by Nick
Aeden nearly jumped out of his seat as a hand grabbed his shoulder. “You awake, boy?” Tompkins cackled with delight in Aeden’s face, released his grip of the startled boy’s shoulder, and swaggered past him, a new spring in his step.
“Thank you kindly, master!” the old man called back.
The master healer stood with hands on hips, watching the old man leave and replied, “Anytime, Tomkins, anytime. Aeden! Come. I told you I’d be but a minute.”
Aeden sprang to his feet and followed the man back to an office at the rear of the room. Larger than the other rooms surrounding the main floor, it was crammed full of teetering shelves piled high with books and papers. A large desk sat to one side stuffed with parchments, scrolls, books, quills, and half eaten food. Sitting down at the desk, the master healer motioned for Aeden to sit in a chair to his side.
“Good to see you, my boy. Do you remember me?” The man smiled at him, leaning back in his chair and kicking his boots up onto the littered desk.
“I do, sir. You healed me when I was young. Seven, I think.” Aeden cocked his head to the side. “You remember me after all this time and all those people?”
“Of course! I have an excellent memory, if I do say so myself—which I do. Plus, I’ve kept an eye on you since then.” Odd, Aeden thought, but didn’t have time to consider the strangeness of the man as he added abruptly, “Do you believe the healers can heal?”
With the sudden question, he wondered if his time with the master healer would be like the interrogation by the priest. “Of course, sir. I would say the results speak for themselves.”
“Some people think we practice witchcraft, or some other nonsense. What do you think?”
Aeden slowly shook his head. “I … I don’t know. I just know you heal people, and, I assume it’s by the power of the Creator.”
The healer stroked his chin, “And the priests? Why do they not heal, then?”
Aeden tried to hide his bewilderment, with only partial success. “I don’t know, sir. Maybe that is not their job?”
“Good answer, my boy, good answer,” the man chuckled.
“Sir, were you expecting me? It seems as if—almost like…” He trailed off.
“No, Aeden, I was not. But I’m glad you’re here nonetheless. Now, tell me what brings you here. Having some problems? Ah, don’t tell me—the happy rash?”
Aeden felt his cheeks flush red. “What—no! No, nothing like that, I haven’t even—just, no.” Did he ask everyone this? The master healer smirked—Aeden couldn’t help thinking the man enjoyed embarrassing people. “I just thought that … well, I mean, my friend Priam said you wanted to talk to him, and I thought you were going to ask him to join the Society, and I just—” and now that he came to his purpose he felt childish. I’m here because you should be asking me to join the society and not Priam—was all he had to say. Why couldn’t he just say it?
“Well that is very insightful of you, Aeden, in fact, yes, I was going to ask Priam to join the society. But I sense concern in you. Do you disagree with my decision?”
Aeden couldn’t help but relax a bit—had his father asked him whether he disagreed with him, the tone would have been unmistakably dangerous, but when the master healer said it, he sounded perfectly sincere, which made him feel both very mature and very childish at the same time.
He set his jaw—he would make sure to seem mature. “Well, no. Priam’s a great guy. He’d do well, I guess. I just never thought of him as a healer. But, I was wondering, do you think there might be room in the society for two more? We’re great friends, and we could join together, and help each other, and I wouldn’t need any support from the society since my family has enough—I mean, I could pay my own way, and—” The master healer held up a hand. He lifted his boots off the table with a grunt and leaned forward to Aeden, hands clasped under his nose.
“Aeden, Aeden. Why do you want to join the Society? Your father intends for you to serve in the royal guard. Is that not your desire as well? From what I hear, your swordsmanship skills are preeminent. I wouldn’t be surprised if you won the tournament next week.”
A smile found it’s way onto Aeden’s face, and he couldn’t help but think of his father’s oft-given advice—Flattery will get you everywhere. “You’re too kind, sir. And yes, I’ve thought about the royal guard—it would be quite an opportunity. But,” he thought of his father’s threats of the priesthood, “I’d like to keep my options open.”
The master healer slowly nodded his head. He opened his mouth. “No.”
“No?”
“We have no need at the moment for two more.”
“Oh.” He paused, waiting for the man to add anything, but he didn’t. “So, there’s no chance you’d change your mind?”
“Doubtful.” The master healer shook his head. “Highly doubtful.”
Aeden waited another few moments, but sighed and stood up. “Sorry I interru—”
“However, there is something you can do,” the man added, and Aeden sat back down—too abruptly, making the squeaky chair protest. “We have little need of more healers, but the society is severely lacking swordsmen.”
Aeden blinked. “Swordsmen?”
“That’s right.”
“Why does the Society of Healers need swordsmen? You heal, right?”
“Aeden, take a look around you. Look at me. Look at the healers back there,” he said, indicating the healing floor beyond the open door to the office. “We are just healers, with hardly any skill with a blade, and sometimes our work carries us into less agreeable locales. A few sword-trained young men such as yourself might be useful, especially if you could heal, too.”
“Really?” Aeden wondered if the previous rejection had been an act.
“But, I’m not sure if that person is you.”
“Oh. Well, what would I have to do to prove that it is?”
“Win the tournament.”
“Excuse me?”
“Win it. Not just your age bracket. The whole thing. On points. That is, you must defeat every opponent in your bracket, and win with enough points to be declared the overall winner. Then you’ll have proved yourself to me.”
Aeden considered this—considered the irony that the leader of the Society of Healers was requiring that he win the swordsmanship tournament. Maybe they were wizards after all, secretly fighting the mythical enemies of the king—dragons, giants, and all that. Very well. He’d do it. Or at least he’d go down trying. Maybe that would be enough for the man.
The woman that had earlier dismissed Aeden leaned into the room. “Excuse me, master?”
“Yes, Glory?”
“I have a case I need some assistance with.”
He nodded. “I’ll be right there. And after this you should be getting back to Ramath.” She nodded and returned to her patient as the master healer stood. “Well?”
“All right, I’ll do it.”
“Good!”
“Just tell me one thing.”
“Name it.” The man led Aeden by his shoulder to the door.
“Tell me if you are all wizards. Tell me if you have magic.”
The master healer stopped, and regarded him. Aeden folded his arms, waiting for the answer. “I’ll answer your question with another question. But allow me to touch your head as I do so.”
Strange, Aeden thought, but leaned in slightly. The man put two fingers on his forehead.
Can you hear me, Aeden? Here in your head?
Aeden’s eyes widened.
My question to you is, if I told you this wasn’t magic, would you believe me?
Aeden backed away, falling over a chair as he struggled to reach the door. He took one look back at the grinning master healer before escaping out onto the main floor and through the front door.
Witchcraft, he thought as his heart pounded, witchcraft indeed.
The steep, jagged mountains loomed before him towards the west, arising as moonlit ghosts reaching towards the heavens. A cackli
ng stream rushed down a ravine, feeding a pristine alpine lake which reflected the moonlit peaks behind it. The lieutenant held up his fist and gradually the army halted, staring blank-faced ahead, panting, awaiting his word.
“We rest here for tonight,” he said to his attendants, who spread out and ordered the army to make camp and refresh their water stores from the stream. Very soon now, he thought. Justice will be done. Crossing the mountains will be arduous, but shouldn’t take more than two days. Very soon.
The master had foreseen all.
Three
“In the beginning very little was. This little became more, growing and learning of its own accord, until it drew the attention of the Creator, and, drawing handfuls toward him, he fashioned it into forms like unto himself. ‘Created by me you were not, but now with my breath of life, created in my image you are.’ And he touched with his finger the things he had made, filling them with his breath, and they lived, and rejoiced....” —Beginnings, 2:1
The memory of the voice calling out to him in his mind remained fresh, even after five days—days filled with angst over his upcoming performance in the swordsmanship tournament. Indeed, how could he forget? So it was magic. And yet, the master healer had said, magically, that it was not. Would you believe me, he’d said. Aeden couldn’t help but inwardly scoff at the idea of believing the old man.
And yet, if he was lying, then clearly the healers had some mystical power. Power that he wanted. Magic. But if he was telling the truth, then clearly the healers had some kind of power, just not the magical kind. But what other kind could there be? Whatever it was, he wanted that too. Anything besides the priesthood, anything besides the royal guard.
But no, Aeden thought. He wanted the royal guard. He was friends with half the guard from Elbeth, and everyone expected it of him. He would be welcomed with open arms, and would most likely progress to the highest ranks, making friends among all the noble families of the kingdom and assuming his father’s estate when the time came.
In his bedroom, Aeden tried to focus on his task. For too many weeks he had let his transcription of the Chronicles fall to the wayside, and he needed to catch up. He put a finger under the words in his father’s book, dipped his quill and hunched over.
“Aaaaeeeeeden!” A voice sounded out from below his window. He jumped out of his chair and opened the window latch.
“Aeden, are we practicing, or what?” Priam hollered from down below.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be right down.” He shut the window and raced out the door, which slammed shut.
Seconds later, the door reopened, and the young man vaulted over his bed to his desk and sat. He picked up a quill and began copying. He managed to write a total of thirteen words (… and the sword, and armor they left, but took the common, simple necklace …) before he tossed the quill aside and shot out the door again, which creaked to a close behind him.
Before the ink dried, the door banged open again. This time Aeden looked at the ceiling and mumbled a very brief prayer to the creator. His mother had been nagging him about it, and if she asked again, he wanted to be able to answer to her satisfaction that he hadn’t been neglecting to call upon the creator of their souls. The ritual over, he raced out into the hallway, habitually trailing his fingers along the portrait of his lost brother, Cyrus, which hung at the top of the stairs.
Priam wore armor, tattered and rusted. Aeden made a note to ask his father if he could give his friend one of the older sets the family had stored away—it would be kind. Plus, when they grappled, Aeden wouldn’t have to end up with rust all over his hands. As he strapped on his own armor, it struck him that this could be one of their last times practicing dueling in the Rossam’s inner courtyard. Ever since they were small they went together to watch the annual dueling tournament in the city, cheering the victories, jeering the defeated, and both vowing to be master swordsmen when they came of age, with such skill and valor that they would be accepted with praise into that small body of men that protected the king himself.
Aeden picked up his sword that lay on the ground where he had carelessly tossed it after their last practice and smacked Priam, who was bent over adjusting his boots, with the flat of his sword, eliciting a yell from his friend and threats of painful retribution. Aeden laughed. “Don’t make me soil my armor!” and with that, the two duelists approached each other as they had for years now, swinging, parrying, blocking, sometimes with a blur of movement, sometimes pausing for a more deliberate attack, their swordplay often punctuated by the banter of teenage wordplay.
“So I saw Geraldine at the market yesterday …” Priam lunged.
Aeden parried, “Running errands for your mummy, were you?”
“Funny,” Priam said. “Actually I was selling some of the furs we caught on this last trip.”
“So your father can’t afford to hire a servant and sends his son to be his messenger boy instead?” He knew his friend was somewhat sensitive about his social status, but didn’t let that stop him from poking fun. Aeden charged with a flurry of swings, all effortlessly parried by the taller Priam, who grunted.
“Well. The twenty-sixth duke of the kingdom certainly is not as important and rich as the sixth duke of the kingdom. Your majesty,” said Priam, parrying and blocking Aeden’s blows. On Aeden’s final swing, Priam managed to knock his sword out of his hand, and kicked him in the pants as he turned to retrieve the fallen blade. “A little rusty this morning, Aeden?”
Aeden smirked, “I’m trying to be more like you. Imitation is the greatest praise, no?” he said, and charged again.
Later, the two exhausted, sweaty boys dropped their swords and collapsed under one of the lemon trees surrounding the inner courtyard. Aeden rubbed a bruise he had received from Priam’s dull practice blade. He looked over at his friend. “How was the hunting trip? You say you got some furs?”
“Yeah. It was good. We caught a buck. Father says we can use the skin to make new boots for me.”
Aeden nodded with approval, and picked at the tomath weed growing under the lemon tree, squeezing the small, juicy fruits until they burst and flicking their tough skins in Priam’s direction. The weed grew everywhere year round, especially in cultivated spaces, and put out the inedible fruits that were good for nothing but as a dye. Red spots all over the courtyard’s paving stones testified to their effectiveness. They smelled bad, but not bad enough to do anything about them but flick them at a friend. “Those old ones I gave you wore out?”
“No, my feet just grew too large.” Priam flicked a few of his own tomath fruits at Aeden in retaliation. “Anyway, the tanner will have the leather ready in a few weeks, and mother will make them then.” One of the fruits caught Priam in the face, and he sent several more sailing at Aeden’s head with a few finger flicks.
“By the way, we found something interesting in the mountains. We went high this time, higher than we usually go since we had no luck down in the lower foothills. We were hiking up this ridge towards a peak when we came up to the bottom of the mountain which formed a sort of rock wall. In the middle of the wall—we almost missed it from the moss dangling down in front of it—was a doorway.”
Aeden, curious, asked, “What was behind it?”
“I don’t know. We couldn’t open it. It had no handle or hinges. Just a big flat rectangle set into the rock wall, with a small circle indented above the frame. It was made of metal, but another curious part was that there was no rust on it. It must be very old, but for it not to be rusted is really strange. We’ve seen ruins all over the wilderness, and everything is always rusted beyond recognition. This was pristine. Like it hadn’t aged a day since the ancients built it.”
“Is your father going back to try again?”
“Yes,” the boy replied, “next year after the spring planting. He’s going to take a metal worker with him, and a locksmith, even though there was no handle or lock. My dad is nuts sometimes.”
Priam trailed off and after a moment Aeden remarked, “So I hear
the master healer arrived in the city last week. Priest Anthony told me.”
“He sure does not seem to like the healers,” said Priam, “especially the master healer. I wonder why?”
Aeden paused to think. Maybe he’s jealous that the healers actually have power while the priests only talk of divine power. “I suppose because they think their healing power is unnatural. Or maybe even from the Evil One himself.” He made a sign of warding with his hands at the mention of the evil name. “I heard Priest Anthony call him—the master healer—a witch once, but he hushed up and would not repeat it when I asked him what he was talking about. The healers are popular. Maybe he didn’t want to get an earful from the lord of the city, who I think adores the master healer.”
Priam sat silent, then, making the decision to confide in his friend, lowered his voice, “I went to the clinic right before we left. You were right. He wants me. He asked me to join the society.”
Aeden glanced at him sharply. “You? The master healer wants to recruit you? Well—congratulations, I guess.” He looked down, picking at the empty tomath skins in the grass.
Priam hesitated, “Well, I just thought you’d like to know. Anyway, who wants to join the healers when there’s a royal guard out there that is just begging, begging, for two fine swordsmen, such as ourselves—”
“Such as ourselves!” said Aeden, raising his sword.
Priam continued, “… to grace their ranks with our skill! Our valor! Our …”
“Our women … getting … skills!” Aeden shook his sword in the air while Priam choked back a laugh.
Priam left, leaving Aeden to mull over the idea of the master healer inviting Priam to join the society unconditionally, but only consenting to Aeden joining if he could prove himself. To his mind, it seemed unfair. It was true, he had lived a life of privilege—his father was the sixth duke of Elbeth and holder of the ancient scepter of King Rossam the Second, and they never lacked for money or food, while Priam’s family, though not starving, were always scrounging for every last morsel or piece of clothing. But Aeden was prepared to be independent. His father had taught him that, at least. He was ready to go out into the world. Wasn’t he?
