Thrice Bound

by Roberta Gellis

  She stared down at the pallid face with two bright red spots on the cheeks. Was her safety so precious that she would let a child die—a child? She had once been "only a girl child" herself. Was that a reason to let a child die, that it was only a girl?

  *Kabeiros, is there any smell of magic anywhere?* she asked. *I will need to use spells to cure this child.*

  *Nothing I can smell or feel. Can the cure wait until we are in a place where others can have cast the spells?*

  *No. If I do not cure her very soon, she will die.*

  *Then cure her,* Kabeiros said. *You can't let a child die because of what might happen.*

  Hekate could feel a faint flush of heat mark her shame. Was she such a coward? She raised her head and took a deep breath.

  "You know a medicine for this?" Yasmakh asked eagerly.

  She swallowed a defiant impulse to mention magic. Fighting cowardice was probably the right thing to do, but not throwing caution to the winds. "Yes," she said, "but not how to use it in your daughter's case. It is not a medicine that is drunk. It must be spread over the swollen parts of the throat by . . . wait . . . I can use a feather or something of that kind to coat the throat with the medicine."

  She stood up, eager to be alone so she could think out a suitable spell and how to combine the symbols so she could write them on the swollen flesh itself. A feather would serve as her pen and the throat gargle, suitably darkened, would be her ink. Then she would not need to say the spell aloud so that unless she was detected by another user of magic, Yasmakh wouldn't know she was a sorcerer.

  "I will go and mix the herbs for the medicine and set them to steep," she said to the trader. "We do not have much time, for I need light to put the medicine on the diseased parts. Meanwhile, you must give the child water. No, do not expect her to swallow it," she said, cutting off Yasmakh's protest. As she spoke, she fished a little spoon out of her pouch. "Take this. Fill it and wet her lips and the inside of her mouth over and over until she stops crying for water."

  Hekate hurried out of the camp with Kabeiros at her heels, aware as she turned toward her own campsite that one of Yasmakh's men—the one who had whispered in Yasmakh's ear earlier—was following her. When she got to the smaller clearing, he hesitated, then moved until he could watch her through the thin spot in the brush barrier. She was annoyed, but not surprised by the lack of trust, so she ignored his presence while she quickly rolled up the sleeping blankets and other odds and ends of cloth and clothing.

  Her mind was busy with symbols and very specific spell words. She didn't want to make the child's throat disappear instead of the pustules on the swollen flesh. And to make those disappear they had to go somewhere; it was impossible to uncreate substance, except by burning, and she could not burn them in the child's throat.

  Hekate frowned slightly as she thought about the herbs she would need. Most of those were in her pouch, cleansing herbs too, but she couldn't send the pustules to a bunch of herbs; they were not like enough to where they grew. Nor could she take such diseased things into herself or inflict them on another person or living creature . . . Not on a living creature, but one newly dead? Yes. All she needed to do was command what she touched with the feather and the medicine to transfer itself to a fresh-killed animal.

  *I need another hare or rabbit or really anything at all larger than a mouse,* she said silently to Kabeiros. *See if you can get something not worth eating because I'll have to burn it when I'm finished.*

  *He won't leave you alone with the child. He'll know you've done magic,* Kabeiros warned.

  *No. I'll conceal whatever you bring in my pouch. What Yasmakh will see is me applying the medicine to the child's throat. But I will be painting the symbols for the transfer of the evil to the dead thing and the spell I will say in my mind.*

  *Good enough, but be careful. I'd like to avoid him crying `sorcerer' when we reach the city. There's game aplenty of small things. I shouldn't be long.*

  He wasn't. By the time Hekate had emptied her pouch, chosen the herbs she needed, and wrapped them in a square of clean cloth, a squall sounded not far distant. A few moments later, Kabeiros came back with a small furry creature in his mouth. At Hekate's silent suggestion, he dropped it between the hare and the fowl. Under cover of replacing some herbs in her pouch, Hekate popped it in. That done, she tied the pouch to her belt, rolled the extra herbs and the hare and fowl into the piece of leather, and picked up her staff.

  Less than half a candlemark had passed, but she cast an anxious glance at the sun, stuck her head through the brush, and shouted to the man who had been watching. "Since you are so curious, you can make yourself useful. Come in here and help me carry these bundles back to the camp."

  He looked a little shamefaced at having been detected watching her, but he came and took the packages Hekate handed him. Her fearless acknowledgement of his presence seemed to make a good impression, as did the fact that she didn't mind if he touched her belongings. It was widely (if mistakenly) believed that magical objects must not be handled by common folk. Kabeiros, knowing better and free of his pack, lolled out his tongue in laughter at his companion's boldness.

  She set the herbs in the special packet she had made up to steep in hot water as soon as they reached the larger camp. Yasmakh had readily supplied charcoal and a brazier; Hekate used her own little pannikin for the steeping, and managed to pour some of the liquid from it into the mouth of the small dead beast in her pouch.

  Her preparations hadn't taken long, but Yasmakh was waiting anxiously by the tent, and when, without instruction, Kabeiros pulled the flap open, Hekate could see at once that, even though her mouth was now moist, the child was weaker. The little girl lay limp, clearly unconscious. Hekate let her last hope of avoiding magic slip away. The rapid decline was a final sign that she must take the chance of exposing her magical ability, or the child would die.

  Yasmakh bit his lip and wept. "She didn't tell me her throat hurt on the day we left Berothah," he sobbed. "She was quiet, but I thought it was because we were leaving behind some children she had come to like. And there was nothing between there and Quatna—tiny villages that didn't even have a temple at which I could pray for her."

  "Never mind that now," Hekate said sharply. "We must use the last of the light. Here, take this metal and shine the light into her mouth as I did earlier."

  She set the pannikin beside her and opened the child's mouth with her left hand—there was no resistance. In her right she took a narrow feather and, with care not to block the beam of light, painted the combined magical symbols for transfer on the top of one of the mounds of putrid flesh. Under her breath she whispered the spell that directed whatever the liquid touched to move to the flesh and liquid in her pouch. As she completed the symbol, a thumbnail-sized hollow appeared in the swollen mound. Blood welled out. Hekate gasped; she had thought only the pustule would be removed, but the flesh had gone with it.

  "Stigme stasis aima!" she breathed, activating a spell she used constantly in treating her father's slaves and servants.

  The blood stopped, but Hekate held her breath, expecting a howl of protest from Yasmakh or a shout of accusation from somewhere in the camp. Yasmakh, however, didn't make a sound, and the light reflected from the bright metal only trembled a little, as it had from the beginning because of his anxiety. There was no outcry of accusation about the use of magic either.

  Hekate breathed again, realizing that from Yasmakh's angle of view, he couldn't see into the child's throat. She was pleased too by the confirmation of Kaberios' sense that there probably was no one sensitive to magic in the group.

  She had no time to hesitate and began to paint the symbol on the opposite side while she wondered what would happen if she removed all the diseased flesh. She had never found any use for those nubbins, but . . . Still, if she didn't continue, the child would surely die; if she removed all the swollen and diseased flesh . . . who knew?

  Until the light failed, Hekate carved away the putrid, swol
len lumps of flesh. Less afraid to use magic, she checked the child's aura from time to time, but did not find much change. Also the child was breathing more easily because her air pipe was no longer almost blocked.

  As Hekate sat back on her heels and began to wipe the feather on her ragged skirt, Yasmakh whispered, "Are you done? Will she live?" He continued, eyes fixed on Hekate's face, "She breathes better. Is that not a good sign?"

  "I can't answer you," Hekate said honestly. "I don't know. She is breathing easier, but maybe that's only because the medicine has shrunk the swelling in her throat. She's still very hot with fever and she still hasn't wakened, which isn't good."

  "You are very honest," he said, returning Hekate's piece of polished metal.

  "I would be stupid to give you false hope, but I won't say there's no hope. I will have to repeat the treatment as soon as I have light enough to see tomorrow. Meanwhile, she should be bathed with cool water to bring down her fever and, since the swelling is down, perhaps she will be able to drink. I will give you a potion of willow bark and other herbs—I will drink some myself to prove it's not dangerous."

  Yasmakh smiled at her. "There's no need."

  She sighed. "Not if the child gets well, but if—all the gods forfend—I cannot save her, I don't want doubts to rise."

  As she spoke, Hekate had tried to get to her feet and discovered her legs would barely support her. Fortunately Kabeiros was just outside the tent and she was able to steady herself with a hand on his shoulder. She had feared that her attempt at healing would be draining, but had been afraid to seek a vein of earth-blood to sustain her. Another magic worker, who might have been too preoccupied to notice the spells she had used, might well feel the roiling of the earth's blood. Worse yet, she could not simply sink down and sleep as she wished.

  First she had to make up the potion against fever that she had promised Yasmakh; that was easy enough and she could sit while she did it. She saved what remained of the throat paint in a cup, washed the pannikin and added more water from her waterskin and herbs from the parcel rolled in the leather sheet, then set it to heat.

  While her hands were busy, she considered how to be rid of the now diseased body in her pouch. She had hoped she would be able to go to the smaller camping place and simply make a fire and burn it, but she found eyes still followed wherever she went. Yasmakh might have decided to trust her, but his men did not. All she could do was seek privacy—they knew she was a woman and would not spy on her there—in the privy area.

  What Hekate wanted to do was drop the diseased body into the trench and forget about it, but she feared the evil it now contained might somehow get loose and poison the whole campsite. Recalling the faint note of puzzlement—or was it disdain—in Kabeiros' mental voice when he said, "You can't let a child die because of what might happen," she flushed again. She could imagine what he would think of her if he knew she had considered endangering the whole campsite—this caravan and who knew how many more—just to hide the fact that she could do magic.

  She had saved the child with magic and not been exposed. She must take another chance. Setting her teeth, she sought for a vein in the earth for power and rendered the body to ash with a burst of magic fire. Then she held her breath. That should have alerted anyone with even a minor Talent, but there was still no outcry. Hekate breathed a big sigh of relief and raised her skirt to use the privy for its usual purpose. Now that she need not worry about exposing herself as a sorcerer, there was no need to stir other suspicions by a second trip to relieve herself.

  The conviction that Yasmakh's caravan included no one who would feel magic gave Hekate confidence enough for a good night's sleep. The fact that the child seemed somewhat better—at least less deeply unconscious—hinted that removal of the diseased flesh had done no harm. That and the child's restlessness decided her to a bolder use of the transfer spells.

  Kabeiros had brought in another small animal in the first light of dawn, and Hekate went to cleanse the child's throat as soon as sunlight touched the campsite. It was not so easy. Yasmakh had to hold the little girl's head with one hand and the reflecting metal with the other, and Hekate had to exert some force to keep the child's mouth open. It was just as well that she had decided to clean away all the remaining flesh in two bold strokes because the child whimpered with the first transfer and cried out more loudly, struggling against the second. Still, it was done.

  "We can only wait and hope now," Hekate said to Yasmakh. "Do you have honey?"

  He nodded mutely, his eyes fixed on the child's face. "Yasmina," he murmured, "you will be better now. Papa says so and you know he is always right."

  Hekate's mouth twisted wryly. Papa is always right. A chill ran down her back, but all she said was, "If you will give me a little honey, I will add it to the potion against fever so it will taste better and also soothe Yasmina's throat, which is very sore from my treatment."

  "Yes. Yes, of course." He stood up, stroking the child's cheek as he rose, then, finally, raised his eyes to Hekate. They held a look, speculation shaded with fear, that she didn't like, but all he said was, "Will it hurt my daughter to travel? I have goods that will not be improved by extra days on the road."

  "I don't know," Hekate admitted. "Those I treated before were in their own homes and going nowhere. All I can say is that I will walk beside the cart that carries her and if I see that her fever is rising or some other bad symptom is appearing, I'll tell you. Then you can decide what to do." Then she frowned. "But this I can say before we start. Do not put her at the end of the caravan where she will need to breath the heaviest dust."

  So it was arranged that Yasmakh rode first—on a fine, high-stepping horse that told Hekate he was a man of wealth and probably of importance—followed by the small cart, which had been emptied of cargo to accommodate his daughter. Hekate walked beside it with Kabeiros. Her eyes were on the child, but she hardly saw her, only alert enough to give her the honeyed fever potion when she cried for a drink or that her throat hurt.

  The compulsion to treat Yasmina had faded almost to nothing, and she took that as a sign either that the child was on the road to recovery or was beyond her help. Oddly she didn't feel strongly about either outcome. Her preference, of course, was that the child get well, but she would weep no tears and feel little pain if instead the child died. Her indifference no longer troubled her as it had at first when she feared she was becoming as heartless as her father. Now she accepted her lack of deep feeling as a sign that the children she was compelled to help would never belong to her. Only Dionysos had pulled her heartstrings—and he still did.

  What made Hekate's eyes blind as she seemed to watch Yasmina was her own unreasonable and inexplicable fear of using magic. In rational hindsight, she asked herself what it could have mattered if anyone realized she was using magic to cure Yasmina. At best the spells would have been taken for ordinary healing spells and accepted—healing magic was welcome to all but a few fanatics; at worst, if she were threatened she could have used the look-by-me spell to escape. What did she fear so greatly that she had even considered sacrificing the child's life to avoid use of magic?

  Fortunately, Hekate's inattention did her patient no harm. Yasmina improved throughout that first day and soon Yasmakh could not do enough for Hekate. He offered her a donkey to ride on, another to carry her bundles. She laughed and said she was no fool; the bundles were in the cart with the child and she preferred to walk alongside where she could watch her patient.

  Hekate didn't mind walking and didn't wish to be troubled by a donkey's vagaries. What she wanted to do was think, but over the day and a half it took to reach Quatna, she found no answer to her cowardice, only a deep-seated reluctance to use magic. Fortunately, she didn't need it. The child was nearly recovered, only sometimes needing a draught of the willow-bark tea in the late afternoon.

  To Hekate's dismay, Quatna was not an open city. The guards at the gate required Yasmakh to identify each person in his caravan and issued a badge of i
dentification. This implied that anyone without a badge would be seized and penalized, possibly imprisoned. If it had not been for that, Hekate would have slipped away from the trader moments after they reached the first tangle of alleys.

  It was not that Hekate suspected Yasmakh wished to harm her—far from it. Despite sidelong glances that hinted he knew magic, not medicine, had cured Yasmina, the trader had already offered Hekate a home in his house and the care of his precious daughter.

  Without refusing outright, Hekate had spoken of her pleasure in seeing new places, finding new healing herbs, learning the medicines of new peoples. She had developed a taste for the road, she insisted. Yasmakh had not pressed his point too strongly, but he had returned to it often enough that, at the gate of the fine house to which he led the caravan, Hekate stopped. She snatched her bundles from the slowly moving cart and set them against the wall. Yasmina hopped out of the cart and stared at her.

  "Aren't you coming in?" the child asked.

  "No, I will say farewell here." She watched Yasmina's face but saw nothing beyond a mild regret and breathed out softly in relief. Her care for the child had not fixed Yasmina's affection on her. Now she would discharge her final responsibility. "Name to me what is in the drink you must tell your nurse to make for you if you feel hot and tired?"

  Yasmina repeated the ingredients in a singsong voice. Hekate nodded. She had told Yasmakh the formula also and explained to him that Yasmina might suffer some recurrences of fever and need the potion. She had done all she could, and her lack of regret in parting from the child told her she had completed her duty. She bent to fasten one of the bundles to Kabeiros' back.

  "Tell your father," she began—but it was too late, Yasmakh had come out to look for her, probably as soon as he saw the empty cart.