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The Healers' Home Page 17

by S E Robertson


  “You’re saying… you are still interested in making a match, but you want to keep her friendship.”

  Keifon lowered his hand. “Yes.”

  “Does she have objections to your coming here, and having a match made?”

  “No. She only wanted me to make the decision for myself, instead of saying I had to.”

  “Why do you think you’d lose her friendship, then?”

  “It’s too much. It’s greedy. I don’t—I shouldn’t ask for so much.”

  “So much? A spouse and a friend?”

  The kindness in the priest’s voice pulled a sting of tears to Keifon’s eyes. He covered his mouth, fighting the urge to break down. It sounded so simple. If he deserved it, it could have been that simple. If he deserved it, he could have been that proud father and that grateful friend.

  The priest went on quietly. “You seem reluctant to want things. You haven’t said as much — but I will remind you that the Lady’s blessings are not rewards to the deserving. They are gifts to all of her children.”

  Keifon straightened, pressing his back into the soft cushions. His voice creaked. “I know. I’m-I’m a Daranite.” He managed a trace of humor, as Agna would have done, to break his spiral. “I owe the Daranites my life, but — I know this is a matter for the Lady.”

  Father Tufari sighed. “Darano, bless His name, died for love. You are not in Darano’s domain at this time.”

  “I know.” He knuckled his eyes. “I know the Lady’s word. Maybe I should read it again.”

  The priest spread his hands. “If you like. I suspect it will help. Do you need a copy?”

  “Thank you, but I have one.” The turn into the practical had led him out of the storm, and its roiling clouds receded from his mind. This time. “Though—might I come back? I’ll gladly pay your counseling fees. If I may. Sir.”

  “That can be arranged.” Father Tufari readied his pen and his notebook, and Keifon steadied his trembling hands. He discussed days and times dispassionately, and found room between his shifts at the hospital. Only a few hours were needed, a little at a time.

  Agna: Lifting Burdens

  “So how did the matchmaking go?” She kept her voice casual, unwilling to hear what might heave its way to the surface if she gave it any weight. It almost didn’t matter what her reaction was — irritated that he kept pushing the issue, or afraid that he might leave after all. So many of the potential reactions were bad.

  Keifon kept his eyes on the dough. She watched his shoulders hunch as he pushed and folded it on the countertop. He’d heard her; he was thinking about how to respond. She continued to wash the silverware and prop it in the drying rack.

  “I — it wasn’t a matchmaking,” he said, without breaking his kneading rhythm. “I went, and we talked. I… wanted to talk to you about that, actually.”

  “All right.” It was no good even guessing where he was headed. Since he hadn’t stopped working, she kept on scrubbing the dishes. Maybe it made it easier to talk. Maybe it was a distraction. She couldn’t stand still in any case. And the dishes still had to be washed.

  “He’s — the matchmaker is a Lundran priest. Father Tufari. Kaveran. Older man. Very nice. He does matchmaking, and… hm. In Nessiny, what do the Lundran priests do?”

  “What? Oh.” She wiped a dish, stacked it on the rack, and groped in the soapy water for the next dish to buy herself some time. She’d studied this, years ago, in the Survey of Polytheism class that Rone had recommended. She’d never thought it would have relevance to her life, except to recognize mythological figures in paintings. “I suppose they arrange marriages sometimes. Among nobles, in the south, mostly. It’s all Church of the Balance up north. But I guess they do some of the same things. Advice, and such.”

  “Yeah.” Keifon turned the dough over one more time, folded it into the pan, and draped a towel over it. He turned, his hands floury and empty, held awkwardly in front of him. Agna stepped away from the sink to let him move in and wash his hands. The flour diffused into the wash water, lost in the soap suds. She gave him a towel. They were stalling, but there was little harm in that. She’d find out what had happened when he was ready to tell.

  When he’d cleaned up, Keifon held onto the dish towel and leaned on the counter. “We talked,” he said again. “About the match, at first. And — and why I was so knotted up about it, why I wasn’t ready. Why I didn’t think I could. Or should. Or whatever my problem is. And I talked about this, about you. Not in a bad way. Just… trying to explain how my life is now.” He wrapped the towel around one hand like a bandage. “I’m going back. For… advice. For counseling. So I can figure out everything that’s wrong with me. And maybe get a match when I’m ready, but that’s not really the point. Just to talk. To try to understand. And yeah, I should probably find the Daranite church. But…” He rubbed the back of his neck, and Agna fought with the urge to touch him, to tell him everything would be fine, to try and guide him out of wherever he wandered. He was trying to find his own way into the sun. That was the whole point. It was paradoxical to want to help him as a means of congratulating him for learning to help himself.

  “You don’t have to justify it,” she said. “If you feel it’s the right thing to do, if you trust him and you think it will help you, then I’m glad.”

  “I do. I think so. Thank you.”

  “I’m proud of you,” she said without meaning to, and a little hiccup escaped. “I’m sorry. It’s such a relief. I worry about you. And don’t say I shouldn’t.” He had already come forward to put his arms around her, and she talked over her shattered and healing nerves, over the shakiness of finding herself on solid ground after months at sea. “Don’t say it isn’t worth it, or I must be disappointed, or anything like that. I’m relieved, and happy, and that’s why I’m crying, because I’m an idiot, and maybe I should check in too.” Her tears broke up into jagged laughter, as Keifon held her head against his shoulder and said nothing. The thought of not worrying about him, not feeling like she had to singlehandedly hold back the beasts that lurked in his heart, was dizzying. Her friend was not her responsibility, and if he did fall to his own sickness, it wouldn’t be her fault. It only felt that way. And to have someone else on her side — even though she didn’t know this Lundran priest — lifted so much of the burden she’d taken.

  She let herself stay there for a while longer, focusing on the solid fact of his body. He was stronger than he realized. He’d been through more than she could ever imagine. He didn’t always try to fight the forces that tried to tear him down from the inside, because he didn’t believe he could. Maybe this priest could make him believe. Maybe someone who understood his faith, understood where he came from, could convince him to believe that when she could not.

  It wasn’t her fault that he wouldn’t listen to her. That was what she had to convince herself to believe. They each had their part. In the meantime, he could take his troubles to this priest, and get some advice that would help him get stronger. It was a dream she hadn’t even thought to have.

  “This doesn’t mean I don’t trust you,” he said, “or that I don’t — that I don’t want to talk to you about things.”

  “I know.” She pulled her handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped her face, without backing out of his arms. “I never thought that. It’s best for you to have a bunch of people you can trust, who you can talk to. I always said, I hoped we’d both make more friends in town. And this isn’t really a friend, but it’s still important. It’s a connection. But that reminds me, have you given any more thought to Dr. Rushu’s dinner invitation?”

  “Mmmgh.” Keifon backed off first. “Not yet.” He still had the dish towel wrapped around his hand. He pulled it off and tossed it on the counter next to the rising bread. “Anyway, how about your friends from the hospital? You can invite them over sometime.”

  “Eh, maybe. I’m meeting Fulvia for tea the day after tomorrow, after the Feast, since we’re both on the early shift this week.” The
Feast of the Resurrection of Darano was tomorrow. She was probably the only atheist who looked forward to it so much. It was also the reason that Keifon had requested the day off.

  “That’s good. I’ve worked with some of the others a little. Giada and Gaspare, mostly. They seem nice.”

  “Hm.” Agna had worked with the two of them as well. Giada always changed out of her healer’s robes as soon as her shift was over, heading out into the city in stylish clothes that Agna envied almost daily. She was too embarrassed to ask Giada where she shopped. Besides, Giada’s style was modern and boyish, with high boots and trousers and up-swept hair. None of it would look as good on her, anyway. Gaspare was focused and friendly on the hospital floor, could recall dozens of patients’ histories from memory, and Agna was too terrified of him and his soft, dark eyes to ask what he did in his spare time.

  That was all she needed, for Keifon to become friends with someone like Gaspare. Or Giada, for that matter. Someone just like her, only prettier. Only better. It was just like the Academy. “Well, your Nessinian is quite good these days, if you want to make conversation with them. Though Gaspare’s Kaveran is excellent. All of the Academy folks have learned it pretty fast. Except Ettore, and he isn’t even trying. Sometimes I think he’s intentionally not trying.”

  “That’s…” Keifon frowned, searching his memory. “Big guy, prematurely gray. In the laboratories.”

  “Yeah, that’s him. Fulvia’s kind of friends with him. They came over the same year I did. Anyway.” She didn’t want to think about Ettore, either. He was an unpleasant reminder of a girl who had arrived in Kavera two years ago, convinced she was better than everyone around her, convinced that none of this would ever affect her. She’d seen that girl die out over the last two years. Keifon had helped, every day. It had left her with the urge to shake Ettore every time she saw him, which was hardly fair. “Anyway, I don’t have to limit myself to the Nessinians, and you don’t have to limit yourselves to the Yanweians. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

  “Heh. Yeah. Though it’s a place to start.” He shrugged. “I don’t understand where you come from the way they do. I figure it would be good for you to keep in touch with your people.”

  “Eh. That’s what letters home are for. Though I appreciate the sentiment.” She picked up the dishcloth and found one of the drinking glasses in the water. “It is kind of nice to have all of us together in one break room. I feel bad for the couple of Kaverans who wind up assigned to that break room. With those Nessinian notes on the walls, and tea that nobody else likes.”

  Keifon found a dry towel and began to dry a dish from the rack. It was her fault that they’d left the dishes over from last night — she was supposed to have done them while he was at his appointment at the matchmaker’s — but he said nothing about it. “I’m sure they’d ask to be moved if they had a problem with it. Perhaps they’re friends with the Nessinians.”

  “Maybe.” It would be presumptuous to even joke about it. She wanted him to make more connections outside the two of them, didn’t she? If they spent their break time together, too, they wouldn’t have that opportunity to branch out. She still found herself saying, “If you ever get lonely over there in your lounge, you’re welcome with me. You can even read their stupid jokes.”

  “Heh. I’ll keep that in mind. Sometimes it’s a bit loud, with the cafeteria next door.” He stacked the dry dishes next to the rack. “Will you come to the festival tomorrow? If you have plans, it’s all right.”

  “What? Of course I will.” She passed him a dish, and he kept his eyes down. She studied his reaction, or lack of one. Last year they’d spent the Resurrection festival on the opposite end of the country, midway through their travel route. It was still one of her favorite memories from the trip, even considering what had happened with Laris shortly thereafter. She was sure he’d enjoyed it as well. They’d had a good talk before the Daranite church’s ceremony, and she thought they’d come to understand one another a little better.

  Agna dodged away from the memory of that conversation, and of walking through the fairground with him in the sun. The point was not to rehash their past; the point was to move ahead into the future, to find new friends and new experiences. “I’ve been looking forward to it for weeks. Have you seen the fairground they’re setting up? You can see it from the top of the block, down on the Caravan’s campground.”

  “Mmn. I haven’t seen it.” He was quiet for a minute, stacking up dishes. “I’m pretty sure the Daranite church is on the west side of town, near the lumber estates.”

  She had gotten used to filling in context for his seeming non sequiturs. He hadn’t been to the Daranite church yet, and he was nervous about going for the festival. “Do you know when their Resurrection services are?”

  “No. I’m guessing they have a few.”

  She smiled to herself. “We can go to a service after I get out of work, find dinner somewhere on the west side, and then head to the festival.”

  Keifon carried the stack of dishes to the cupboard before answering. “You don’t have to do that. And the west side is expensive, I think.”

  “All right, then we hold off on dinner until we get to the festival. You know I love anything from a cart anyway.”

  He closed the cupboard. “We.”

  “We, yes. Do you mind if I go?”

  She knew his answer almost before he spoke. “You don’t have to.”

  Agna pulled the plug to drain the sink, and dried her hands on a towel. “That’s correct. If it bothers you, my being a godless heathen, we can meet up at the festival instead. You can’t keep me away from that, though. I am a chartered member of the Church of Street Food and Rigged Games of Chance.”

  He almost laughed, then stepped past her to lift the lid on the pot bubbling on the stove. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t know what? Whether you want me to go with you? I thought we had a lovely time last year.”

  “We did! We did. That’s not the problem. Look.” He stopped himself with a hand on the back of a chair and folded himself into it seemingly by force of will. Agna took the chair next to him to listen. He watched the surface of the table. “I want to spend time with you. Pretty much always. And the festival last year still means so much to me. But…” He ran his hands into his hair, propping his head up. “The ceremony, the church service, that’s something I think I should do on my own. Because as much as I prefer being with you, I worry that it would be a crutch. I’d think too much about whether you’re bored and what you think of the service, and not focused on meeting new people and joining the church. And there’s a lot I need to think through, while I’m there. Leaving the Army, for one thing, and what that means to me as a Daranite. And a lot of other things.” He lifted his gaze with a trace of a smile. “That doesn’t mean I won’t talk about them with you, too. Once I gather my thoughts.”

  “Good,” she said. “I want you to be able to do what you need to figure things out.” The words pretty much always ricocheted through her midsection, getting in the way of everything else. He was so pigheaded sometimes. That wasn’t how things worked. He had to go out and find new friends and lovers and stop saying things like always. There would never be an always. “Well then. We can meet at the festival after your ceremony. After I’m done at the hospital, I’ll come home, get changed, feed the cats, and meet you, hmm, by the entrance, I guess. How’s that sound?”

  “I’ll feed the cats before I go,” he said. “I’ll probably go to an early service and come back afterward.”

  Come back, not come home, like they’d talked about. She wanted to slap him across the knuckles with a wooden spoon. “All right then.” Tomorrow was set, at least in its broadest outlines. They’d have a good time, and she wouldn’t hold him back from integrating into a new group of friends. It was the best they could make of the situation.

  She rounded the table to check on the rest of dinner. The beans were still too firm to mash, so she excused h
erself to catch up on letter-writing.

  “Some artists?” Keifon peeked under the cloth covering the rising dough. “Or your family?”

  She turned with a hand on the door frame. “Both, and Nelle. Lots to do. I’ll see how far I get.”

  “Oh, send Nelle my regards.”

  “Of course.” With a grin in his direction, she left the kitchen to face her pile of correspondence.

  Once they had secured a second, smaller table for the far end of the living room, Agna had diverted her urge to buy bookcases, and instead found some other accoutrements. She’d found a carved wooden box in a secondhand shop, and sorted her letters by sender and date into its warren of cubbyholes. In a corner spot, she had even sorted out her prized stash of letters that she’d received on the road. In a smaller slot she had stashed her pens, keeping them safe from the kittens’ murderous impulses, next to bottles of black and brown ink.

  Five letters to answer: Nelle, her father, and three artists from central Kavera. She pulled out one of the artists’ letters, a short note from an artist in east-central Kavera — not far from Dara, the painter who had been her first Kaveran artist contact. This artist was a young man, a printer’s apprentice by trade, who had sent one of his ink drawings as a sample. She left the drawing on the table as a reference as she wrote her reply. Tell me more about your work. I’d love to see more. I don’t have any buyers lined up just yet, but I’ll make sure to contact you as soon as I do.

 

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