Clearing her mind of all extraneous thought, she concentrated on the source of her healing gift. It was like walking a familiar path. She no longer had to strain to discern the markers, and when she reached the pool of her power, it had refilled. This time it was pure and clear because it was her own reservoir, not an outside influx of killing passion.
Metaphorically, she dipped her hands into the healing pool, slipped her feet in, and relaxed. A warmth flowed through her body. She sank deeper into her self-induced trance, visualizing all the blistered skin of her hands and feet growing fresh skin. When the process was finished, she felt sleep steal upon her and welcomed it, not stirring until the cock crowed at dawn.
With Ashmyr’s first cry the young Reeve girls entered. The middle one picked the baby up, laughing when he smiled.
The older girl placed a bowl on the bedside chest. “Are you ready to have your dressings changed, T’Imoshen?”
Last night the changing of the dressings had elicited hot tears of pain. Today she hoped there would be no more dressings.
“Baby’s hungry.” The littlest girl announced, and her big sister brought him to the bed.
Imoshen bared her breast, still clumsy with the bandages. She held Ashmyr in the crook of her arms while the eldest girl pulled back the covers and carefully peeled the linen away from the soles of her feet. Her gasp made Imoshen look up.
“What is it?” asked Mother Reeve, entering with a breakfast tray.
The girl pointed wordlessly at Imoshen’s feet.
The mother put the tray on the blanket chest and made the sign to ward off evil—lifting her hand to her eyes, then above her head—willing the harm to pass over. “I’ll be blessed. Not a sign of blisters.”
The others demanded a look. Their mother let them see, then chased the girls out and poured Imoshen a hot spiced milk.
“Thank you,” Imoshen said softly. The woman would not meet her eyes. “I did appreciate your care last night.”
“It was not my herbs that healed those burns. Why come here and call on my help when you could heal yourself?”
“I needed time to prepare and... this was the first chance I had to heal myself.”
“That baby needs a change.” Mother Reeve took him before Imoshen could put him to the other breast. When the woman returned Ashmyr to Imoshen, her hands brushed Imoshen’s bare skin. Imoshen caught a clear impression of a small boy of about three. He had the same red-golden hair as the youngest girl, but he also had the wine-dark eyes of the T’En. Imoshen sensed sorrow. “What is wrong with your little boy?”
Mother Reeve gasped and made the sign to ward off evil.
Imoshen caught her arm. “You have been kind. Let me help.”
“There’s nothing you can do. His is no simple affliction that can be set to rights by a few herbs and a little healing.” The woman went to the end of the bed.
“At least let me see him,” Imoshen urged. “If I cannot help, he will be no worse off than he was before.”
The woman’s work-worn hands slowed as she unwrapped Imoshen’s other foot. “This one is as good as the first. No, T’En Healer. There’s nothing that can be done for my boy. I’ve seen it happen before. I took sick while I was carrying him. He looks perfectly normal but he cannot hear a word we say. It—” Her face worked as she fought her sorrow. “It makes it hard for him. The other children—not ours, you understand—the others tease him because not only can’t he hear but he—”
“Has the T’En eyes,” Imoshen finished for her.
The woman nodded. “My mother had the T’En eyes. Sometimes it will skip a generation.”
“I’m sorry. You are right. There is nothing I can do if his hearing was damaged before he was born. The T’En can aid healing but they cannot replace—”
Suddenly there was a shout of laughter and the door swung open. A small boy darted inside, followed by his sister. He slipped under the bed and there he stayed, crowing delightedly, as both his mother and sister tried vainly to drag him out.
Imoshen laughed and cut short the woman’s apology. “He won’t bother me.”
Mother Reeve looked doubtful. “Have it your way. It’s not that I haven’t got enough to do, what with the leader of your guards and T’Reothe himself sitting down to eat at my table, not to mention three dozen Ghebite soldiers camped in my fields. I’ve no time to stay and play games!”
She bustled off with her daughter, leaving Imoshen to eat her breakfast. The boy soon tired of hiding and peered over the bed base at Imoshen. She smiled. He smiled back. She tore off the honeyed crust of the hot roll and used it to lure the child closer.
In no time he was sitting on the bed, spilling crumbs on the covers. He drank all her spiced milk and finished the last of the bread, then looked hopefully for more. He was so bright. It was cruel to think he would always be excluded from conversation because of his hearing loss and then excluded again because he had the T’En eyes.
She placed a tentative hand on his head and probed as the boy looked up at her trustingly. His awareness was bright and untouched by sound, but so sharp with colors, scents, and sensations that it flooded her like a fresh awakening. She opened herself to it, searching for something she could trip or trigger.
Then she felt a snap inside his small being. With a leap of understanding, he recognized what she was doing and rushed to meet her. His laughter filled her with joy. A physical embrace followed a heartbeat after the mental touch.
“What’s going on here?”
Imoshen pulled back, terribly tired. She had no strength to protest when Mother Reeve snatched the boy.
“Even the T’En healers of old could not restore a severed limb. You reach too high, T’Imoshen!”
Mother Reeve’s words stung Imoshen. She had been arrogant to invade the boy’s privacy without his mother’s approval. “Forgive me. I should have asked.”
“What’s wrong?” asked the teenage daughter.
Imoshen opened her mouth to speak, but the girl suddenly laughed and turned to her little brother. “No, you cannot have another honey bun. You had two already.”
“Three,” Imoshen said. “He ate mine as well.”
Then the three of them fell silent, staring at the boy, who wriggled until his mother put him down. He ran over to the window where a bird had landed on the sill and was pecking at the glass, framed by one of the little wooden squares.
“How did you know he wanted another bun?” Imoshen asked.
The girl shrugged. “I... I saw a bun and—”
“Now he wants me to open the window so he can touch the bird,” Mother Reeve whispered, awed.
Understanding came to Imoshen. “I tried to help him communicate. I felt something open up inside him.”
“You’ve awakened his T’En gift!” his mother moaned.
She went so pale her daughter guided her to the blanket chest, where she collapsed, leaning against the wall. The girl fanned her mother with her apron until the woman pushed her aside. “T’En Healer, what have you done to my boy? I loved him when he could not hear; now you’ve taken him from us.”
Imoshen was appalled. “At least now he can let you know when he wants things. He won’t be so lonely.”
“Lonely?” The mother fixed Imoshen with bright, angry eyes. “How can you say that when everyone he meets will shy away from him? T’En eyes were bad enough, but a gift as well? Eh, T’En touched!” She burst into tears.
Imoshen’s heart contracted. Had she condemned the boy to even worse ostracism? “I’m sorry. I only tried to help.”
The child wandered over to his mother. Climbing up into her lap, he put his arms around her neck. Abruptly, her tears stopped, and she stared at him in wonder.
“By the Aayel,” she whispered. “I can feel his love for me!”
Imoshen’s eyes stung.
Mother Reeve looked at Imoshen, her sun-worn face serious. “I’ll admit you meant no harm, T’Imoshen. But a T’En gift?”
Imoshen shrugged
. “I will not lie to you. The gifts are a two-edged sword. Bad luck took his hearing. I have awakened something that was in him. It might have slept all his life or it might have wakened when he reached puberty and became frustrated by the need to communicate. I only hope you and he can live with his gift.”
“Why shouldn’t we?” The girl smiled, but the mother’s expression told Imoshen she could foresee difficulties.
A deep voice yelled up the stairs.
“The others are ready to go,” the girl said. “Come, T’Imoshen, we’d best get you packed.”
“I can manage.” Imoshen tugged at the bandages on her hands. The young woman came over to help her. “At least today I can walk down the steps.”
But she discovered when she stood that her new skin was too tender to walk on. By the time Imoshen had been carried down the steps and out to the wagon by two healthy farm lads, the daughters had brought down Ashmyr and the rest of their things.
Imoshen looked up to see Mother Reeve at the open window with the boy in her arms. They were not smiling, but he waved and she had a feeling of sudden happiness and the visual picture of a bird taking flight. It was a lovely sensation. But what if the child was angry? What images might a fierce temper tantrum produce?
Normally the T’En gifts did not arise until puberty, when the young person was mature enough to cope with them. Perhaps it would have been better to leave well enough alone. From now on she would confine herself to simple healings.
“You have overextended yourself with these healings,” Reothe said reprovingly.
Imoshen gripped the back of the chair, her head spinning. She reached blindly for the wine jug, but it was empty. “Would you have me turn away those in need?”
“What about your needs? You will do them no good if you burn down like a candle.”
Imoshen sank into the chair. It was only natural that she minister to the townsfolk of Lakeside, but the sheer number of people needing her healing gift overwhelmed her. The effort made her ravenously hungry. “I will be fine.” The baby gave a cry from the back room. “See to Ashmyr and ask the Teahouse keeper to send in more food.”
“Your servant.” Reothe gave her a mock obeisance.
Imoshen peered through the windows to the square outside, where people waited patiently under delicate umbrellas of painted silk. Music and singing came to her through the many glass panels of the Tea-house entrance. A troupe of entertainers was performing for its captive audience.
She had stopped in Lakeside to gauge the townspeople’s mood. They had suffered twice during the Ghebite campaign—once under Tulkhan’s initial attack and the second time when King Gharavan entered. He had burned the outlying houses on the lake’s banks, but the older stone buildings, linked by their intricate arched bridges above the lake’s shallows, had escaped the brunt of Gharavan’s anger. He had saved that for T’Diemn.
This was her first visit to Lakeside, and it was every bit as beautiful as the minstrels claimed. Originally, the inhabitants had built fortified houses on the lake’s scattered islands, only to link them as time passed. This square was the largest area of open land in old Lakeside, faced by three-story houses dating from before the Age of Consolidation four hundred years ago.
Imoshen had feared the townsfolk of Lakeside would resent her since the Empress had failed to protect them. But when she arrived with Ashmyr in her arms, Lakeside officials had turned out to greet her. The mayor had cast Reothe a quick, nervous glance, saying, “We heard news that the rebels had been pardoned and sent home, that T’Reothe himself stood at your side.”
“And now you see it is true and here I am, ready to heal the sickest of your people,” Imoshen had replied quickly. Rumor had it that Lakeside was loyal to the rebels. She needed to win over the townsfolk.
But she had been healing since noon, and now the shadows lengthened. Jarholfe’s men stood outside the shop, where normally people would be drinking and eating. The little outdoor tables had been pushed to one side and people waited, the weakest on carry-beds under the shade of the awning.
The Tea-house keeper delivered a tray of fresh food herself, and Imoshen thanked the woman who had turned her premises over to them at a moment’s notice. “I am sorry to have lost you your afternoon’s custom.”
“You did at that. But come tomorrow they’ll all be here, sitting in the very chair where you sat, telling of how their cousin’s youngest was healed by you. So don’t you worry.”
Imoshen had to smile. “Did Reothe say the baby needed me?”
The woman shook her head. “He’s in the private room back there, singing to the babe.”
“Reothe’s singing?”
The woman nodded.
Unable to stop herself, Imoshen crept to the far door to find Reothe sitting in a chair slung from the ceiling with Ashmyr in his arms. He faced a courtyard, its ornamental garden designed to promote peace and harmony, and he was unaware of her as he swayed gently. Once she could never have crept up on him like this. She felt as if she was intruding.
His voice was a deep murmur, inherently musical. Though she did not recognize the song, she knew the words were High T’En. Imoshen felt drawn to him. She wanted to go to Reothe and cup his face in her hands. She contented herself with approaching and stroking Ashmyr’s soft cheek.
Reothe looked up. Imoshen leaned closer. She wanted to kiss him, not with desire but—
“T’Imoshen?” The woman spoke from the doorway with the empty tray in her hands. “They are asking for you.”
“Thank you.” Imoshen met Reothe’s eyes. “I must go.”
“Do not overwork your gift, for unless you heal me, I cannot walk death’s shadow to bring you back,” he warned.
He was speaking of the day she transformed the fallen bodies of Cariah and her lover into stone. The effort had drained her to the point of death. Only Reothe’s willingness to risk his soul in death’s shadow had saved her. “I never thanked you—”
“I never wanted thanks!”
She heard voices in the front room. “Nevertheless—”
“Just go, Imoshen. Do not insult me.”
Stung, she left him.
Six people waited. Imoshen’s heart sank. One man lay on a stretcher that had been placed on a long table, his body covered by a blanket, his face turned away from her. Four of them turned to face her. The fifth lifted his head, his eyes milked over with the blindness that came on some people in old age, though his body was still vigorous. The woman who led him placed a hand on his shoulder.
Imoshen had never attempted to heal blindness before, because her gift was a weak thing, good only for aiding healing. She suspected the blindness could be reversed. But if she healed this man it would exhaust her. Who was she to decide who lived and died?
Imoshen crossed to the table where the Tea-house keeper had laid out food and spiced wine. She poured herself a drink, draining it quickly. Then she tore into the pastry with its tasty filling, licking her fingers before dusting the crumbs from her lips. The food stopped her limbs trembling, but she knew she could not go on much longer.
Imoshen was aware of them waiting expectantly. “One moment.” She beckoned Jarholfe from his post at the door. “Please tell the people this will be my last healing for today.”
The man nodded, and objections greeted his announcement. Imoshen steeled herself. For now she would do her best for these people. Stepping closer to the sick man on the table, she took his hand in both of hers, addressing the others. “Tell me what is wrong with him.”
A surge of awareness shot up her arms. Too late!
A sword leapt up from under the blanket, its point aimed at the V under her ribs. From behind his bandages, fierce T’En eyes fixed on her. “We want to see T’Reothe!”
Imoshen schooled her features. “You had but to ask.”
Taking the blade, she turned the point gently away from her body, her eyes never leaving the rebel’s. But if she had turned away this man’s immediate threat, she had not defle
cted his purpose. Two of his companions stepped behind her, their desperation palpable. One arm snaked around her neck, and she felt the sharp edge of a blade nudge her exposed throat.
Urgently, she tried to touch Reothe’s awareness to warn him, but he was blind to her questing senses. She had made them both vulnerable by refusing to heal him. Regret and frustration raged through her. She swallowed. “You do not need to threaten me. All rebels have been given amnesty. Why not go home?”
“My home no longer stands, and what is a home without the ones you love?” a woman said harshly.
Imoshen sensed stark desolation. She licked her lips. “A home without love is a shell. Yet what is violence but a—”
“Don’t listen to her T’En tricks,” the one with the hard garnet eyes warned, swinging his feet to the floor.
The blind man’s head lifted like a dog who had caught an interesting scent. He pointed. “Someone is in there!”
Imoshen’s heart faltered. Anxious to divert them, she raised her voice. “T’Reothe, put your plaything away. You have visitors.”
Her son must not be used as a lever.
While the half-breed rebel unwound the bandages from his head, the two who held Imoshen shuffled around to face the back of the room.
If Reothe was surprised to see Imoshen held at knifepoint, he did not betray it. He lifted his arms. “My people, why have you come to me with violence in your hearts?”
“We had to see for ourselves,” the half-breed said.
“See what, Obazim? That I am unharmed? No one holds me at knifepoint.” Reothe glided toward them. Only Imoshen knew how much it cost him to move so smoothly. “Release T’Imoshen.”
The woman relaxed her grip, but the knifepoint stayed at Imoshen’s throat.
Reothe’s eyes narrowed. “Please forgive my people, Imoshen. They are foolish but sincere.”
She felt the wariness of her captors, smelled the change in their body scent.
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