"Hi, Revyn," the younger boy said, grinning. "I hear my brother's come t' pick me up. 'S it true? Will I be goin' home soon?"
Revyn glanced in mock warning at the door. "I wouldn't say that too loudly when you know Healer Eser is coming. He's liable to keep you here just to dash your hopes."
Eser smiled at the sound of the two boys' laughter as he entered the sickroom.
"Well, Seldi, how do you feel today?"
"I'm itchin' t' go home, Healer Eser, sir. I hear m'brother has come t' fetch me."
"He has, and he'll be in to see you soon. But it seems you might not be getting away from us for good, after all."
Revyn shot Seldi a quick "I-told-you-so" look, then turned his attention to what the Master Healer was saying.
"You, my boy, have a slight Talent for Healing. Not enough to make you a Master Healer, so don't worry about being trapped in my job," Eser said, smiling at his own expense. "But what you have, if trained, would be very useful back on the farm to help with the livestock and small injuries."
"What, me, a Healer?" Seldi gaped at Eser, eyes wide with disbelief.
"Yes, in certain things, if you choose to come back when you're a little older, for training. You probably wouldn't be strong enough to save lives, but you could save a good deal of the pain from small things—the little hurts that you get often enough on a farm. And you could learn to set legs, too."
"In case anyone else is fool enough t' go climbin' the crag so soon after the first snow, y'mean?" Seldi grinned.
"Something like that," Eser smiled. "Would you like to be able to do that?"
"Would I! Ma 'n' Da are allus sayin' how much we need a Healer down nearer t' the village—we can't allus be runnin' t' Haven. An' if I could take care of what we need, well, that'd save us time and gold. Sure I'd come back!"
Eser smiled again at Seldi's infectious enthusiasm.
"Well, then, we'll just have a look at your leg and I'll talk with your brother and we'll see if we can get you sent off home to finish knitting up that bone." He turned and nodded at Revyn, who slipped quietly into his accustomed place beside the cot, lifting the blankets and laying his hands gently over the bandages.
Carefully, he let his mind sink into the leg, beneath the bandages and the splint, until he could See the white of the bone buried deep within the flesh. The joining of the two pieces was a complete, though fragile, network of bone and ligaments. The break had healed straight and clean. He withdrew his awareness and looked up at Eser, nodding slightly.
"It's clean," he said quietly. Eser bent down and touched the leg briefly, checking Revyn's Sight against his own, and nodded back at his student.
"Well, Seldi, you're doing fine. I'll just have a word with your brother and we can send you home in good health. Mind you don't try walking too soon, now, or you might bend the bone."
"Thank you, Healer Eser, sir," Seldi murmured breathlessly. "I'll be back before you know't."
Eser slipped out the door, leaving Revyn alone with the younger boy.
"I'm t' be a Healer like Eser an' like you, Revyn. Can you believe't?"
Revyn grinned at his friend, sharing his delight.
"Who'd've thought this would come of me breakin' me leg tryin' t' get me Mum the last of the ferril flowers?"
"Was that what you were doing, Seldi? You never said."
"Oh, aye, a stupid enough thing, eh? I allus promise t' pick the last ferril flowers I can find for me Mum, and I hadn't gone and got 'em this year. So after the first snow, I decided to take a last look up the crag t' see if'n I could find some. When the snow started again, Teral came up to look for me, an' we both went down in that rockfall." Seldi became quiet and looked down at the blanket, absently picking at its weave.
"Well, you never can tell when good'll come to you, right?" Revyn asked cheerily, standing and heading toward the door to join Eser and continue the morning session.
"Nay. Sometimes, good comes even when you don't get what you want—or when you don't even get what you promised yourself an' somebody else, too."
Revyn turned suddenly, staring at Seldi in shock. Sometimes, good comes even when you don't get what you want, he repeated to himself. Havens, I think I must be the fool here. Seldi's climbing the crag to pick flowers for his mother is no stupider than what I've been doing here for the past year.
He smiled and said his farewells to the young boy without really paying attention to what he was doing, his mind still repeating what the lad had said. Without even knowing it, Seldi had done more for him than a year of Eser's teachings.
Passing into the hallway, Revyn nearly ran into the Master Healer, who was just returning, a tall strapping youth with a striking resemblance to Seldi following in his wake.
"Ah, Revyn, there you still are. I will just take Derem in to see his brother and we can finish visiting our patients. I know you'll be in a hurry now."
Revyn gave his teacher a questioning glance and saw the smile crinkling the corner's of Eser's eyes.
"I have letters for you from Elann," he said, opening the door to Seldi's room and gesturing for the other boy to enter, then going in after him.
Revyn stared at the closing door, then turned and hastened down the hall to the next occupied sickroom, not even bothering to wait for Eser to finish talking to Seldi.
Revyn took the two letters from Eser's hand and hurried out to the garden, ignoring the midwinter cold. He always read letters from home in the privacy of what he had come to consider "his" grotto, bad weather notwithstanding.
Brushing the snow off of the small bench, he sat down and studied the envelopes. The first he recognized as his mother's handwriting, and he expected the second to be from Chylla.
Revyn nearly dropped the second letter in surprise when he saw that the second letter was addressed in the awkward, blocky script of his brother. Why hadn't Chylla written him? Why would Myndal, of all people, write to him? He decided to read Myndal's letter first—it would surely be the shorter, and would probably only be a tirade against him anyway.
Revyn—
Your sister took sick a fortnight ago, going outside in the snow like the fool she was. She said she was going to find you, but I think she was running away from the decent marriage I had arranged for her. Anyway, she took sick real badly after we found her and brought her back. She died last week at a candlemark before midnight. I thought you ought to know, but we don't expect you back soon, so we buried her right away.
Myndal
Hot tears flooded from Revyn's eyes as he read the last lines, trying to force his mind to accept them. Chylla, his beloved golden sister—gone! No, it wasn't true. It couldn't be true. Gods, why Chylla? Why couldn't it have been—he stopped that thought before it completely formed. No. He couldn't wish death on anyone, even Myndal. Healers weren't allowed—again, he stopped his thoughts before he touched that which he feared and wanted so much. He folded the page before his tears splotched the ink beyond legibility, tucking it absently into his tunic. Hurt raged inside him as his mind cried her name in agony.
Long minutes later, he broke the seal of his mother's letter and slowly unfolded it.
My poor, dear son—
I weep as I write this, weep for your poor sister, and weep for your foolish brother. Ah, if the gods only knew how I suffered. I am sure Myndal has told you what has happened, but I doubt me that he told you all. He had arranged a disagreeable marriage for poor Chylla, wanting to wed her to a rich man my own father's age, simply to combine our lands. I could do nothing to stop his plans, nor could your poor sister. Ah, me, how foolish I was. I should have dissuaded her from her attempt to flee to you. She left just before a great storm came up. Myndal was furious and set out with hounds and men after her. They brought her back half-frozen and sick. The fever set in, and Myndal refused to send for any Healers, saying Chylla would be fine and that she deserved a little sickness for her disobedience. I sent for the herb-healer, but she was helpless. Finally, Myndal sent to Hold Gellan, for th
ey have a full Healer, but by then it was too late. Ah, poor Chylla. My heart grieves for her, my son, as it does for you. As soon as you are able, come home to me, for I fear I need you more than ever.
Your ever-loving Mother
Revyn's tears began again, but this time he felt awash in a feeling of guilt. If only he hadn't stayed to be trained and to continue his Bardic schooling. If only he'd gone home when he knew he couldn't be a Bard, Chylla would still be alive. He could have stopped Myndal from marrying her off to an old weakling. He could have helped her. He should have brought her to Haven with him. He should have—A sudden thought struck him, and he turned back to the letter. Yes, his mother had said that Myndal had refused to get a Healer until it was too late. Gods, his fault again!
He'd been resisting the Healers, holding back on his training, trying to give any Bardic Gift at all as much chance to emerge as possible, hoping against hope that he could still be a Bard. If he had taken the training as it had come, maybe he could have been home, and if Chylla had gotten sick anyway, he could have Healed her. He had a strong enough Gift, he now knew that instinctively. Now he accepted it, now that it was too late for Chylla. Twice and three times a fool! Twice and three times his fault!
He tucked his mother's letter next to the other inside his tunic, folded his arms across his knees, bent his head down, and wept furiously, shaking with sobs as he reviled himself for his stupidity. He grieved for his sister and blamed himself for his grief. The tears soaked the arms of his winter cloak, chilling him as the snow seeped into his bones, but he didn't care. Chylla was dead, and it was all his doing. Nothing would ever matter again, not without Chylla there for him.
Much later, Revyn was only vaguely aware of Eser and some other Healers running toward him with blankets. They snatched him up and brought him in, warming him and giving him the Healing teas that he had so often helped to brew. Thoughts of Chylla raced through his fevered mind, until finally he slept.
He was back at Elann, standing outside the gardens on a foggy spring day. Hazy clouds swirled around him, and his head throbbed painfully. Somewhere, he heard music. Then he heard the golden music of Chylla's laughter. A sharp pain stabbed deep into his heart when he heard the joyous sound.
"Chylla!" he cried, "I'm sorry!" He ran into the garden maze, calling her name, following the laughter that rang in his head. "Chylla, come back to me!"
Suddenly, he rounded a corner, and there she was, rosy as ever, her golden hair spilling over her shoulders, her bare feet buried in the fresh green grass.
"Chylla," he gasped, "I'm sorry, so sorry. It's all my fault."
"Oh, be quiet, Revy," she said affectionately. "Maybe Myndal was right, maybe we are both fools."
"But, if I could have been there, I could have Healed you, if I'd accepted my training..." Her laughter rang out again.
"If you'd been there, it would have happened differently. But don't you see? It doesn't matter now. The Havens are so bright, so wonderful. They sent me back to wake you up. It's not your fault, silly. I'll be fine."
"But, Chylla..."
She stepped forward and put a golden fingertip across his lips. "No more of that, now. Tell Mother I love her, and that I'm happy. She always worried about the ending of life. Tell her it's just a new beginning." She danced backward and began to head toward another of the maze pathways. Just before she disappeared, she turned to face him.
"And, Revy, don't worry about that song you were going to write for me. Just keep Healing. It's a different music, but it's all connected." She slipped back into the maze, and the shrubs began to disappear into the haze around him. Rooted to the spot, he cried out her name, trying to bring her back to him.
"Revyn, wake up," Eser murmured again, holding the student's head in one hand and a mug of tea in the other.
"Eser?" Revyn said, wonderingly, turning his head slightly to look at his teacher.
A smile lit the Healer's face as he raised the cup to Revyn's lips. "Drink," he said, "and rest. Your mother only needs to grieve for one child at a time."
Revyn nodded and drank obediently, then slipped back down under the quilts. The dream of Chylla was still so strong, so clear in his mind and his heart.
Eser smiled again and nodded to himself. The lad would heal soon, and then they could talk again about his resistance to the training. He stood and slowly headed towards the door. A weak voice stopped him.
"Eser? How long before I can resume my training in the House of Healing?"
The Healer tried unsuccessfully to hide the happiness in his voice as he turned to the bed again. "You won't be able to visit the sickrooms for at least another week, until your strength is back. We can still give you some lessons here in your room, though. Would you like your lute? You can begin to practice again in a few days."
"No, I don't think so," Revyn said drowsily. "Chylla told me I was better off playing a different kind of music."
The School Up the Hill
by Elisabeth Waters
Elisabeth Waters sold her first short story to Marion Zimmer Bradley for The Keeper's Price, the first of the Darkover anthologies. She has sold short stories to a variety of anthologies. Her first novel, a fantasy called Changing Fate, was awarded the 1989 Gryphon Award, and was published by DAW in 1994. She is a member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America and the Authors Guild. She has also worked as a supernumerary with the San Francisco Opera, where she has appeared in La Gio-conda, Manon Lescaut, Madame Butterfly, Khovanschina, Das Rheingold, Werther, and Idomeneo.
The voices were particularly loud today. All day the instructions, unspoken and impersonal, were dinned into her brain. "This is how to make it rain... now you do it." She spent the entire day resisting, trying to block them out.
These voices weren't so bad, though; at least they weren't men wanting her to do things she had no desire to do—men who saw her as a thing, not a person with feelings.
Then twilight came. She had always hated twilight, when her mother's customers started arriving. She had never liked her mother's customers and had resolved at a young age that she was going to find some way to live without selling her body. And that was before she started hearing what they were thinking.
Some of the customers wanted her in addition to her mother—or instead of her mother. And when her mother started thinking that it was time she began earning her keep, she ran away, as far and as fast as possible, until she found a place where she felt safe.
But still twilight made her uneasy, and her resistance to the commands weakened....
Myrta lay back in the tub in her room and relaxed. Maybe it was a bit self-indulgent, but she really enjoyed a bath in the early evening, before she had to busy herself with the rush of customers the inn got every evening, particularly in the bar. The town of Bolthaven had been built around the winter quarters of a mercenary troop. When the Skybolts moved out, their garrison had been taken over by a mage-school, the largest White Winds school in Rethwellan. Now instead of drunken mercenaries, the bar got student mages.
Sometimes this created problems: a mercenary could be asked to leave most of his weapons back at the barracks, but a mage's abilities were always with him. And if the mage was young enough for practical jokes and/or foolish enough to get too drunk.... Well, the school had a policy for that; they'd send down a teacher to stop whatever was going on, and the school would pay for any damage done.
Myrta heard running footsteps in the hall and a quick tap on her door. One of the barmaids dashed into the room before Myrta had time to say "enter."
"Excuse me, Mistress, but it's raining in the kitchen!"
Myrta surged out of the tub, splashing a fair amount of water around the room as she half-dried herself, threw on the nearest garment, and ran for the kitchen.
It was indeed raining in the kitchen. A thin layer of cloud had formed just below the ceiling, and rain dripped steadily from it. Fortunately, the brick floor in the kitchen sloped slightly to a drain in the center, so that wate
r was running out as fast as it fell; and the stew for tonight's dinner was cooking in the fireplace, so the rain wasn't falling into it. But the floor was getting rather wet and slippery, and the biscuits the cook had been rolling on the center table were a total loss. The table's surface was being rapidly covered with flour-and-water paste, and the cook was cursing steadily. Serena had been a Skybolt until an injury left her with a permanent limp. Myrta counted herself very fortunate to have Serena in the kitchen; she was a wonderful cook, and she wasn't frightened by the occasional magical mishap. Frequently angry, but never frightened. The new scullery maid, on the other hand, was cowering in the corner by the fireplace. She looked wet, miserable, and terrified.
Poor girl, thought Myrta, she's not used to the hazards of Bolthaven yet, and she can't be more than thirteen years old—if that. "Serena, I think both you and Leesa had best go get into dry clothes. I'll send up to the school and have them deal with this."
Serena stalked out, still grumbling. Leesa scuttled after her, hugging the wall, trying to stay as far as possible from everyone else. Myrta closed the door behind them, sent the barmaid back to her regular duties, and went out to the stables.
"Ruven!"
"Yes, Mistress?" The stable boy, a stocky lad of seventeen, appeared from one of the stalls.
"I need you to run up to the school. Present my compliments to Master Quenten, and tell him it's raining in our kitchen."
"Raining in the kitchen, right." Ruven wasn't terribly bright about anything but horses and mules, and thus he tended to accept everything, however outrageous, as normal.
He dashed off, and Myrta returned to the bar to wait for help to arrive.
Elrodie, one of the teachers at the school, was there within half an hour. In addition to being an earth-witch, she was also an herbalist. "Master Quenten wasn't certain how much salvage would be required for tonight's dinner," she explained, greeting Myrta. "Let's go see the damage."
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