“Take a sip of this,” I said, tipping the bottle against her dry lips.
She swallowed, and gave a little gasping cough.
Lord Shaine started forward. I raised my hand in a quelling gesture.
“It’s all right,” I said quietly. “Her throat is a little dry from the fever.”
Pausing, he looked at his daughter, and back over at me. I met his eyes steadily, willing him to understand that I would never bring harm to anyone in my charge.
Then I said, choosing my words carefully, for I did not wish to offend him, “Perhaps it would be better if you waited downstairs, my lord. It may be difficult for you to see—”
“I will remain here,” he said at once, his deeper tones overturning mine with an unshakeable sound of certainty. “I have seen wounds on the battlefield.”
“But not your own daughter’s,” I replied.
“Enough. Go on with it.”
I allowed myself a sigh, but did not waste my breath on any further argument. If he thought he could manage the sight, so be it.
With care I took hold of the bedclothes and pulled them away. The girl wore a heavy linen shift that stopped at mid-calf, and I could immediately see the bulky bandages that covered her left leg below the knee. Delicately I began to unwind the bandages, forcing myself to ignore the ever-increasing smell of the suppurating flesh. Finally I was done, and the wound revealed.
It was not quite as bad as I had expected, but it was still bad enough. Somehow she had gashed the inner side of her calf, opening up the flesh. Someone had obviously tried to stitch it up, with clumsy and straggling threads still visible through the puffed, angry flesh around them, but of course the wound had not been properly cleansed first, and infection had set in.
Working slowly and carefully, I felt around the site of the wound, probing with my fingers. A few times I heard a quick intake of breath as Auren gasped, but for the most part the poppy had dulled her senses enough so that I was able to carry on with my examination. Behind me I felt rather than heard Lord Shaine wince, but he remained silent, allowing me to do my work.
Although I could see the red streaks emanating from the wound, I did not think it was so far gone that I would have to remove the limb. Surgery was necessary, of course, but I felt I could cut away most of the dead tissue from the fleshy part of her calf and then pack the wound with honey. It would scar terribly, and she would most likely always walk with a limp, but at least she would walk.
Finally I turned to look up at Lord Shaine. He was pale beneath the neat beard that shadowed his jaw, but his gaze was steady enough.
“I’ll have to operate, but I believe I can save her leg,” I said.
He shut his eyes briefly. “Thank the gods. The local healer said he would have to take her leg at the knee.”
“And that still might not have stopped it, particularly if he was the one who performed the initial surgery,” I snapped. Of course I felt for Lord Shaine, but witnessing the careless handling and downright stupidity of untrained healers always made me feel a bit wild. I wanted to make a few pointed remarks about how the physicians of the Order could have been here in Seldd offering aid, if it weren’t for the country’s barbaric practice of enslaving anyone who didn’t have the means to protect him- or herself. But starting a senseless argument now would serve no purpose. Besides, perhaps if I were able to impress him enough now, he would feel more inclined later on to free me....
“I’ll need more hot water,” I said then. “And the rawest pure spirits you have.”
At that request he gave me a sharp look, brows drawing down over his eyes. For some reason I noted that they were a clear, deep blue, quite unlike his daughter’s. “What on earth for?”
“To clean my instruments,” I explained, then stood and went to my satchel. I pulled out the sharp cutting knives, the finely serrated bone saw. “We believe that infection is caused by dirt and lack of hygiene. Alcohol can do wonders for cleaning wounds and surgical implements.”
He still hesitated, giving me that narrow-eyed look, and I said, in tones as cutting as my knives, “Do you value the contents of your cellar more than your daughter’s leg, my lord?”
His mouth thinned, and he replied, “You would do well to remember who it is to whom you are speaking.”
Again I had to step on my tongue to prevent myself from tossing a retort back in his face. I took a breath, then said, fighting to keep my voice mild, “My only concern here is to help your daughter. I have sworn a vow to succor the sick. To that end, however, I must make certain requests.”
Lord Shaine was quiet for a moment, seeming to consider my words. Of course he was most likely used to getting his own way in things; he had about him an air of command that somehow managed to avoid shading into arrogance. “I will see to it,” he said at length, then stepped forward, laid a hand briefly on his daughter’s pale brow, and turned and left the room.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I had been holding, and went on about my tasks. From a far corner of the room I borrowed a small table that could serve as a staging surface for my various instruments, and set them out on a clean piece of linen I also carried in my satchel.
The heat from the girl’s body was palpable, but I dared not give her any of the willowbark tea to settle her fever until I was done with the actual surgery. While the tea would help her febrile state, it also would thin her blood somewhat, and I feared she would bleed too much as it was. Still, I set the bottle containing the powdered leaves to one side in preparation for the moments after the surgery.
I had two vials of honey left, enough to pack the wound initially, but I knew I would have to procure more, and soon. There was no way for me to know how well-stocked Lord Shaine’s larders might be, but honey was a common enough foodstuff, and I would have to hope for the best. Likewise, I often used spiderwebs as wound dressings, but I had had no time to restock my supplies after the last surgery I had performed, as the summons to Aunde had come almost immediately following a surgery I had undertaken to remove an enlarged appendix. Since I was now in the heart of flax-producing country, I had to assume the one thing Lord Shaine could supply was ample amounts of clean linens.
Lord Shaine returned, carrying a squat smoked-glass bottle that held a liquor so potent I could smell it from where I sat. Several lengths of clean linen were also draped over his left arm. He handed the bottle of liquor to me in silence, and placed the stack of cloths on the table next to my implements.
“Thank you, my lord,” I replied, then turned away from him to carefully pour the bottle’s contents over the array of knives I had laid out on the table by Auren’s bedside. I’d found a small bowl that would serve well enough as a catch basin, and the excess liquid fell into that. The fumes stung my eyes, and I blinked the tears away. Now more than ever my vision must be clear and unobscured.
I lifted the largest of my three knives, then said over my shoulder, “You really should not stay for this, my lord—”
“Proceed,” he commanded immediately.
Allowing myself the smallest of shrugs, I turned to the girl who lay before me. All I could hope now was that if he became sickened by the proceedings he would step outside, or at the very least vomit into the chamber pot that sat in the far corner of the room.
Distractions could kill. I had been trained to focus my mind solely on my patients and the best means to cure them. Fatal errors could occur when we physicians allowed ourselves to think of our patients as individuals rather than the latest in a series of problems requiring a solution. This way of thinking had come to me with difficulty, and even now I tried not to think of how young Auren was, how fragile her pale features against the fall of dark blonde hair—idly, I wondered if she took after her mother, as Lord Shaine’s hair was brown, although his was of the medium shade that often is lighter in its youth. But no. Time for all that later, after she was healed. For now, the task of stopping the spreading infection lay before me.
The first cut was deep, sl
icing firmly into the soft flesh at the side of her calf. Blood welled up immediately, but I was ready for it, applying pressure with my left hand even as I continued to make the cut. The smell of putrefaction grew stronger for a moment, but by this time I had become inured to the various stinks the human body could produce. I continued my work, carefully moving through the muscle, avoiding the arteries as best I could. At one point I dimly heard a gagging noise from behind me as I removed a large piece of flesh and dropped it into another bowl, but I kept on, ignoring the distraction.
As I had thought, the infection had not yet spread all the way to the bone, and so I was able to keep the vital musculature that attached to the shin more or less intact. I had to work quickly, however, as she continued to bleed freely, and in her weakened state, too much blood loss could be just as fatal as the infection itself. But a few moments later I was satisfied that I had removed all the diseased tissue, and picked up my needle and catgut suturing thread.
My needlework had always been fine, even as a young girl who stitched nothing more important than a spray of flowers on a pillowcase. Indeed, during my training with the Order, more than one instructor had commented on the neatness of my stitches, to which I had replied that at least my parents had taught me one thing which could be of use to me as a doctor. And indeed it had—the needle flashed in and out, drawing the sound flesh together even as I paused frequently to blot away the blood that continued to flow from the open wound. Her leg looked sadly misshapen—concave where it should have been convex—but the body has an amazing capacity to repair itself, and Auren was young and appeared to be otherwise healthy. In six months or so, no doubt she would be back on her feet, this episode only a memory of an evil dream.
Once I had completed the stitching, I poured a little more of the pale spirits Lord Shaine had brought me over the wound, making sure that any stray infection which might try to redevelop would be thwarted. Then I took one of my precious bottles of honey and spread a very small amount over the wound before I gathered up some fresh linen, tore it into strips, and began to re-wrap the leg.
Some blood seeped through the stitches, but not much. I had sewn up worse wounds than this—a jagged slash by a boar to one man’s thigh came to mind—and I did not expect it to give me too much trouble. Then again, I knew I must guard against over-confidence. Too many times I had seen patients who appeared to be on the mend have sudden, catastrophic relapses, and I knew it would be some time before I could breathe completely easy about Auren’s recovery.
No sooner had I completed wrapping the leg and begun the weary task of removing the blood-soaked sheets from beneath the girl’s limp form than Lord Shaine spoke.
“She will—she will live, won’t she?”
I turned to face him. His countenance was scarcely less pale than that of the girl who lay as if dead on the bed behind me, but, to his credit, he had not vomited, and he had stayed to the end. I didn’t know how many other men would have had the strength to do that.
“It’s very early yet, my lord, but I see no reason why not.” I discarded the bloody sheets I held and knelt in front of the dresser, finding the fresh bedclothes I sought in the bottom drawer. Then I returned to the bed and began to stretch the clean sheets across the feather mattress.
Lord Shaine made no move to help me, not that I really expected he would. He watched as I worked, then asked quietly, “What is your name?”
Only after I had finished my task did I look up at him and smile. “Merys, my lord,” I said. “Merys Thranion, of Lystare.”
“Thank you, Merys.” The grave blue eyes scanned my face briefly, and he added, “Thank you for saving my daughter.”
I bent my head, accepting his thanks. Probably it had taken no small effort of will for him to extend that courtesy to one who, although possessed of special gifts and training, was still only one of his slaves. I said, “I’m only glad that I got here in time, my lord.”
“As am I,” he replied, and he looked to the bed where his daughter slept, her face almost as pale as the bleached linen on which she lay. “As am I.”
His gratitude was unmistakeable. I could only pray that I might continue to build on it as the days wore on.
It soon became apparent to the household that Lord Shaine had accorded me a special place in it. That first night I spent at Auren’s bedside, since the hours immediately following a surgery were the most crucial. Her fever rose, as I had feared it might, but the willowbark tea kept it from ascending into the dangerous area where brain damage and death might occur. After that I was given quarters in a small room located directly above hers. Apparently Lord Shaine valued my services enough that the slave quarters would never be my home.
Once I realized I would be awarded at least a modicum of dignity, I began to feel a little better about my situation. Oh, of course I still wondered how I might make my escape, or whether my superiors at least might come to my aid, but I knew I would not leave Auren until I had assured myself that she would make a full recovery. In the meantime, though, I had my privacy, and the regard of the lord of the manor—no small feat, all things considered.
Most of the other slaves did not speak the common tongue, and so I was reduced to pointing and other vague hand gestures to get my wants and needs across. I supposed while I was there I should make the effort to learn their own language, and most of them put up with good enough humor my clumsy attempts at learning the vocabulary. My accent, I fear, was not very good, but since part of my training had involved the memorization of the various medicinal herbs and the parts of the body, I picked up the words readily enough.
Two days after her surgery, Auren opened her eyes and looked at me with something resembling lucidity. She said a few words in Selddish, and I spread my hands in frustration, then said, in broken words, “No speak....”
What looked like the beginnings of a smile pulled at her pale lips. “Are you from Farendon?” she asked, her accent distinctly better than her father’s.
“Yes,” I replied, relieved beyond measure that at least we would be able to communicate. “I’m a physician.”
She raised her eyebrows at that comment but said only, “My leg hurts.”
“I expect it does,” I responded mildly.
“But not as much as it did before,” she added, as if worried that she might have offended me. “Did you come here to take care of me?”
“I suppose you could put it that way,” I said. Then I frowned, thinking it through. “I’ve never had a chance to ask for certain—I was brought here with some other slaves, but I don’t know whether it was a lucky chance that brought me to Dorus’ attention, or whether your father sent him out specifically looking for someone who was a healer.”
Pushing herself up against the pillows, Auren regarded me critically for a moment. “You don’t look like a healer.”
“Actually, the members of my Order prefer to be called physicians. And what precisely is a healer supposed to look like, anyway?”
“Well, the healer from the next village is a skinny old man with a dirty beard. I didn’t like him.” She crossed her arms over her small breasts, “And the midwife who comes to deliver the slaves’ babies is round and fat. You’re neither—you’re actually quite pretty, aren’t you?”
“Pretty” is usually not the word used to describe me, I thought. I had inherited my father’s height and the lean elegant bones of his face as well. Then again, perhaps Auren’s vocabulary didn’t include the word “handsome.”
“Well, thank you, my lady,” I said, deciding to accept the compliment.
She nodded seriously, and leaned over to touch the bandaged length of her lower left leg beneath the blankets. “So you didn’t have to cut it off.”
“No, thankfully.”
“I was afraid it would be gone when I woke up. Everyone said it would have to come off.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, as if she were speaking of someone else’s leg. “Even when I woke up and could feel it hurting, I wasn’t sure it was still t
here. Old Wilm the miller lost his foot to frostbite before I was even born, but he says he can still feel it itching sometimes.”
“That does happen,” I admitted. “We call it ‘phantom pain.’ The body is remembering something that’s no longer there.”
Auren was silent a moment, her dark eyes considering. “So how did you fix my leg?”
Trying to decide how much it was appropriate to tell her, I paused. Then I looked at her serious little face and said candidly, “I had to cut away part of the muscle, the part where the infection had taken root. Then I stitched you back up.”
Again she sat quietly, thinking over my words. “Will I be able to walk?”
“I see no reason why not. You may limp a bit, but it shouldn’t keep you from living a normal life.”
“And dancing?”
“Dancing?” I repeated, wondering whether she had much opportunity for that here in her father’s dour castle.
“That’s how I shall meet my future husband,” Auren explained. “Everyone gathers at the castle—the sons of the local lords—and we dance. Then everyone decides who will marry whom.” Frowning, she added, “Who would want to marry a girl who limps?”
“You’re a very pretty girl, my lady,” I replied, thinking she seemed a little young to be worrying about whom she would marry. “I’m sure a slight limp wouldn’t bother any young man who liked you.”
Her frown deepened, as if my words had done very little to convince her. Then she asked, “What about riding?”
“Of course. It would probably be easier for you to ride than walk.”
“If Father lets me, that is,” she said. “That’s how it happened.”
“You fell while riding?”
“Yes,” she replied. “But it wasn’t an ordinary fall—I take those all the time. Father thinks I’m too wild, but why bother trotting down dull old paths when there are all these stone walls around here to be jumped?”
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