Path of Honor

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  Reisil licked her lips. She could promise them nothing. If it wasn’t true, if her power failed again—“There’s a family I need to tend. Then I’ll see what I can do.”

  The afternoon passed in a blur. Tillen led her to Nitsun and Liisek, their tent pitched in a swampy hollow where sewage and rain pooled. They rose and waited stoically as Reisil and Tillen approached at the head of a long, murmuring snake.

  “Reisiltark, Tillen,” Liisek said coolly, eyes flicking past to the trailing army. “What brings you?”

  “Reisiltark came looking for you and happens as I knew where to find you,” Tillen replied.

  “What’s all this?” Liisek jerked his chin at the hushed crowd that now began to wind around, circling the little group.

  “Not to worry,” said Tillen. “Folks interested in Reisiltark, is all. Came along to watch the goings-on. She thinks she can help your baby boy.”

  Nitsun stiffened. “You brought your special medicines? The ones you told us about?” The hope in her voice made it crack.

  “Better than that,” Tillen said before Reisil could answer. She gave him a sidelong look, then turned back to the young couple.

  “I’ve brought medicines, but it may be that I can do better for him.”

  “Better? How?” Liisek’s gaze darted uneasily over the surrounding crowd as he wrapped his arm around his wife and pulled her tightly against his side.

  Reisil opened her mouth, but didn’t know what to say. Magic? After all the damage the wizards had done in the war, the word magic was a curse in Kodu Riik.

  “Can I hold him?” she asked instead.

  Nitsun glanced at Liisek, hesitating, and then passed the limp bundle that was her son to Reisil. There had been little change in his condition. His dark eyes drifted from side to side, one pupil larger than the other. A spreading bruise on his head was turning mottled yellow and green. He’d fallen when Nitsun had laid him down on the bank of the river on her daily walk for water. He’d rolled from the bed she’d made him and slid down the rock bank, landing against a boulder.

  Once again, Reisil sat cross-legged on the ground, setting the baby in the cradle of her legs. She grimaced as clammy wetness seeped up through her cloak and both layers of woolen hose. Ignoring her discomfort, she touched the baby with delicate fingertips in the same way she had touched Fretiin. She did not hesitate this time. Her power spurted through her in a wash of searing heat, then quickly settled. Releasing her breath, Reisil began the process of exploring and mending the baby’s injuries. His skull was fractured, and the tissue beneath swollen and pulpy with excess blood. Reisil smoothed the swelling, redirected the blood and mended the bone. She did it quickly, knowing now what to do, and when she withdrew, this time her magic came docilely to heel.

  She looked up, her green eyes bright with triumph. The baby began to squirm and opened his mouth in a mewling cry. His pupils were the same size now and ranged over her with a purpose. He didn’t recognize her. His cries grew louder, angry. Nitsun dropped to her knees beside Reisil and snatched up the child, putting him instantly to her breast. He began to suckle with loud slurping noises, and all around the crowd began to laugh and clap. Liisek settled a hand on his wife’s shoulder and stared openmouthed at Reisil, the fingers of his other hand rubbing the patch of green sewn on his vest.

  “He will be well,” Reisil said. She stood, once again aided by a thicket of helping hands.

  Before Nitsun or Liisek could voice any more questions or gratitude, the head of the snake whirled her off, led by the man with two sick daughters. And so the afternoon went. After each healing, someone new led the way. Word spread to various other neighborhoods within the Fringes, and people began to bring their sick to her. She was grateful to find herself settled on a pile of blankets as one after another, the sick and the dying were guided to her.

  Exhaustion soon began to take its toll, and neither water nor the meager food pressed into her hands could assuage it. Her arms had begun to tremble with her efforts, and her head swam. But Reisil refused to stop. If she stopped now, there was no guarantee her magic would answer again.

  As she finished with a man who had lost his ability to speak, the left side of his face slack and drooping, Tillen bent down beside her, concern coloring his voice.

  “Reisiltark, this is too much. There are too many of us. You must rest.”

  Reisil didn’t have the energy to shake her head or argue. She merely held out her hands to the next in line.

  Time flew past—minutes or hours, Reisil didn’t know. Her shoulders ached, and her entire body trembled. She swayed, catching herself on the dirt with outstretched hands.

  “No more,” Tillen announced loudly. “Reisiltark can do no more today.”

  His pronouncement was met by silence. Nor could Reisil summon the energy to protest. Tillen hooked her beneath her arm and helped her to stand. She staggered as circulation returned to her numb legs. Tillen steadied her. The crowds parted. Reisil heard sounds of crying, and then a murmuring rustle of Thank you, Bless the Lady, Lady watch over you, and more urgently, Come again. Please come back.

  She gripped Tillen’s arm tightly, her knees buckling every few steps. Her head felt heavy as lead. She yawned, her entire body feeling limp as rope. She thought of her bed and winced as she remembered the lighthouse stairs. But she had done it! Her magic had answered her need at last, and she’d done it! She would rest and come again tomorrow, and the next day, until she had served all who needed her. She must tell Juhrnus and Saljane and—

  An ache curled around her heart. There wasn’t anyone else to tell. Only Sodur, and she wasn’t sure she wanted him to know. She wasn’t sure what he might do with the knowledge, and she’d already discovered how powerless she was in the face of his manipulations.

  She lifted her chin, putting aside the hurt, focusing on the triumphs of the day. She’d healed. She might be able to heal the plague now. She yawned again. But first she needed sleep.

  Chapter 10

  Metyein sprawled dazed on the cobbles, the pain throbbing through his body beyond nightmare. Blood trickled from his wounds, and he fought for breath, but the air seemed too thick. Footsteps approached. A hand reached down and pulled him over. He whined and flinched.

  “By the Lady! What skived him?”

  “Nipped by cloyes, looks like,” came the rough answer. “Must’ve been dangling too near the Gardens. Bilgerman don’t like toffs chiseling in on his walk.”

  “Maybe Captain Sharpe as what got him. Gambling cattle, this lot. Skipjack is what I reckon. Too wet behind the ears to be out of knee britches. What say we should do with him?”

  “Seen wounds like that in the war. Be dead afore long. Coin for the knackers, poor duffer.”

  “Yer cousin’s a knacker, ain’t he?”

  “What of it? Man’s gotta make his way in the world. This cove’s done in, clear as glass. Why shouldn’t Girfik make an easy muff-head? Got five mouths to feed, he do. He’ll bone up the horse too, if yer not wanting it.”

  Metyein struggled to open his eyes, to contradict their judgment, but he couldn’t. There was too much pain, too little blood; his body refused to respond to his commands.

  “He’s not dead yet.”

  A new voice, commanding and sardonic. Sudden relief drenched Metyein, and he sobbed out loud.

  “No hope for him, mate,” came the surly reply. “Oh, yer pardon. Dinna realize . . .”

  “No need to worry. But his father won’t be pleased if he dies. I’m going to have to get him some help. May I have your cart to move him?”

  “Yes, ahalad-kaaslane. Of course.”

  The deference in the man’s voice startled Metyein. When someone at court spoke to or about the ahalad-kaaslane these days, it was always with no little insolence. But more, that the man would agree to give up his livelihood without question—the trust stunned Metyein so that for a single moment of astonishment, he forgot his wounds.

  “And I’ll need something to stop the ble
eding.”

  There were ruffling sounds and then tearing cloth.

  “Yer pardon for saying so, ahalad-kaaslane. But never saw a man survive wounds the likes of his. Arrow’s in his gut up to the fletching.”

  Hearing that, Metyein’s slack muscles tensed as if he would physically force the man to recant. But he could not elude the truth, and he collapsed in on himself. The man was right. Metyein cas Vare was dead. His body just didn’t know it yet. Metyein’s mind flashed to his mother, and he felt tears slipping into his hair. Ah, mother, I have failed you, just like father. And now he’ll steal another of your sons from your side to take my place. What a fool I’ve been!

  “I don’t know that I’d like to bet on his chances either,” the ahalad-kaaslane said, interrupting Metyein’s agonized thoughts. “But I will take him to Reisiltark anyhow.”

  Reisiltark? The name drifted through the red fog in Metyein’s mind. Reisiltark? The ahalad-kaaslane his father distrusted so much? Then the thread of his thought snapped as pain lanced through him. He felt himself lifted up and laid on a wood surface. It smelled of fish. There was a keening sound, and Metyein realized it came from him. Then whimpering cries shook his frame as he was bandaged. He felt his bladder release and warmth puddle beneath his thighs.

  “Easy, now. It’ll be over soon,” came the voice of the ahalad-kaaslane.

  “One way or t’other,” one of his other rescuers muttered.

  Someone spread a blanket over Metyein, careful not to prod the arrow in his side. “Where do I return the cart?” the ahalad-kaaslane asked as he climbed up on the wagon seat.

  “Yidral Street in the salt quarter,” the man replied. “Name’s Pechic. Not far from the tower. Most folks can point you right.”

  “I thank you, and I shall return it before morning.”

  Then the ahalad-kaaslane made a clicking noise with his tongue, and the wagon rumbled over the cobbles. Pain skewered Metyein like hammered nails. He screamed and then succumbed to blackness, grateful for the release from his agony.

  Chapter 11

  Reisil bumped into Tillen, who had stopped abruptly in front of her. She shook her head, dimly aware that she’d been following behind him like a docile milk cow. But walking took all her concentration. Even breathing was an effort. She tugged on her cloak, feeling cold biting through the wool as the brewing storm settled over Koduteel. The wind blustered and slapped her face with a stinging hand.

  “What is it?” she asked Tillen, realizing suddenly she’d let her mind wander.

  “Reisiltark’s done enough today,” Tillen declared gruffly to someone she couldn’t see. “She must rest. Would you work her to the bone?”

  The woman responded in a low, ratcheting voice.

  Tillen shook his head. “No help for it,” he declared. But suddenly he rocked forward and then lunged. Reisil heard him swearing as a hand grasped her arm.

  “Ahalad-kaaslane, Reisiltark, we need you!” the stout, middle-aged woman cried out as Tillen grappled her around the waist. She clung to Reisil’s cloak, knotting the wool in her fists. The neck pulled sharply at Reisil’s throat and wrenched her sideways.

  “Please! You must come!” The woman writhed against Tillen’s grip. She kicked at him, fingernails gouging his arms, the whites of her eyes gleaming in the falling darkness. “There is no time! You must come now!”

  Her obvious desperation sent chills racing along Reisil’s bones. Twisting fear made her exhaustion evaporate as she came painfully alert. Only one thing she could think of would give birth to such razor-edged terror. Reisil’s body gave an involuntary shudder.

  Not yet, not yet, not yet. I’m not ready!

  “Tillen.” Her voice was nearly inaudible. She cleared her throat. “Tillen, stop. Let her go.” Her voice cut across the woman’s pleadings and the curious chatter of the gathering crowd. Silence descended like a knife thrust. Tillen’s hands dropped away from the agitated woman, and his florid, snub-nosed face turned somber at Reisil’s expression.

  “Show me,” Reisil said harshly, and then hurried after as the woman darted away, looking over her shoulder every few steps. Reisil could hear Tillen’s panting breaths behind her and the shuffling thump of dozens of feet as curious watchers joined their hurried procession.

  The woman led them away from the walls, toward the northeast edge of the Fringes between the Horn Tower and the Ahalad-kaaslane Tower, where the dwellings became sturdier and less squalid. There was an air of jealously guarded permanence to this neighborhood, where cooking pits were lined with stone and garden patches had been tilled in preparation for spring.

  The woman came to a breathless halt between two shacks on the edge of a community circle. Looking back at Reisil, she flung out her hand, pointing toward the interior of the circle. “There.”

  A beaten-dirt ring surrounded a central cooking pit. Doorways opened up onto the cul-de-sac, and Reisil could imagine that this was a cornerstone of joy and kinship for this community. Inside, near the firepit, she could see a heaped shape wrapped in a cloak.

  “Who is it?”

  “Nobody knows.” The woman pressed a hand to her mouth, shook her head and stood back, refusing to go any nearer. In the spaces between the ramshackle houses, Reisil could see others hovering. Their terror was palpable; she could taste it in the air, sharp and bitter as brewed blood-root.

  Reisil stepped into the circle and approached the collapsed figure. She heard familiar wet, rattling gasps as whoever it was struggled to breathe. Reisil squatted down and pulled the woman onto her back. Seeing her, Reisil scuttled back and sprawled onto her back. For a moment she was back in Veneston, surrounded by rotting bodies, mouth and nose clogged with the stink of rotting flesh, hearing nothing but the sounds of agony and death.

  Reisil took a shaking breath, swallowing hard and wiping her lips with the back of her hand. The stench of the woman’s illness rose like a barrelful of rotten eggs and forgotten entrails. Reisil scanned down the wasted body, one hand pressed over her mouth, her nose pinched between her forefinger and thumb. Where did she come from? How had no one noticed her? Her stomach lurched and she bit her tongue. By the Lady’s hand, did it really matter where the pitiful thing had come from? She was here now. The contagion was here.

  The woman’s eyes were closed against the firelight, the disease making even dull light painful. The silvered hair at her temples was the only clue to her age, for the rest of her had not waited for death before beginning to decay.

  Reisil cataloged the symptoms, her mind moving ponderously. It was exactly the same as Veneston. Blood trickled from the closed eyes, nose and lips, turning the woman’s face into a demonic mask. Her bodice and full skirts were stiff with feces, blood and vomit. A pebbly purple rash spread across her skin, pocked by spreading yellow blisters, many of which had burst, leaving behind black scabs the size of Reisil’s thumb. Mottled blue black to the elbows and knees and swollen like sausages, her infected limbs stank like spoiled meat.

  For a long minute Reisil stared helplessly, the memory of Veneston stark in her mind. Her magic had slid away from the disease like a snake escaping down a hole. A sword that wilted in her hand with every thrust.

  She squared her shoulders and set her jaw. But today her magic had healed.

  “Blessed Amiya guide me,” she whispered to the absent goddess. And then she set her hands gently on the woman’s shoulders. The wide shoulder-collar of the dress was crusty beneath Reisil’s fingers. Heat radiated through the broad-cloth like banked coals.

  “Easy now,” she murmured, whether to soothe herself or her twitching patient Reisil wasn’t sure. She reached for her power, half-fearing it wouldn’t come. But it rose to her call as it had all afternoon. Breathing a sigh of relief, Reisil began to probe the damage to the woman’s body, quailing beneath the severity of the destruction. It was a miracle she was still alive. The dead tissues in her arms and legs had poisoned her blood. Her liver and kidneys were pulpy masses within the cavity of her body. Many of h
er bloodpaths had collapsed or constricted, and her blood was turgid from dehydration.

  Where to start? The heart, Reisil decided. Move out from there, for it was still pumping, having the least apparent damage. Reisil mended the tissues. But soon it became obvious that her efforts were having as little effect as they had in Veneston. Each repair collapsed behind her, an illusion of healing. Desperately Reisil backtracked, reconstructing the rotted tissue and cleansing the poisons from the woman’s blood.

  To no avail.

  Again and again, but the disease was like a horde of ants, peeling away from her assault and swarming around her flanks to attack again. Reisil poured more magic into the woman, straining against her own exhaustion, feeling the power leaking up her arms. She smelled burnt hair and cloth—her own, but she refused to stop.

  An idea struck her. She grappled at her neck for the Lady’s talisman. It was a circular disc showing a red-eyed gryphon in full flight, a moon and sun gripped in its talons, a streamer of ivy in its beak. Nurema had given it to her the night before Ceriba’s kidnapping. Shortly thereafter she had used it to gain the Lady’s aid to save Juhrnus’s ahalad-kaaslane, Esper. And with any luck, she could do the same for this woman.

  Reisil slid a slim knife from the sheath in her boot, not pausing as she sliced it across the pad of her thumb. She dripped blood onto the silver, and the metal flared with brilliant light.

  ~Saljane!

  Instantly her ahalad-kaaslane joined minds with Reisil. Reisil got an impression of whistling wind and a storm-tossed tree branch. Neither Saljane nor Reisil spoke. The goshawk read instantly what Reisil was attempting and lent her strength to Reisil’s efforts.