He had tried at every turn to do what was right, and he had to believe that he was fulfilling the gods’ plan for him. He would continue to do the best he could, and watch for signs that he had strayed from the gods’ path.
Today was the day to celebrate Darano’s rebirth, and the promise that the god of justice would not leave the mortal world behind again. Keifon would rejoice in it. He would rejoice in the gods’ grace in leading him through the dark places, so he could see the mortal world the way that Darano had after waking from His death.
The parishioners found their seats, whether they were ancestral or borrowed for the day. The priests in white filed to the altar, trailed by the crimson-robed acolytes, and raised their hands to the ceiling. Keifon laced his together in his lap and breathed in the scent of incense. It would be a day for joy, for so many reasons.
They would read the words in Kaveran today, but it would bring a familiar answer to those who had come to listen. By His will, Darano woke from the death that He had chosen, and walked once more in the mortal world. My people, he said, for you I return, and for you I will live forever. It is not just that justice itself dies, and so it never shall.
Agna: Another Attempt
Agna’s energy felt strange and mottled, as though struggling to return from wherever it had gone. It helped to peel off her stained robes, stuff them into the basket for washing day, and treat herself to a quick scrub before slipping on a fresh dress. Playing with the kittens for a few minutes helped. They were so innocent, fascinated by a string with a scrap of fabric tied to the end. She succeeded in catching Shadow while he was distracted, and nuzzled the downy fur behind his ears before he began to wriggle. Agna let the kitten go and watched him bound away. She left the apartment and headed out to the Resurrection festival.
At the edge of the festival grounds, she leaned against the wooden rail of the fence and watched the festival-goers pass by. It was good to be reminded that people’s lives went on, that the world was bigger than the hospital, bigger than the room where she’d spent the last six hours. She and Keifon had visited some people on their deathbeds when they’d done house calls in the winter, but for the most part, their patients had needed checkups and bone-sets, advice on colds and everyday aches, and the simple healing of cuts. She had felt a human life drain away once before, in Blackhall Hospital, during her practicum as a healing student. She’d been pushed back from the bed as two senior healers crowded in, but it had been too late. This time she had been the only healer on rotation; the hospital spread them thin, because there were only seven Balance healers and twelve Tufarian priests to be had. She would be the only healer on shift when one of their patients spiraled into the dark under her hands. And so it had gone today.
Agna had studied and trained and tested from the ages of twelve to twenty, and she had spent two years traveling with Keifon to practice her skills. She was new to the Benevolent Union hospital, but she knew the workings of the human body as well as anyone else in the hospital’s roster. They couldn’t treat everything. They couldn’t prevent everything. Whether Balance or Tufarian, they would always feel a few people slip away. No censure would be entered into her record. The supervising doctor had declared Mrs. Nammar’s cause of death and closed her file.
The smell of fried dough was torture; her stomach informed her that it smelled delicious, but she didn’t feel like eating. Her glances returned to that tent over and over, skimming past the games and the stalls of handicrafts. It was only two tables down from the entrance, and the line wasn’t long. With another peek up the street, Agna abandoned her post. It wouldn’t take long to get a snack, and she could eat while she waited. It would take her mind off things for a while.
While she waited for the customer ahead of her to make an order, Agna noticed a string of beads around the woman’s neck, under a graying bun. A Tufarian priest, if she wasn’t mistaken. She pushed away the thought that maybe this Tufarian priest had felt dozens of her patients — did they still call them patients, at the church? — die under her hands. What else could she think about? She had thought about trying to find a contact among the Tufarians, as she’d researched the major forces in the town. It wasn’t a good time for this, but she would have to set aside her personal feelings and seize whatever chances she had.
The Tufarian priest moved aside to wait for her order, and Agna stepped up. “One order of fried dough with honey, please.” After she paid, she joined the second queue to wait for her order, and took the opportunity to semi-accidentally look at the other customer’s neck. Sure enough, she wore a long double-looped string of beads most of the way to her waist, with a small wooden figure dangling from the lowest loop. Just as the woman’s brow began to crease, Agna smiled. “Blessed Resurrection.”
“Uh — Blessed Resurrection,” the Tufarian priest said. “Are you, errr, a Daranite?”
“No, though my best friend is. Agna Despana,” she said, and gave the precise Kaveran wave of introduction.
“Sister Sulli,” the priest said.
Agna dodged aside into a casual comment, hoping it would take Sister Sulli’s suspicious-foreigner scale down a notch. “And I can’t resist fried dough. It isn’t a proper festival without some.” She got a tentative laugh for her trouble, and went on. “And of course, I’d like to support any community events I can. I’ve been looking forward to seeing how Wildern celebrates the holiday. I’ve spent the last two in Hearth Hollow, in mining country.”
“Ah. So you aren’t new to Kavera,” Sister Sulli said, tucking each hand into the opposite sleeve. She was wearing civilian clothes along with her beads — a loose, maybe-color linen dress with long sleeves and a vaguely darker overdress.
“Oh, not at all. I traveled with the Golden Caravan for two years, for the Benevolent Union’s clinic. I’m a Balance healer.” She’d learned some time ago to drop the Divine from Divine Balance in this country, especially near devout Church of the Four folk.
“Is that so.” Sister Sulli glanced under the tent at the workers, bustling around the frying oil.
Agna rushed ahead, before she could go. “I decided to settle in Wildern after my assignment. It’s a fascinating city.” Getting only a vague noise of assent, she decided to change her angle. “I’ve been wondering, do they have a target date for the new church?”
The priest’s voice took on some life at last. “Oh, yes. Next spring.”
“Congratulations,” Agna said. “It looks like it will be beautiful.”
“Thank you. I know it will glorify His power and truth.”
Agna ignored the edge in her voice. If her mentor Rone hadn’t converted her to the Church of the Divine Balance at the Academy, then one stranger in line at a festival stand couldn’t sway her to convert to the Church of the Four. “No doubt,” she said noncommittally. “I’m sure it will be an asset to the city, and as a healer, I’m glad that there will be more places for the people of Wildern to go for help. But I was wondering,” she said, scrambling as the priest’s eyes turned frosty at her last comment, “whether your order might want some connections with the art world. I’ve read about the beauty of Tufarian churches, and their interest in great works, to —” oh, how did it go — “—celebrate the arts that Tufar brought to the world. I’m planning to open an art gallery in Wildern, and I would be happy to be of use if I can.”
“Hmm. We are collecting artwork for the new church,” Sister Sulli said, crossing her arms over her prayer beads. “I don’t think we’d be interested in giving up anything we’ve collected.”
“Oh, certainly. However, I’m in touch with a number of artists in Kavera and Nessiny, if you might want to commission some works. And actually, if you’re already well-versed in the local art world… I’d appreciate your guidance.” Saying that felt like swallowing a hard gulp of the vinegar that the food stand displayed next to the sugar shaker.
A little smile crossed Sister Sulli’s face. “Well. Perhaps.”
Finally. “I’m working with Jaeti Es
sry, the historian. Or maybe I can send an invitation, when I call our first meeting of interested parties.”
“That would be fine,” Sister Sulli said, and turned to accept her paper box of fried dough.
A second cook held out Agna’s order, and she accepted it with a nod. “Thank you,” she said, and again, to the priest, for a larger favor. “Thank you very much.”
“Take care.” Sister Sulli turned and merged with the crowd. Having secured her snack, Agna headed for the entrance of the festival grounds.
Now that the high of maneuvering through the conversation had passed, the bone-deep fatigue crept back in. She focused on her dough, on chewing and swallowing, on the sticky-salty feeling on her tongue. It would quiet her stomach for a while, and ease some of the dizziness. She was only tired and hungry, she told herself. She hadn’t eaten all day, and every healer knew that pouring out that much energy for an extended period would drain her.
It was infuriating to have to quit, to run up against her limits. She had pushed herself past the line once, when she and Keifon had been attacked by bandits on the road. She’d thought they would die that night, and in her panic, she had spent all she had to protect them. The night still lodged like a shard of stone in her mind, its edges beginning to round with time. She’d been able to help that night. They had driven their attackers back, and she had been able to heal Keifon afterward. She’d still been able to do something.
“Hey. What’s wrong?”
The sight of him swam in her vision, and he came for her before she could get a word out. She held her box of dough aside, not wanting to get honey all over his shirt. Keifon took the box and set it on a fencepost before hugging her tight.
“It’s just…” She hated the tears hanging in her eyes. “Mrs. Nammar died while I was trying to heal her today. I couldn’t stop it.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Hey. It wasn’t your fault, all right? We knew it was near the end.” It wasn’t an excuse, the way he said it, as he stroked the back of her head. It was what he believed. “We did everything we could. We try to save everyone, but we can’t, not every time.”
People came to their hospital to be healed, not for their healers to fail. Agna reminded herself that this was a real person under discussion, with a long life behind her — not a mark on an exam.
Keifon’s hand rested in the damp strands of her hair. “Do you still want to go through the festival? We can go home.”
“No… no. We can stay.” She pulled away and fished for her handkerchief. “Sorry. I don’t want to ruin your holiday.”
His expression was half exasperated, half sympathetic — she knew that look well. “As long as we’re together, that’s what matters. Whether we spend it here or at home, it’s all right.”
A thin giggle broke free from her chest. “Home. You just said it. Twice.”
“Mmgh. Yeah, so I did.” He folded his arms. There was a wet splotch on the slate-blue fabric of his shirt. Agna pressed her palm against it, sorry that she could neither hide it nor dry it.
She pulled her hand away. “I just have to let my energy build up. Eat something, get a good night’s sleep. I think this will be good for me.” I wanted to see you. That’s what would help most of all. She locked that thought up.
“Good.” He picked up her paper box of fried dough and held it out to her.
Agna sighed and took it, biting into a piece of dough. The lumps were beginning to cool, but they were still sweet and pillowy under their crunchy surface. She swallowed. The pressure behind her eyes was fading. “So. Where were you, anyway?”
“Mmn. Sorry. It took me too long to get back from services, and most of the stores were closed. I had to look around more to get our groceries.”
And his contributions to Keiva’s camp, of course. “Well, if we’re going to eat here, we could have waited till tomorrow to shop.” She pushed off the fence and meandered into the flow of foot traffic, between the rows of stalls.
Keifon kept pace with her, swinging his arms. “Ennh, I suppose, but I didn’t want to leave it for tomorrow. I found everything eventually. Sorry I was late.”
“It’s all right.” She sucked some of the honey off her fingers; she’d have to find some water as soon as she was done eating. “How was the service? And where is the church, anyway?”
“It’s on the west side of town, near a lot of… mansions, I guess you’d call them. Estates.”
“Same general area as Quasta Kalen’s estate, I’d bet. That’s quite a long walk.”
They passed the fried-dough stand and a stall with a tidy display of knitting samples, each labeled with a number: not a store but a contest. Agna had watched a few of the merchants spinning and knitting at the nightly bonfires, when they had traveled in the caravan. It had been the first time she’d seen such skills up close. In this climate they’d have need of wool, especially in the winter.
She popped the last fried dough ball into her mouth. It had done her some good; her stomach felt less hollow and queasy, and her head wasn’t so alarmingly light. At the next intersection of paths she found a trash barrel. “Now for some water.” She held up her sticky hands, tapping her fingers together.
“Hmm. This is our old campsite, after all, so…”
Of course it was. She had forgotten, with the unfamiliar layout. She and Keifon cut between the aisles of tents and pens of livestock toward the well. Someone had brought up a few buckets of water, so Agna washed her hands and splashed a little on her face.
“I wonder what’s at our spot.” Keifon turned toward the fence along the southern side of the campsite.
Agna dried off and tucked her handkerchief in her belt. “Heh. Let’s see.”
She kept the layout of the Golden Caravan camp in her mind, laying it out over the festival grounds like a map. Masa’s food cart would be there, and Nelle’s wagon would be over there… They made their way to the fence that separated the festival ground from a pasture. Their old campsite was claimed by a vendor selling carpets under a pavilion.
Agna felt a brush against her hand, and looked up to see Keifon smiling in her direction. She accepted his fingers between hers, and he folded their hands together.
“I know it’s sentimental,” he said. “I just wanted to visit.”
The first time they’d come to Wildern, they were just friendly enough to spend the day together, visiting the hospital and shopping for food in the markets. They’d only decided not to hate one another a few months before. Agna had assumed that she would leave the caravan in a few more months. So much of the road had been ahead of them — playing cards in the winter, reading by the campfire in the evening, layering their friendship one day at a time like coats of lacquer.
The second time she’d visited Wildern, she’d come through with Nelle; Keifon had been visiting his daughter in Yanwei. She’d met Jaeti and started to talk about the possibility of opening a gallery. She’d had more than six months to put that plan into motion. And here she was: the gallery was still empty and closed, and even her skill as a healer seemed less certain.
It felt like the wrong season. The trees covering the hills were leafed out in green, not russet and gold and flame-red, and she’d walked here in a light linen dress instead of a winter coat. During those short visits, she’d convinced herself that she wanted to build her dream in this city. She didn’t regret coming here, but she had overestimated her abilities.
Keifon squeezed her hand, and she looked up. Realizing the expression that must have settled over her face, she cleared her throat and smoothed her hair behind her ear. “Moving here hasn’t turned out the way I’d hoped it would.”
“We’ve only been here a few months,” he said. He stepped away from the campsite-turned-carpet-stall, and tightened his hand in Agna’s when she began to pull away. Towing her along, he weaved through the crowd, past a pen of lambs and a table piled with books. Even that temptation didn’t stop them; Agna had no heart for shopping, and Keifon didn’t seem to notice it.
> “I’m just not sure this is going to work,” she said. “Trying to be a healer and an art dealer at the same time. I wonder whether I’m spreading myself too thin.”
“Because of one thing you couldn’t prevent?”
Her fingers tightened. “It only takes one! People’s lives are at stake.”
“You didn’t make any mistakes, though, did you? Listen.” He stopped between two of the booths, and she swung around to face him. “If you want to cut back on your hospital hours so that you have more time for your gallery, then do that. If there’s something I can do to help around the house more, then tell me. But please don’t quit. Either job. I know they’re both too important to you.”
She let her breath go in a huff. She couldn’t afford to make mistakes in either job. Mistakes proved that she wasn’t capable.
“You’ll open the gallery someday,” he said. “By this time next year, I’d bet. I know you can do it. And I know you care about healing too much to give it up. I know you care about all of the people you’ve helped.”
For every hopeless case like Mrs. Nammar, there had been dozens, scores of other patients. She had healed broken bones, including Keifon’s friend Bargi’s; she had assisted with reattaching fingers lost to logging accidents; she had blocked pain for surgeries and births. She’d exercised old skills from her years at the Academy and learned new ones. Today was the exception, not the rule.
She glanced over her shoulder, wanting to escape the weight of her thoughts. The festival-goers drifted from stall to stall, taking in the sights and poring over the merchandise.
“How about this,” Keifon said. “It’s getting to be dinnertime. We can eat here, and maybe sit down till a show starts. If you want to shop, the sign said the fair’s open till midnight.”
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