Well of Darkness

by Margaret Weis

  He was quiet a moment, thoughtful, then he said in a low voice, “I cannot bear it, Patch. I cannot.”

  “Then you will simply say you cannot, Your Highness,” said Gareth crisply, relieved, “and put an end to this.”

  “No,” said Dagnarus stubbornly. “That I will not do!”

  “Then what will you do, Your Highness?” Gareth demanded, exasperated.

  “I don’t know yet,” said Dagnarus. “I will think of something. At least,” he added glumly, “if I do have to go, I shall not go on an empty stomach. Let me finish my nap, then bring me something to eat.”

  The Order of Hospitalers was one of the least respected, most criticized, and undervalued of all the Orders of magi—at least among the human population. Magic, steadfastly reliable in nearly all other circumstances, was unreliable when it came to healing. Theologians had long argued the reason for this. The most cogent argument, the one most people ascribed to, was the one put forth one hundred years ago by Healer Demorah, head of the Order of Hospitalers.

  When it comes to healing magic, we are dealing with what might be considered opposing forces. The magic of the healer attempts to act upon a person possessed of his or her own magic. It is natural for a person’s own magic to resist magical influences from outside us. This is the gods’ way of protecting us from what otherwise might harm us. Thus we are, to a certain extent, naturally resistant to spells cast upon us, spells that might be evil in nature or intent, spells that might force us to do things we are not inclined to do—one reason love potions are not successful unless the person is already so inclined.

  The healer is therefore faced with the problem of overcoming a body’s inherent distrust of outside magicks, a distrust that may be enhanced by the body’s weakened state. We are successful in treating those illnesses and conditions where we can persuade the body’s own natural defenses to work with us in helping to cure the person.

  The healers combine magic with other methods designed to induce the patient’s own internal magic to aid and abet the healing process, not fight it. The healers do this by many means, one of which is to provide a calm and tranquil atmosphere in which the patient can relax and concentrate all his or her energies upon healing. The Hall of the Hospitalers was, therefore, an attractive place. The building, which was part of the Temple complex, was kept spotlessly clean, for the healers had learned that disease appeared to breed and spread in filthy conditions and that rigorous cleanliness of both the body and its environs was conducive to the patient’s well-being.

  Huge windows in the outer rooms permitted fresh air and sunlight into those areas where patients were convalescent. Interior rooms were kept warm and snug for those patients suffering from chills, pneumonia, sore throats, and colds. The patients and their internal magicks were daily lulled with the soothing music of harp and flute. The fragrances of sweet lavender and pungent sage masked the stench of illness. Carefully prepared medicines and possets, whose properties had been tested and annotated over the years, enhanced the body’s own magic powers of healing.

  The art of healing was considered the most difficult of all the arts, requiring extra years of study. The healer must be extraordinarily patient, of easygoing temperament, yet quick to think and react in life-threatening situations. The healer must have an extensive knowledge of the practical application of herbs and herb lore, as well as thorough grounding in Earth magic as it applies to both the healing arts and ordinary, everyday life. In ancient times, such magical knowledge had included Void magic, since it was quite possible that the healer might come across a patient who had embraced the Void. That practice had been discontinued for several reasons. Practicing Void magic was illegal, now, and no one would dare admit to it. In addition, the healers had found it difficult to treat practitioners of Void magic, who sap their own life energy in order to work their dark craft. Thus the body’s own magic fights stubbornly against the healer.

  The Hall of the Hospitalers was a multistoried building, divided into large rooms with beds for many patients. The patients were segregated along the lines of male and female, adults and children, and by race.

  Few elves came to the Halls. If elves fell ill, they almost always chose to return to their homeland for treatment. On the rare occasion when one was brought here in an emergency situation, the elves had their own room which was open to the sky (in clement weather) and filled with trees and plants. Their healers accompanied them, stayed with them, and forbade any outside interference.

  Neither the dwarves nor the orken availed themselves of the Hall of Hospitalers, having their own practices for healing magicks, most of which human healers viewed with shock or a shudder, but which seemed to work for the races involved. The orken patients were immediately immersed in seawater, no matter what their malady—one reason why so few orken lived inland and, if they did, lived in places where travel to the sea was no more than a day’s journey.

  Following the seawater treatment, the patient was taken either to his home or that of the shaman, who attempted to make life intolerable for sickness, which was viewed as a physical entity that had seized hold of the victim. An orken patient was therefore subjected to foul odors, rancid food, hideous masks (worn by the shaman and the victim’s relatives, intended to frighten away sickness), and the bleating of a bagpipe, a sound sickness presumably found abhorrent. How orken lived through the cure was a mystery to most humans, but the orken not only lived through it, but apparently thrived on it.

  The dwarves’ method of practicing the healing arts was not to practice them, or to do so very wantonly and haphazardly. A sick or incapacitated dwarf was a hindrance and a danger to the entire tribe. Most dwarves who fell sick suffered in stoic silence, pretending that they were fine and avoiding the dwarven healer for as long as possible, for most of the time the cure was worse than the illness. It was the responsibility of the dwarven healer to have the dwarf back in the saddle and thus their cures tended to be drastic and unpleasant, though oftentimes effective. Dwarven healers were not chosen for their salubrious temperament, as were humans, but rather for their strength, for dwarven healers were often required to convince a reluctant patient that treatment was necessary. To this end, dwarven healers were almost as skilled in knot-tying as the orken.

  Not being one to brood on situations and events over which he had no control, Dagnarus slept away the morning and woke feeling much refreshed. Hearing approaching footsteps, he hastily knelt before the small altar in the cell and assumed an attitude of prayer. He was so deeply sunk in his meditations—his eyes closed, his head bowed, his hands clasped—that the Dominion Lords who came to escort him to the Hall were at first loath to break in on his communion.

  They were under time constraints, however—this first trial must be begun this day, and so, after a whispered consultation, one of them stepped into the cell and touched Dagnarus gently upon the shoulder, apologizing most profoundly for disturbing him.

  Disappointed that his stratagem had not worked (though he had not really expected it would), Dagnarus let the knight shake him a couple of more times, then opened his eyes and gazed up at the man with an expression indicative of one who draws himself away from something inordinately wonderful and beautiful to look upon the ugly and the mundane.

  “My lords,” he said respectfully.

  “Your Highness,” said Lord Altura in equally respectful tones, pleased by the prince’s air of chastened humility, “it is time for your first trial. You will accompany us.”

  “I am ready, my lords,” said Dagnarus, rising to his feet.

  He wore the white robes. The other three Dominion Lords wore their full ceremonial armor, as befitted the occasion. Two walked beside him, one behind.

  During the walk to the Hospitalers, Dagnarus appraised closely the two knights, one to either side. It was the first time he’d been able to study their armor closely. He was impressed with what he saw. The armor was lightweight, yet strong enough to turn any ordinary weapon, and many magical ones. The dif
ferent pieces of the armor: the greaves and shin guards and ornately designed breastplate, the helm and the mailed gloves, were not donned in pieces, but appeared on the body by the will of the Dominion Lord, who touched a pendant and invoked the gods. The armor would also appear of its own accord, if the Lord was threatened.

  Dagnarus’s longing to obtain such wondrous, magical armor increased his determination to become a Dominion Lord and gave him fortitude for the upcoming trial, which he judged would be the worst of the lot.

  Lord Altura was Lord of Chivalry. Her armor was fashioned to honor the horse. Her helm, a stylized horse’s head, was graced with a flowing mane of spun gold. Dagnarus wondered what animal the gods should choose for him. He hoped it might be the wolf, for whom he felt a special affinity.

  The Hospitalers were waiting to welcome Dagnarus, who had never in his life been to the Halls of Healing and who had, before this, no intention of ever entering them. He inhaled fresh air deeply before he walked inside, for he expected to be assailed with all sorts of foul smells. He caught himself about to hesitate upon the broad steps, was startled and displeased to note all the physical sensations of fear: sweaty palms, shortness of breath, clenched stomach, griping bowels.

  He had ridden in glorious charge upon the enemy, ridden so fast that his men had been left behind and he had attacked the enemy’s front ranks alone. He had been surrounded, assaulted from all sides, before his men had managed to reach him and extricate him. And he had not then felt such terror as he now experienced. He had seen lepers in the street, seen their mutilated hands wrapped in rags, which did little to hide the ravages of the dread disease. He had seen faces no longer recognizable as such, with great holes where noses should have been. He envisioned himself—leprous, disfigured, pitied, forced to skulk about the streets ringing that damnable bell which said, “Make way! Contagion comes! Make way!”

  He stared with horror at the great double doors behind which such creatures lived, and, for a moment, he could not move. Fear paralyzed him. He saw himself disgraced by his very first trial, and that sent a shock to his system. Steely cold resolve shot through his veins. His head cleared, his fear became something he could manage. Jaw clenched, holding his head high and his body rigid, Dagnarus entered the Hall of the Hospitalers.

  Once inside, he was pleasantly surprised and considerably relieved. The first rooms were the convalescent wards. These were light and airy and filled with patients in weakened condition, but who were recovering and were, therefore, on the whole, cheerful and not obnoxious to look upon.

  “Come now, this isn’t so bad,” Dagnarus said to himself. He walked among the patients, who sat in chairs, basking in the late-afternoon sunshine. Occasionally, he stopped and spoke kindly to a few, who were much honored by his attention. There was not a leper among the lot.

  “You people do truly work miracles here,” said Dagnarus to one of the healers, a particularly sweet-looking and quite attractive young woman. “I am glad I came. You may not believe this, Revered Magus,” he said confidentially, “but I had a horror of this place. You have put my fears to rest.”

  “I am glad we have been able to do so, Your Highness,” said the Revered Magus. “Now, if you will come with me, I will show you the rest of the Hospital and then take you to where you will be ministering.”

  “Am I not to be here?” Dagnarus glanced back at the cheerful room he had just visited.

  “No, Your Highness,” said Lord Altura, in close attendance. “These people do not need your ministrations. The sick and the incurably ill lie in a different wing of the building.”

  Dagnarus ground his teeth in frustration, but there was no help for it. The Dominion Lords and the healers escorted him to another large room, this one not nearly so pleasant. Here were the sick, those with diseases at various stages—some of them feverish and delirious, some covered with pox, some vomiting into bowls held by the healers. Had he encountered any of these wretches on the street, Dagnarus would have hastily covered his mouth and nose with his handkerchief and walked past as quickly as possible.

  He had no handkerchief, so this was not a temptation, though it was all he could do to keep from pressing the sleeve of his robe over his mouth. He breathed as little as possible, hoping to avoid sucking in the contagion.

  “I wonder how you can stand it!” he said in low tones to the young woman at his side.

  “You mean the sight of so much suffering?” she asked, looking at him with warmth in her eyes.

  Well, no, that is not what he had meant—he had meant how could she stand the stench of vomit, the smell of sickness, the risk of catching some deadly illness. That was what he had meant. But he did not correct her mistake.

  “It is difficult, especially in the beginning,” she admitted. “But what is my discomfort compared to their pain? Nothing at all. And you cannot imagine the satisfaction one feels in helping people to throw off some dread disease, in watching them improve daily, in seeing a mother restored to her children, a child to her parents.”

  “But sometimes you lose the battle,” Dagnarus said, trying to distract himself, fearful he might vomit just from the smell. Lavender and sage could do only so much.

  “Yes, sometimes our patients die,” she answered steadfastly. “And though their passings are sad, particularly for those left behind, their deaths are not as terrible as you might expect. We do all we can to make them comfortable, to make the end peaceful. Where they go, they will find freedom from their pain and their suffering. I have been with many who are able to see the afterlife from the shores of this life. All speak of the beauty, the feeling of being loved by a great and good entity. Sometimes those who draw near the far shore but who, for some reason, escape death and come back among the living, actually weep for sorrow at not being allowed to cross over.”

  Dagnarus said nothing to destroy the young woman’s pretty illusions. He had looked at death on the battlefield and seen nothing but an empty abyss, into which the soul tumbled and was swallowed by darkness. He wondered what sort of herb they fed the dying to induce such pleasant illusions.

  “Well, then,” he said, nerving himself, hoping to find a patient who wasn’t suffering from anything catching, “hand me a rag and a basin of water and I will myself embark upon the task of easing suffering.”

  “But you are not to work here, Your Highness,” said Lord Altura, looking grave. “The incurables lie beyond.”

  “Damn you to the Void,” muttered Dagnarus, who would, at that moment, have been glad to place Lord Altura among the incurables.

  The solemn procession continued, passing down long corridors to a part of the building that was kept sealed off from the rest. The young woman remained behind, for, she said, she had not progressed far enough in her studies to have the right to enter this part of the Hospital. Dagnarus saw that she was disappointed by this and wondered at her sanity.

  He used the time spent traversing the corridors—mostly empty, but with the occasional healer passing by him—to try to figure out how to escape this onerous and dangerous trial without doing irreparable harm to his cause. As they drew near, they could all hear screams—terrible screams—or wild and incoherent shouts. Dagnarus’s stomach shriveled; he was having difficulty breathing. He considered for the first time quitting, abandoning his goal.

  He permitted himself to imagine turning and fleeing. He would, he knew, be forever branded a coward. The soldiers who served under him and who admired him would sneer at him. They would say, and rightly, that his brother had undertaken this trial and had passed through it with grace and with courage. Dagnarus could do no less.

  He gritted his teeth and walked on.

  A door, barred and locked, opened to Lord Altura’s knock. They were met by one of the healers, a man in his late thirties, a comely man with an engaging smile.

  “Your Highness,” he said, “we have been expecting you. Please enter and may the grace of the gods enter with you.”

  Dagnarus could barely hear what the man
said for the horrible screams coming from the room beyond the door. He had heard screams like those on the battlefield, from those with an arrow through their privates or a spear through the gut. But such screaming never lasted long.

  The healer held the door open for Dagnarus. He entered, drawing on every bit of courage he possessed and resorting to some he did not even know existed. The three Dominion Lords, who were observing his actions, accompanied him. They had each spent their trials here and knew what to expect. None of them betrayed any emotion or hesitation.

  Of course not, he thought bitterly. Undoubtedly their magical armor protects them from contagion.

  He cursed them silently and heartily as he stepped into the hellish chamber. He noticed, as he passed through the door, that the hand of the healer was mottled with hideous patches of white—an early symptom of leprosy.

  Dagnarus shuddered. Every instinct urged him to run. The smell of death and the screams of the tormented blended in a whirling haze of horror. The next thing he knew, he was being assisted to a wooden stool by the man with the mottled hand.

  Seeing that diseased hand upon his arm, touching his robes, Dagnarus pulled away. Shamed at having nearly fainted, he was angry with himself, furious at the situation. He stood up so quickly that he overturned the stool, sent it clattering to the stone floor.

  “Thank you, Healer,” he said through clenched teeth, casting a quick glance at the Dominion Lords, who regarded him impassively, “but I do not require your aid.”

  “Do not feel ashamed of a momentary weakness, Your Highness,” said the healer, with a cheerful smile. “The fact that you are so sensitive to the suffering of others is much to your credit.”