this intrusion into my husband’s private chambers? You have no business here!”
“She’s been helping me, Mother.” Danar hesitated a fraction over the word Mother, but his tone was firm. He glanced pointedly at the table beside the bed. “Fetching and carrying, the sort of thing you wouldn’t want me to do myself. Didn’t you say Tsorreh must make herself useful?”
Responding to his cue, Tsorreh picked up the pitcher.
“On your way, then,” Danar said to her. “Don’t spill any on the way back.”
Just then, Jaxar woke up. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath that shook the whole hulking mass of his body, but without any of the former wheezing. Lycian flew to his side, cooing with concern.
“Now I am back, dearest husband, and I will care for you myself. Do not tire yourself.” She wiped his brow with one of the silk scarves that fluttered loose around her neck.
Tsorreh and Danar exchanged glances. Silently she headed for the door. Issios had not moved from his post there. As she slipped past him, he looked directly at her. His expression did not change, only the light in his eyes. With the slightest shift, the mere turning of his shoulders, he moved out of her way. She had to pass close to his body, but she now understood the subtle dance of his signals. He knew what she had done, and by moving into the space he created for her, she indicated her understanding, her acknowledgment of his thanks. He had just told her that he would do his best to find a way for her to continue with her treatment without Lycian’s knowledge.
* * *
The kitchen was as busy as ever, not just with the preparation and sharing of food, but the thousand tiny acts of kindness and rage, pettiness and despair, that made up the lives of these servants. Tsorreh paused just inside the outer door, empty pitcher in hand, and let the sounds wash over her: voices, the clatter of metal implements, the rhythmic thud of knives chopping through vegetables, and the swish of water.
As she crossed the main room, she inhaled the bruised-grass smell of greens, the tang of herbs, the sweetness of wine and of honey, of new-baked bread from the adjacent ovens, the savory smell of meat.
The pair of scullery girls nodded in shy greeting as Tsorreh entered. She found Breneya in the stone-walled distillery room, sorting and tying bunches of herbs to be dried. Strings of them hung from the rafters, and shelves filled with bins and baskets lined two walls of the chambers. The air was thick with the concentrated smells of herbs, vinegars, garlic, and powdered myrrh.
Breneya looked up as she hung a bunch of fresh herbs from a hook set in a rafter. She wore a spotless apron and matching head scarf. A short, curved knife hung from the ribbon around her neck. She wiped her hands and put away the knife, folding the ribbon around it and tucking it into one of the ample pockets in her apron.
“I’ve been sent to fetch more of the parsley tea,” Tsorreh said, holding up the pitcher.
Breneya took it from her and filled it from a stoneware crock on one of the shelves. “There. That will do him good.”
“Do you know this herb and its properties?” Tsorreh wondered if there were a second, hidden, network of healers in Gelon, women like this one who might pass on to their daughters the practical knowledge of medicinal plants.
The cook’s mouth softened. “That I do. In the country where I was bred, we know many such things. We have no priests to tell us otherwise.” She ran her hands over the round belly of the pitcher before handing it back to Tsorreh. “My grandmother always said that nothing else was so efficacious as a general tonic. When she was a girl, her own mother was near death. For three days, the old woman lay in bed, scarcely able to speak, and drank nothing but parsley tea.”
“And did it help her?”
“Indeed, for on the fourth day, she sprang up, frisky as a kid goat, and lived another ten years!”
Tsorreh laughed. She couldn’t imagine Jaxar frisky.
The Seven-Petaled Shield Page 27
