“Well, take me to your friend, then. I can’t very well do anything standing around here.”
“Of course,” said Tirielle, and took the old man’s arm as she led him up the stairs. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she caught him trying to look down her dress. She pulled the neck tighter and gripped his arm.
“A little less tight, if you please, lady,”
She wasn’t sure if he referred to her dress or her grip. She relaxed her grip.
“I wouldn’t want you to take a tumble, doctor,” she said politely.
He was nimble enough, though. In the gloom of the hallway Tirielle tried once again to look at his eyes, but they were so murky she could not tell if he was magically gifted or not. Perhaps he had cataracts. That would explain the almost filmy appearance of his eyes.
Perhaps, she thought, he was something she had never seen. She would never know, she was sure, for even if he had some magical aptitude, the chances of him using it openly in front of them was minimal.
“Wait here,” she told him when they reached the top of the stairs, and j’ark, who had been huffing on his way up the stairs with his burden, laid it down with a sigh of relief.
She pushed open the door to the Seer’s room, round a corner and out of sight of the old doctor.
“Roth?” she called lightly into the gloomy room.
“Yes, Tirielle, I am here.”
It stepped from the shadow and Tirielle could see that it had been there all along. It was a creature of stealth indeed.
“Can you go along to Quintal’s quarters and send him here? The physician has come and I’m not sure it would be a good idea for him to see you.”
“I suppose not. What is he like?”
“He is an old lecher, but harmless enough. Whether he is a skilled physician or not I could not say. We shall have to see.”
“We can but hope.”
She had to back out of the doorway for it to pass. She watched her friend walk down the hallway and knock on Quintal’s door. Only when the giant rahken was out of sight did she return to where the doctor was waiting.
“She is ready for you,” she told him.
“Let’s just hope I am ready for her,” he said with a warm smile, and Tirielle found herself wanting to trust the old man.
j’ark grumbled only slightly as he shouldered the pack once more.
*
Chapter Thirty-One
The old man sat on the bed opposite the Seer, peering in the gloom at her unblemished face. He sighed and pushed himself off the bed, walking to where she lay still and unresponsive.
Quintal, j’ark and Tirielle watched in silence.
Gently, he pulled aside the blindfold which kept the red light at bay. He made no sound as the light from her eyes lit the room. Nor did he jump back, fearful of being infected. He looked deeper into her eyes and stood.
“Open the curtains, lady. I cannot work in this light.”
“I dare not. She does not like the light,” said Tirielle in reply. It was true, whenever they had opened the curtains the girl’s breathing became more laboured, her body often contorting in some unimaginable agony that bound her deeply inside her body, insensible to the world. Sometimes, with the light on her, she had opened her eyes and spoken. Often her words were confused and little point could be discerned, but sometimes she spoke again of the Myridium, as she had done when she was under the ministrations of the rahkens. Only once had she spoken of the crossroads. Tirielle did not know what either meant, and the Sard were none wiser on the subject.
“It is not her that does not like the light, it is her infection. Open the curtains and trust that I know what I am doing.”
Reluctantly, Tirielle pulled back the curtains and daylight flooded into the room. The light from the girl’s eyes darkened for a moment, then returned blazing against the sunlight. Still the old man did not pull back, but he held the Seer’s hand kindly as she began tossing and turning. He whispered to her in his gnarly voice, and for some reason it seemed to sooth her. Her thrashing subsided, and the light from her eyes retreated, returning to what for her was a natural kaleidoscope of colours.
“She is a Seer.”
Quintal held Tirielle back from saying anything. “She may be, at that. What do you plan to do about it?”
“Fear not, I will tell no one. I am a physician, not a snout. I hold no love of the Protectorate, and I know them for what they are. I have seen their work, healed their work, too many times to tell on an innocent. This too, is their work.”
“Can you do anything for her?” asked Quintal. If he was suspicious of the old man, he didn’t betray it with his voice. His tones were calm and reasonable, as they always were.
“I might, at that. This is a Protectorate disease, one that infests them and brings them power. The red light is a symptom, and in them it is accompanied by a ten-fold increase in power. It is unnatural in this girl. It does not belong here, and perhaps, because of that, I can banish it from her. But I make no promises.” He smiled sadly, showing his yellowed teeth. “But I work in private. Physicians have their secrets, too.”
“I’ll not leave her alone,” said Tirielle firmly.
“You can, and you will. I will not work with you looking over my shoulder, pretty lady. I fear the distraction would be too much for my ancient heart.”
“Come, Tirielle, leave the man to work. She is in safe hands.”
Reluctantly, Tirielle allowed herself to be led from the room. The Physician ignored them, as if he had already dismissed them from his mind, and peered once again into the Seer’s blighted eyes.
*
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Sard congregated in the common room of the Great Tree Inn. Disper had politely dismissed the owner, and bolted the door. There would be no distractions. How the Sard had afforded to rent the whole of the inn was a mystery that Tirielle would never solve. They had no wealth, she was sure, for she had never seen them spend any money. But somehow, they always got what they wanted.
Tirielle sat with a tired sigh and took a drink proffered by Carth with a grateful nod. It was watered wine, but she did not mind. She did not feel safe enough that she wanted to be insensible.
“You think she can be cured, Quintal?”
“The physician has magic at his beck and call. I could feel it in him, even if he did not hide it so well. He is old, so his eyes can be passed off as cataracts, but he is of the white or I am a washer maid.”
“The white? I have never heard of such.”
“It is the colour of healing. I suspect that none in this city know his art. He could be a court physician but for fear of the Protectorate. Unless I miss my mark, he has spent his life in anonymity, healing the poor and living in squalor for fear of his secret being discovered. His potions he carries are merely props in his theatre.”
“Then we have hope.”
“Faint, I would caution, my lady,” said Disper, wiping ale foam from his great moustaches. I would not want you to be disappointed.”
“But a healer with the arts – there is none such even among the rahkens.”
“No, but the man cannot cure everything. The white are gifted, true, but they are no miracle. Some ailments are too fey for any hand to heal.”
“I’ll not give up hope so easily,” said Tirielle, “and nor should you.” She took a sip of wine and sat back, discussion ended.
Quintal smiled sadly and turned to the other paladins assembled in the common room. Tirielle did not have the heart to listen in. Worry for the Seer gnawed at her as she gnawed at a fingernail.
*
Chapter Thirty-Three
In the brightened room red light flowed from the Seer’s eyes, like blood in water as the unnatural light met shards of sunlight drifting through the shadows. Reyland held the girl’s hand gentle and spoke to her softly, even though he was unsure as to whether she could hear him from whatever plane her mind was on.
It was a malady unlike anything he had seen in all h
is long years of experience. Underlying the bleeding light were myriad colours. The red suffused all, almost like oil lying on pure water. He could sense the clean underneath, but the weight of the red held her down.
Peering into her eyes he could see the other colours there, like a rainbow crumbling under blood red rain. He rubbed his eyes with his rough hands and sat back, away from the light. It hurt his eyes even to look.
It was worse than he had first imagined.
He remembered once, one of his many failures, a pickpocket he had tried to heal. The pickpocket had tried the wrong mark. His friend, both undernourished denizen of the Beggar’s Mile, had dragged him to the doorstep.
One look at the boy’s head had told him magic was needed. The boy was unconscious, and that was a blessing. His skull had been misshapen, and white shards had broken through the scalp where his skull had been crushed.
He had tried to use his magic to persuade those fragments to return to their natural place, but it had availed him nothing. The boys mind was so swollen from the blow that his brain failed as it pushed against the newly healed bone.
That had been a hard day, as every day he lost a patient was. Sometimes he could keep a man alive, sometimes he saved a breeched baby, or staunched a deep wound to an organ…never could he save them all. But, as always, no matter the odds of survival, he would try.
He lit an oil lamp and pushed the curtains further apart, for as much light as he could get. The girl writhed on the bed, straining against the covers, closing her eyes, but he sat atop her and pulled her eyelids open with his thick fingers. Her breath came in ragged gasps, but he knew the girl’s body was hale. It was just the infection fighting him.
He took a deep breath and prayed to Yemilarion, the god of healers, and let his own light seep forth to meet the red. White light met red on a thousand different planes, and at first the power of the white pushed the darkness back. Reyland’s breath came evenly, his grip on the girl’s head strong. Then, a powerful pulse of light from the red and Reyland knew he was in trouble. Sweat began to bead his brow and he began tiring. His vision swam, and motes of red light floated away from him, dancing out of the grip of the white. The room filled with red light and Reyland could feel it seeping into his skin, his lungs, making it harder for his heart to beat, hard for him to breath. He could almost taste the taint on the air, even thought the infection should only be visible, not palpable.
All the while the girl screamed, the sound pounding on the physician’s ears, driving nails into his brain. Still he did not blink.
Gasping now, Reyland pushed harder. The red pushed back for an instant, then met the white in the room in a wavering line, one pushing forward, one pushing back.
It was a contest of wills and it would not be won by brawn. It was all the physician could do to talk.
“Any time you want to help me, girl,” he gasped, “feel free.”
He wasn’t sure she had heard him for what seemed a long time, but was in reality only moments, and then from underneath and around the red light, an explosion of colour came, brighter than the sun. Reyland almost blinked, but forced his watery eyes to open further. The bright shards of light tore into his mind and he cried out in pain, just as the girl had before him. Still he did not look away. His heart pounding wildly in his chest, and his ears pounding from the girl’s scream, which grew ever louder, he pushed ever ounce of power from his eyes, drawing so much of himself and the light from the window into the healing that he thought he would burn himself out, his eyes bursting with the last vestiges of the ancient talent, never to heal again.
And yet he held. Quivering, he watched in amazement as the girl’s colours joined the fight, not destroying the red, but drawing it into her own colours, so that it joined an army of colours.
Suddenly, the colours seemed natural again, and the girl’s cries ceased.
Colours swirled in the sunlight, like a perfect prism refracting pure light. The thrashing underneath him stopped, and Reyland allowed himself to blink.
The girl blinked too. And then she smiled.
Reyland took a deep, shuddering breath and returned the smile. “I thought you’d be too much for me, girl,” he told her, his voice rasping with effort as he spoke, “but you’ve power I’ve never seen before.”
“You, too, have powers unseen in an age. Thank you, Master Uriwane.”
Reyland took a moment to register that the girl’s lips never moved. “Can you not speak?”
She shook her head sadly. “Once, I could. But the battle has scarred me already, and I think it will scar me further before it is done. But the fight is not your concern, and you have healed me as completely as any could.”
“I’m sorry, girl. I tried my hardest, but I fear it was more than I could handle. I have not seen the blight in many a long year, and have never fought it before. I am sorry you cannot speak.”
“Do not be foolish,” she spoke into his mind, with more years than he would have expected from a mere slip of a girl. But she was a seer – the years had little meaning for her. What must she have seen, he wondered, while her mind travelled the planes?
“I have seen much,” she told him, as if she had been reading his thoughts. “I have seen the birth of suns, the end of ages and the creation of new lands from the ashes. I have seen enough to know that there must always be balance. There must always be payment.”
“I need no payment from you. We have already agreed the price.”
“You cannot lie to me, Master Uriwane. I know what you need. It is not gold, but a reason to go on. Your good wife has been dead long years, and you never had children.”
“I always wished…” his voice cracked, and he could not go on. He blinked in surprise, shocked at the depth of emotion that still remained after all this time.
“Payment does not always have to be in money. There is a boy-child, thirteen years. He has led a life of the blind, his eyes are white, like yours. You must teach him. He will be your apprentice in the arts. You have years enough left to do so, and he will be greater in the arts than you. He will be like a son to you, and you like a father to him. Give him nothing but your love, and your wisdom, and he will grow.”
She told him where to find the boy, and rose to a sitting position, hugging him fiercely. “Find your son, live long, Master Uriwane. It is good to feel kindness again. I am glad it was you who woke me from my dreams.”
“And I was glad to know you, girl. What is your name?”
She touched his cheek sadly. “I do not know. But I call myself Sia. Fitting, I think, that the name should match the purpose.”
“I am old and foolish sometimes, but allow me to impart a little wisdom before I leave. You may be a seer, but you are not your purpose. You are a girl. Soon you will be a woman. Do not forget to live your life.”
She nodded, thoughtfully. “Good advice, I think.”
He rose and bowed as deeply as his back would allow. “Goodbye, Sia. Peace favour you.”
“Peace be with you, healer.”
He closed the door behind him, realising as he went that he had left his pack behind. With a rueful shrug and smile, he took the stairs.
Tirielle was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairwell. “How did it go, Reyland? Is she cured? Could you help her?”
“Peace, lady. She is fine. You may see her.”
She hugged him fiercely with a cry of joy, and ran past the bemused healer, bounding up the stairs. Quintal shook his hand with thanks, and took a pouch out. Reyland laid a hand on top of the paladin’s.
“Payment has been made, warrior. Peace favour you. Now, I have work to do.”
The paladin’s watched him go.
Quintal smiled. Soon, it would be time to go. But for now, they had new hope, in the face of a fresh girl. He called the barmaid down, and ordered himself a large drink. Time enough for a meeting later. For now, he was tired, and looking out the window at the full dark that had descended, he raised a glass at the receding, crooked back of
the healer.
“Some arts are greater than others,” he said to Cenphalph, who was watching him. With a sigh the leader of the Sard rearranged his dagger and sat to wait the night out.
Upstairs, Sia wasted no time. She told Tirielle where she had to go, and of the pain she would yet have to bear. And yet Tirielle’s heart was light once again. One small success, sometimes, is enough to be going on with.
*
Chapter Thirty-Four
The boat sailed true across becalmed seas. Renir stood at the prow, hair whipped by the winds, spray wetting his face. Beside him, eyes wide open, stood Orosh. From his strange blue eyes light flowed forth, weighing down the seas, which were fierce beyond belief out of his range, but calm as a pond surrounding the boat.
Shorn touched him on the shoulder and Renir jumped. The hum from Shorn’s sword should have warned him of the warrior’s approach, even if his soft foot falls had not. It was an ever present song, though, since they had joined the Seafarer’s vessel. He had grown so used to it that he ignored it now, its sonorous hum responding to Orosh’s magic.
“I should have heard you,” said Renir in a self-admonishing tone.
“It’s no surprise you didn’t. You’ve been staring out to sea for hours.”
“I suppose I’m shocked. I knew the sea was large, but we’ve been out of sight of land for two days now. I’m waiting for land again. I feel uneasy, and I’ve spent hours on a boat before.”
“Well, I’ve spent years on a boat, and I am always amazed at its size. The seafarers say the ocean is bigger than all the lands put together. You could spend your life at sea and never hit land.”
“When will we get there?”
Shorn, whose eyes were sharper than Renir’s, laughed. “I’m surprised you haven’t seen it yet. You’ve been staring at it for long enough.”
Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy) Page 11
