The Healers' Home

  Keifon: Gods’ Country

  After a week, Kazi had gotten used to cleaning, and his grumbling subsided. Keifon insisted upon cooking for them, even when he dragged himself up the stairs after another double shift. Kazi had little idea how to cook, never having lived on his own, but they had all done hours of cleaning duty in the Army. That was Keifon’s voiced reason: he didn’t have the time to teach Kazi how to cook.

  He kept back the fact that he didn’t trust Kazi to make their stores stretch through the winter. He’d planned on two cats and one human, no more. From the looks Kazi shot him over their plates, his cautiousness with parceling out the flour and rice would be the next flash point that set them to arguing again.

  When Keifon was at the hospital, Kazi borrowed Keifon’s old clothes, scrubbed the floors, and beat the dust from the rugs. Keifon heard about all of this as he unpacked after his shift and fed the cats. Kazi leaned on the opposite wall, the sleeves of Keifon’s shirt rolled up and too tight around his biceps. “And firewood,” he said. “Can’t you spare something for firewood?”

  Keifon set a pot in the sink and pushed his aggravation into the pump handle. “I’m going out into the woods tomorrow. I’ll look for firewood then, though it may be picked over.”

  “Into the woods?” Kazi’s voice had dipped, and he watched Keifon with his eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  Because I can’t afford to feed us, and I won’t beg. He felt the shame wash up into his face, but he looked away and hefted the pot out of the sink. “I helped a friend forage for herbs when I was on the road. I planned to try in the public lands here. See what I can find.” He hadn’t mentioned searching for food, or that most of what he’d found with Agna and Nelle had been nuts and mushrooms. He could sell wild-growing herbs, true, but what he really needed was food.

  He couldn’t dangle that bait in front of Kazi, not today. His legs ached, and his throat was developing a scratch that could be dry air, or could be the beginning of an ague that could kill him. The last thing he wanted was to argue with his ex-boyfriend about food and money. Kazi would never go out digging up roots, not for friendship nor for survival. That was only one of the differences between them, in the end.

  He squatted on his heels and fed wood into the stove. Kazi had kept it burning low through the day, huddled in the kitchen over his notes and scripts. Keifon poked it back to life, swung the iron door shut, and pulled out a chair to wait.

  Still leaning against the wall, Kazi flipped a hand. “Suit yourself. Just… watch yourself out there.”

  Keifon looked up. Kazi’s jaw was tight, and he glared at the edge of the table. Keifon suppressed a smile as something warm unpicked a few of the knots in his chest. Kazi didn’t even realize he cared, did he? He didn’t understand what it meant. For the first time in days, in years, Keifon could have kissed his cheek and teased him about lingering flames. But not now, not when Kazi’s presence jeopardized his life and that of everyone he knew. Not since he’d swaggered in out of the night, too in love with his own cleverness to consider the harm he did to anyone else.

  So he’d hole up and shiver and complain and write his speeches while Keifon went out and hunted for food. Wasn’t that how it had always been? He came up with the shining words; his network of followers were the ones on the ground. At least he had learned to clean in the Army.

  “I’ll be careful,” Keifon said. “Thanks.”

  * * *

  He set out before his afternoon shift, heading down the hill to Keiva’s dwindling camp. It wasn’t the first day he’d turned up with empty hands and a mouth full of apologies. He had brought his medical kit, at least, and checked up on half-frozen fingers and lingering coughs. Most of those who remained looked too thin, too tired, too cold. He prayed that they’d make it through the winter, that the police would give up their search, that Kazi’s followers would relent and open the supply lines. He could do nothing to bring any of those hopes to fruition. All he could do was this, to wrap up in his winter coat and stave off another day of illness.

  Afterward, he climbed up into the piercing winter sunlight and followed the tracks through the snow. There was a little room in his medical kit now, and he’d folded an empty sack into one of its pockets, along with a trowel and a sturdy kitchen knife. He could avoid going back to the apartment between stops.

  It was childish, but one more hour without Kazi’s presence felt like a blessing. The tension in the apartment had eased since Kazi had agreed to do some of the cleaning; the cats had even ventured out from their hiding places outside of mealtimes. But Keifon found more peace in the hospital and under the bridge, and even making his rounds of shops and market stalls, hoping to find something he could afford.

  His next stop today was not a market, but the library. The two-story building kept its lamps burning, though Keifon’s breath steamed as he made his way between the stacks. In a study nook, a circle of people huddled around a table, speaking in low voices. One looked in Keifon’s direction, and he turned abruptly into a section he didn’t need to search. He didn’t recognize the face, but the group was Yanweian — if they weren’t new recruits to Unit 279 or earthbreakers in Kazi’s pocket, then they were spies for the Nijin police.

  One book, if he was lucky, and he could get out of town for a while. Out into the woods, alone, under storm clouds, true — but it would feel like doing something. It would feel like trying, instead of hiding.

  Keifon doubled back around a shelf and passed into the natural sciences section. A few people huddled in their coats under the reading lamps, no one he recognized. He scanned the shelves until he found what he needed: a book on foraging in northwestern Kavera. A nearby section had an unoccupied table, so Keifon laid out the book and studied.

  Complaints about cold temperatures and wet feet aside, Agna would have understood this better. She would have taken notes, written to Nelle for advice, and made up a plan of attack. But the last time Keifon had gone out for groceries, he’d come home with an empty money bag and a quarter of what they needed. He couldn’t wait any longer. His skill in the archery drills in the Army had always been barely enough to pass, no more, and he didn’t own a bow in any case. He’d have little hope of hunting for food, if any game remained near the starving city. But he could still search and dig and harvest.

  He focused on the few plants available in the wintertime, and ignored those that were useful only for dyes and seasonings. A few passes through the descriptions and diagrams gave him an idea of what to search for. Medicine and food could be earned by patience and effort, even in the city. It was better than the alternatives. He had to believe that.

  Swinging wide of the Yanweian group, he carried the book close to his chest on the way back to the check-out desk. The librarian took his name and checked it against their records. He slipped out into the biting air, as ready as he could be.

  The public lands lay east of the city, bounded by a rambling split-rail fence. The road ran through a set of open gates. On one side of the gates, strikers and counter-protesters had layered signs for rallies and food handouts. On the other side, a carved wooden sign gave thanks to the local Eytran church for raising the funds to buy and donate the land to the people, and laid out the rules. Hunting was allowed, camping was not. All city laws had to be followed. Of course, Keifon thought as he adjusted the strap of his satchel, they had to catch you first.

  Once, long ago, he had set out with Agna and Nelle on a foraging trip. He’d recently returned from visiting Eri and Nachi for the first time since he left the country, and every hour with his friends had felt heady and sweet. He and Agna had rambled together through the Kaveran forest, following Nelle’s instructions, telling one another stories and teaching one another words from their respective languages. That night, Agna had told him she would not go home to Nessiny after all, and so their lives had stayed intertwined for a while longer. From dawn to dusk, it had been a cold, hard slog through the snow, and yet the day seemed wrapped in golden light in his memory.


  Today he had no notes to follow, only the reassuring weight of a library book. The paths laid out under the trees had not been swept, but footprints dotted the snow as the paths wound among the hills. Keifon kept to the path for a while, peering into the distance between the leafless trees, looking for lakes, or dells shaded by pines — anywhere that might not be fully frozen. The path took him out of sight of the fences and gates, and the houses behind him were more occluded by the trees with every step. When he seemed surrounded by trees, dead underbrush, paths and trails, Keifon scouted around. Rough log benches had been built here and there along the path, and he made his way to the nearest one and cleared one end of snow. Seating himself on the cold wood, he retrieved the library book from his satchel and bit on the fingers of one of his gloves to pull it off. He remembered a few details — the branch shape of willow trees, the bark pattern of walnut trees — but to make effective use of his time, he had to keep the clues fresh in his mind.

  A few minutes of re-scanning the most promising entries helped his sense of focus. Squinting across the snow, Keifon surveyed the area beyond the path. Past a tangle of undergrowth, a dry stream bed ran alongside the path, stair-stepping its way down the slope as it continued further into the forest. He packed up the book, replaced his glove, and flexed the blood back into his fingers as he pushed through the brush toward the stream bed.

  Of course Kazi had to make his move in the winter, he thought, turning to follow the edge of the dry stream bed. In the apartment, he’d tried not to think about the timing of Kazi’s plan, and focused on keeping both felines and humans safe and fed. In the hospital, he tried not to remember that the reason for his patients’ malnutrition and frostbite was his own house guest’s ambition. Out here under the trees, his anger could steam out with his breath, where it wouldn’t hurt anyone.

  Kazi had intentionally applied pressure to the populace. He’d only say things like what we had to do and unavoidable consequences, when Keifon alluded to it. But the suffering of Wildern’s people was the lever with which Kazi hoped to apply pressure to the Kaveran government, and he hoped to use the Kaveran government to influence the Yanweian government. If he’d made his move in the summer, Kaverans and Yanweians alike would have scouted out a new route through the mountains, or simply sent supplies up the canal from Laketon. Wagons would have arrived daily from the farms to the south and southeast, if there had been anything to harvest. This slow, cold death was part of Kazi’s plan.

  He focused on the crunch of the crusted snow. One thing at a time. Follow the stream, see where it led, and look for anything medicinal, edible, or burnable. The rest would come — today’s hospital shift, tomorrow’s appointment with Father Tufari, the next argument with Kazi. First, he had to watch and listen, and let Eytra’s land lead him.

  The stream bed unspooled between the trees, deepening between its banks. Trickles and springs fed into it from either side. The dry leaves along its bottom turned wet, then ice-crusted, until Keifon walked alongside a frozen stream. The muted sound of water gurgling under the ice suggested that it had not frozen solid yet, and eventually the hill leveled out under his feet.

  The stream emptied into a pond with a patch of dark water at its center. Another human-made path approached the lake from the other side of the hill, and seemed to circle the pond under the snow. The edges of the pond were trampled with tracks — Keifon recognized human, rabbit, and deer tracks up to the edge. The water here must be good, if so many animals came. Three more log benches stood at the edge of the pond, for fishing or for contemplation. In the summer, it would be a restful spot in the cool shade.

  If — when — he got through this, when spring came, he’d bring Agna here. They’d sit by the water and talk. Keifon promised himself and his cramping stomach this, as he stooped to search the sheltered nook under the nearest bench. One cluster of mushrooms. He recognized their speckled caps from the guidebook; they were poisonous.

  There might be fish in the pond, or in some of these streams. There might be hibernating crayfish buried in the stream bottoms. If he’d been more prepared, if he’d had time, he’d have thought to find a fishing pole. Next time, he told himself. First, he’d investigate the patch of aquatic plants on the other side of the pond. One thing at a time.

  The hunger chewing at his middle grumbled that he should take everything, that he should tear this barren place to the ground, but he settled on half a dozen thick tubers, washed in the frigid water. Roasted in the oven, they’d serve as side dishes for nearly a week. He unfurled the sack from his satchel, piled the roots in the bottom, and slung it over his shoulder. Flush with this victory, he took a minute to warm his numb hands, cupped around the heat of his breath. Through the rising steam, he saw the trunk of a walnut tree, in the distance. He kept an eye on the sun and the pond and set off through the snow.

  * * *

  Keifon had allotted himself the morning to search, enough time to find his way out of the forest, return the book, wash up and get to his shift at the hospital. He shoved one more piece of firewood into his sack and checked the angle of the sun: close enough to vertical to count, for the winter. He dusted the snow from his knees, shouldered the sack, and cast around for the path. He’d found less food than he’d hoped, though the tubers and nuts would help; most of the weight in his sack was firewood and willow bark. It had been respectable for a first attempt. Stomping through the snow had been thorough exercise, and the tickle in his throat had dwindled instead of being exacerbated by the dry air. He was certain he could still take nine hours on his feet at the hospital.

  He climbed up a slope, slipping on a drift of leaves, and crested a hill onto the packed-dirt path. His own footprints marked the line of the path, curving along parallel to the fence that shielded the path from the steep drop on the other side. When he’d dropped off the path an hour ago, the only marks in last night’s snowfall had been his own prints and those of rabbits and deer. Now, the snow was churned up, streaked with dirt and gravel. He’d never learned to read tracks — that was a job for scouts, not medics — but he thought he could pick out human boot prints and horses’ hoof prints in the snow.

  Swallowing hard, he tried to think clearly. Some of Kazi’s remaining supporters had stayed at the pass, to obstruct any attempts to rebuild the bridge. A few, the papers reported, had fled into the hills — deserters to both sides, perhaps. The rumors in the shops and in the hospital halls guessed that Kazi had run similarly, hiding out somewhere in a hunter’s cabin or a secret stronghold. Of course, Keifon had never believed that, even before Kazi had turned up in Eytran robes. Kazi wouldn’t put up with that much inconvenience.

  But this many people and horses suggested trouble of some sort. Keifon pulled his scarf up and slid down the hill toward the tangle of brush where he’d gathered the firewood. If he worked his way parallel to the path at the bottom of this rise, kept low and kept quiet, he might go unnoticed. It would take longer than returning by the path, and he would have no time to warm himself in the kitchen as he’d hoped. He hadn’t considered the possibility of rebels or search parties.

  The heat rising from his skin should have counteracted the bite of the wind, but as it blew stinging snow into his eyes, he could only think about his life’s warmth leaching into the air. Now was not the time to let that old paranoia get a foothold. Moving would keep him warm. As long as he kept his wits and didn’t let himself get lost, he would be back in town soon.

  Keifon ducked behind a tree trunk and craned toward the sun. He was still moving west, toward the city. He might emerge in a different spot than he’d entered, but that was fine. As long as he could see the courthouse tower or the scaffolding of the new Tufarian church, he could find his way. For now, he’d settle for a sign of civilization. The forest was quiet on a winter morning, apart from the soft hiss of the wind through the trees.

  To calm his hammering heart, he made an inventory of what to bring next time. Notes from the book; he’d keep it for a while lon
ger and copy the information that might be helpful. An oilskin bag, to separate anything wet in his haul. A fishing pole, hooks, bait. Maybe a pair of those basket-like snowshoes that hunters wore in the mountains, if the prices weren’t too dear.

  “Hey, hoy!”

  Keifon’s breath froze in his lungs. He wheeled toward the voice, the bag swinging over his shoulder. A rider had appeared behind him, dark against the snow. Had they followed his tracks? A rumble of horses’ hooves cracked the winter silence. He held his hands out, empty. Harmless. His mouth dried under his scarf. He’d done nothing wrong, the lands were open to all, and yet his head clanged with the shouts of the Ceien constabulary and the hard pokes from their nightsticks. Move along, scum. Honest people use this road.

  His brain stampeded, barely in control. They could be Kazi’s followers. But the animals he’d seen at the pass had beeen draft horses, more suited to hauling carts than carrying riders over this uneven ground. Of course, the Nijin police were out looking for Kazi, too. Was the scout’s coat blue, or gray like Wildern’s police uniform? He couldn’t see past the blowing snow.

  The hoof beats clomped to a halt over his head, close enough to hear the puffing and snorting of the horses. Keifon looked up slantwise, not daring to move his head. A party of riders had gathered at the crest of the hill, along the path. Their coats were blue. His empty stomach flipped. He hoped they couldn’t see that his surrendering hands were shaking.

  At the bottom of the hill, the scout brought her horse to a halt a few yards from him. The breath of both horse and rider steamed in the air. “Show us your face,” she said in accented Kaveran. “No sudden moves.”

  Leaving one hand in the air, Keifon pulled his scarf down around his neck and pushed back his hood. A thousand excuses, explanations, pleas and prayers clashed in his mind. In the end, he shut them out for one prayer, directed to whichever god would hear him. Please, no, please, no.