by S. A. Hunter
Egrit’s eyes never left her face. “Lady,” she spoke shyly, “I know something of healer’s arts. Mistress Rozalda found me helpful when I was small, and could fetch and carry for her. She said I was quiet and did not get in her way.
“I learned much and she was patient with my questions. She said I had a healer’s touch.”
The girl flushed brightly, as Thera turned a warm gaze upon her. “Blessings be,” murmured Thera, and further flustered the girl by grabbing her into a quick hug. “Come quickly.”
They caught up with the stretcher bearers as they turned into the large chamber used as an infirmary. A fire crackled in the open-oven fireplace. A large iron kettle simmered on a hook. Herbs hung in fragrant clusters from the rafters. The walls of shelves were loaded with clay jars sealed with wax, other shelves held scrolls and leather bound tomes. In a corner by the window was a worktable and stool.
Clean white linens were folded neatly in a cedar wardrobe. At the far end of the room were four cots, one occupied, and the rest freshly made. Two women in woolen bed robes were relaxed in chairs by the fire, sipping a steaming brew from tin mugs. They rose to their feet as the small group entered and murmured in concern as Alba’s stretcher appeared.
Sirra Alaine waved them to their seats. “Let us get her settled,” she warned them.
Swordswoman Mieta walked over to the two convalescents, and they spoke in low tones as the others carefully transferred Alba to a cot.
Sirra Alaine and Thera then found themselves standing awkward and somewhat astonished, as the usually diffident Egrit began to issue brisk orders.
Her small hands quickly felt over Alba’s head, neck, and limbs. “Out of my light,” she demanded of Sirra Alaine, who immediately shuffled back.
Egrit stood with hands on hips, and chewed her lip a moment.
“I can repair the dislocation of the shoulder, but I will need help. Sirra, hold here if you please.”
Thera found herself pressed back as the two others reset the shoulder. If she had not been so anxious, she would have been amused at with what alacrity the Sirra wordlessly jumped to little Egrit’s soft commands.
“That is good.” Egrit murmured, with a nod, as she rebound the shoulder and arm.
“Who did this splint?” she asked then, pointing to Alba’s leg.
“I did.” Thera replied, anxious.
“It was well done,” Egrit commented. Her small fingers moved with a firm competency as she removed the splint to examine the wound.
Even the Sirra paled. The odor and color were unmistakable.
They both turned and looked at Thera.
“Lady, what did this?” Egrit’s small face was bitter.
“A foul creature to be sure.”
Egrit continued to stare bleakly at Thera.
“What?” Thera demanded. She glared, alarmed, at the two of them. “We have poultices for healing, do we not? You can draw out the poison.”
Egrit spoke then, quiet and slow. Thera recognized the tone. Her father used it with his witless, high-bred racing horse.
“Lady, I will do all I can. But if the poison does not draw out by tomorrow, we must take her leg.”
* * * *
Thera paced the south tower. The sharp night wind lathed the sweat sheen off her skin.
Alba to lose her leg. Unthinkable. It was my doing. I insisted we go onboard the ship.
Hearing the steady shuff, shuff, of footsteps approaching up the steep wooden stairs, she marched back and forth angrily. Blessings be! Can I not have a moment’s solitude?
The guard on duty glanced at Thera briefly, then discreetly turned her back and kept her distance across the tower.
It was Sirra Alaine who emerged from the trap door. Alaine regarded Thera, who continued her pacing.
The dullest bovine cud-chewer in father’s fields would sense that I do not wish company right now. How not the Sirra?
The Sirra strolled over to the granite balustrade, and leaned there, her attitude contemplative.
“We are from the same village.” Alaine finally said.
Thera jerked her shoulder at the intrusion of Alaine’s voice, but halted her pacing. She stood hunched, hugging herself against the wind’s chill.
“Alba be younger than I, of course.” Alaine continued in her stolid voice.
Thera made an effort to quell the queer temper that kept rising like acid bile.
Alaine half turned, leaning on one elbow. “She sought me out here, at Elankeep, after she had wandered some on her own. You see, when she told her elder brother she wanted to soldier, he tried to…dissuade her.”
Thera felt some of the tension leave her shoulders and she turned to join the Sirra at the parapet. She clenched her hands before her. Shamed by the tears that glazed her eyes, she could not look at Alaine. Tears seemed a childish response to the trouble she had caused.
“Hnnh.” Alaine cleared her throat. “When beatings didn’t work, when she still said she would go, her brothers scarred her, with a knife.”
The Sirra met Thera’s shocked gaze steadily. Alaine’s own scar, a thin white line over her upper lip, distorted her bitter smile.
“A common enough practice, Lady. You see, in some places they think that forcing a woman to stay home as an unmarriageable drudge is more respectable than allowing her to seek such unwholesome independence.”
Alaine turned from Thera’s gaze. She leaned forward again, looking over the grassy field now seared silver by moonlight. “Not all are fortunate enough to find a place like the Elanraigh,” she said, her voice reverent.
“The people from my part of the country are not a very forward thinking folk. Not all are like your people of Allenholme, Lady.”
Thera bowed her head, scrubbing her fingers through the mass of her hair. “My folk have their blind side as well, Sirra,” she said, her lips barely moving.
Alaine turned a sapient look on Thera. “Hnnh. So.” Though the Sirra did not move, Thera felt as if a comforting arm had been thrown about her shoulders.
After a moment, Alaine continued. “Alba ran off finally. I can guess what that year on her own must have been like—her a scarred woman, penniless, of no name.”
Alaine’s voice turned droll. “She had some considerable sword skill by the time she found me. That be her gift. She’d worked with the caravans, I think. She’ll not talk about those times much.”
The childish tears would insist on coming. Thera wiped at her cheeks and blurted, “It is my fault she’s in trouble now. I made her go on the ships. She wanted to burn them right away. She knew something was wrong. I did as well, but I was determined to go.”
Alaine was silent. Bitterly Thera realized how much she would regret it if the Sirra and the women of Elankeep should shun her for her headstrong ways. Thera scrubbed at her face, her voice blurred behind her hands. “Some Salvai I prove to be. I’ll never be as wise as either you or Alba.”
Alaine proffered a neatly folded cloth from her belt kit. She gestured to Thera’s now streaming eyes and nose.
“Wisdom. Hnnh. Seems to me, the best lessons learned come hard. Think on it. We were young as you once. We carry our scars to prove it.” The Sirra shook her head. “Alba is strong, in ways I cannot even begin to describe. She will survive this, with her spirit intact. Elanraigh willing.”
“I will pray for that,” said Thera in subdued voice, and turning, she strode to the trap door and down the steep spiraling stair.
* * * *
The gate guard was alarmed.
“Lady?” The swordswoman cleared her throat. “Do you have an escort?”
Thera firmed her voice. “I will not be far. Be at ease.” She strolled casually around the wall, out of the guard’s line of sight, then ran lightly down the south side, toward the ancient grove. She could feel forest-mind driving her .
To what, she wondered.
It was very dark. Clouds obscured the stars and the wind hissed as it rushed through the dry grasses of the field.
Thera groped with her senses, but knew only a feeling of the grove awaiting her.
I’m right, she thought. Something calls me there.
She jogged on.
* * * *
The route she took was the same they had followed early that day. It was not as dark inside the grove as Thera had expected, for the ancient trees’ bark gleamed like polished pewter. She felt a prickling on her skin as she neared where they had found the first Memteth body. On approaching the tree she was driven to her knees by the strength of forest-mind.
Her breath came fast as she extended her hands, but there were no dusty Memteth remains, just a profusion of cool waxy-green vines. The vine’s roundish leaves were starred with delicate white flowers. Thera’s fingers tingled pleasantly as she pinched off several long strands of the vine. She sniffed the broken stem; a clean, astringent aroma. On impulse she ran to another site where Memteth remains had been found. The vines lushly thrived there as well.
“Blessings be,” sent Thera, clenching the vines to her. “Oh, Blessings be.”
* * * *
It was change of watch as Thera returned to the front gates. The two guards, who were conferring, saluted her with obvious relief.
Thera felt almost giddy as she ran to the infirmary room, the bright green vines held close to her chest.
Egrit looked up from Alba’s bedside as Thera burst in the room.
Carefully placing Alba’s hand back down, Egrit rose, and moved to meet Thera at the healing mistress’ worktable.
“Egrit! Look!” Thera extended the vine and watched anxiously as Egrit pinched a bit of leaf and sniffed the bitter-sweet aroma. She looked at Thera wonderingly. “Lady, I do not know this vine, I have never seen it before.”
Thera shifted from one foot to the other. The heady scent enveloped the two of them. “Neither have I, Egrit. However, the Elanraigh led me to it. It was in…a special place.” She rushed on, “I feel it will heal Alba’s wound.”
“You are the Salvai. Elanraigh bless us.” Egrit held out her arms for the vines and without further word, turned to work.
Thera breathed in the scent lingering on her fingers and crossing to Alba’s bed, laid her hand on the swordswoman’s forehead. “The Elanraigh cares for you, Alba, and so do I. You will be well.”
She lay down on the vacant bed beside Alba’s, and as she watched the swordswoman’s sleeping profile, her own lids drooped.
She awakened once, to see Egrit applying a poultice made from the waxy green leaves to Alba’s wound. She drifted asleep again with the sharp, clean scent filling her nostrils. A warm sense of well-being enveloped her.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It was late morning when Thera awoke to find Egrit, heavy-eyed, but smiling, as she supported Alba to drink from a water gourd.
Egrit’s voice was triumphant. “The poison has been drawn, Lady. Swordswoman Alba will mend.”
Thera kicked off her coverlet and stood behind Egrit as she continued to offer Alba sips of water. Thera’s fingers bit into Egrit’s shoulder. “She is truly well?”
“Weak and disoriented, but she will be herself before long.”
Alba’s eyes opened a slit and she mumbled around the lip of the water gourd.
“Alba,” Thera squeezed Alba’s hand and leaned closer, “how do you feel?”
“Jus’ tired. Next watch ‘s mine.”
The swordswoman’s eyes drooped shut again. Thera straightened and exchanged a wry look with Egrit. Alba’s disorientation would pass. Thera knew enough healer’s lore to rejoice at the return of healthy color to Alba’s flesh.
Sirra Alaine was summoned. The Sirra’s worn look lightened as she stood by the bed and observed Alba’s improved appearance. Thera saw the Sirra’s rough hand twitch slightly, then move to gently lift the sweat-dampened hair at Alba’s temples.
Alba’s eyes opened; her gaze clearer than before. She saw Alaine and a lopsided grin crooked Alba’s mouth. “Huh. Feels like an old lizard chewed me up ‘n spat me out.”
“Hnnh.” Alaine snorted. Her autumn-leaf eyes shone.
All that morning there was a steady flow of visitors as Alba’s companions came off-duty, until Thera observed the slump shouldered weariness in Egrit’s posture.
“Enough!” She gathered all eyes with a stern look. “Time to be off, all of you. If you but look, you will see that both patient and healer are in need of their rest.” Thera had to chew down a smile at their chagrined expressions. The small troop began to shuffle past her to the infirmary door.
“Elanraigh bless, Lady,” whispered Rhul from the doorway. Alba had spent much of the afternoon telling an elaborate and flattering tale of Thera’s battle with the lizard creature to all her visitors. It had made her sound like a hero of old. Thera snorted to herself, and yet she had been so afraid she could barely hold her spear. Rhul’s blessing was charged with warmth. Thera flushed.
Rhul’s gaze swung over toward Egrit. “Elanraigh bless, Healer,” she said with a respectful nod.
A chorus of good-natured blessing-be’s echoed in the hall as Rhul, loudly shushing for quiet, pulled the door too.
Egrit, Thera thought, observing her maid’s glowing pleasure that matched her own, truth be known, has earned her way into the swordswomen’s hearts.
“Rhul,” called Thera after the closing door, “ask Dama Ella if she will come to take over Alba’s care while Egrit rests.”
Rhul’s dark head briefly reappeared to nod assent, “Yes, Salvai.”
As Egrit passed her, Thera pressed her shoulder. “This is true healer’s work you’ve done here, Egrit.”
“It was you that found the vine, Lady.”
The corner of Thera’s mouth drew down. “Well, I was prodded, driven, by the Elanraigh to pick the plant it placed before my eyes. By all means, praise me if you will.” Thera shook the shoulder she grasped. “It was you, Egrit, who knew what to do, not I.”
Two days later healing mistress Rozalda returned. She swept into the infirmary room, escorted by Rhul and Lotta.
“What is this I hear of you feigning illness in my absence, Alba?” She shared a quick smile with Thera, before turning her penetrating gaze onto the patient.
Alba barked a laugh, then sobered. “It seems the Elanraigh choose to teach me to value that which I took for granted, mistress.”
“Indeed,” murmured Rozalda, laying her hand against Alba’s cheek.
Even Thera could judge by Alba’s appearance that the swordswoman was no longer fevered. Thera suspected the Healer’s gesture was more affection than assessment.
Now Rozalda held her hand, palm downward, a finger’s breadth above Alba’s leg where it lay propped on a rolled sheepskin, and closed her eyes. Her hand hovered over Alba’s wound. Then Rozalda’s eyelids quivered and Thera saw her meditative expression alter to a frown.
Her voice was abrupt. “When is this dressing to be changed?”
Egrit blanched. Her gaze flickered, and then steadied. “Mistress, I change the dressing and wash the wound every watch.”
Rozalda turned to Egrit and her frown cleared. “Egrit. My dear child,” she said, her voice softened, “I have heard from all of the very excellent care you give our swordswoman here. But this!” she gestured at the bandaged leg, “This has been a most foul wound, I wish to see how it heals for myself and…”
Alba interjected, “Mistress. Surely it be time I was up and about.” Alba propped herself up on her elbows. “I be right tired of laying abed,” she grumbled.
Rozalda pressed her lips together thoughtfully. “It is early days yet, Alba.”
Alba looked aggrieved.
Rozalda’s heavy brows lifted. “Now then,” she said, “I will first see for myself how the wound heals,” she paused. “Perhaps next watch you may move to the chair by the fire for part of the day. We will find you some quiet, useful task.”
She nodded at the brightening of Alba’s expression, and gestured for Thera and Egrit to walk to her worktab
le with her.
Egrit looked disturbed.
Rozalda crooked a brow at the maid as she moved behind her worktable. “What troubles you, child?”
“Mistress,” Egrit hesitated, then continued in a firmer voice, “is it not early yet for the swordswoman to be up?”
“My dear, I have found through long experience that when they start clamoring for their tasks or activities, I am best to give it them—be it shelling peas for cook, winding wool for Dama Brytha, or whetting a blade for their own use.” She laughed a little, “Many’s the time I’ve seen hands drop to laps and heads roll back on the chair as sleep overtakes them in the midst of what they are doing.” She twinkled at Egrit from under her heavy brows, “Whereas, if I had confined them to bed, they’d have rolled and fretted and not had the healing sleep they needed.
“Now,” she said briskly, “where is this vine that our Salvai found? Ah.” She gently plucked the leaf Egrit offered from her apron pocket, and held it against the light.
“Blessings be!” she exclaimed. She rubbed the dry leaf between her fingers.
Carefully laying the leaf down, she used both hands to lift a heavy volume down from her shelves. Rozalda lightly ran her fingers down the tissue thin pages.
As Thera, Egrit, and Rozalda became engrossed in the old book of healers’ lore, Rhul and Lotta moved across the room to sit on the edge of Alba’s bed. The swordswomen shared some story with Alba. Thera warmed to hear Alba laugh.
Finally Mistress Rozalda closed the volume. Her fingers rested on the tooled leather cover. “Well,” she mused, then looked up at Thera and Egrit, “it is lichenstrife.”
A silence fell on the entire group.
“Lichen…what, mistress?” called Alba from her bed.
“A very rare plant. It has not been seen in this generation....it is written here,” she smoothed the book’s cover, “that there is nothing known to match its healing properties. The Elanraigh seems to grow it only when it is most needed.
“The last lichenstrife ever found in the Elanraigh was when lady Dysanna was Salvai at Elankeep, more than forty-five years ago.