Morkleb cradled Jarah against him on the rear deck of Nightbane. It wasn’t exactly a private setting, fully under the sun that blazed with summer heat, but most of the crew was ashore for the day. The scent of her, the ship, the sea, and the fisheries filled his nose. Jarah nuzzled against him sleepily, a pleased smile widened the split on the side of her upper lip.
“I love you.”
Jarah’s smile turned to a frown. He’d been telling her that for the past two weeks, and though she had stopped taking his money, she choked on returning the words. She saw how much it pained him that she didn’t answer in kind. She’d thought about life with him, and he deserved to understand her hesitation. “I can’t give you children. I took borren root for too long. And…” She touched at the ruined remains of her left ear.
“I trust you without chaining you,” Morkleb said, still holding her against him.
She sat back from him, and he let her. “But you want children.”
Morkleb looked away from her in thought, would he be content with just her, without children? Possibly, he decided, but there might be a way for her to heal from the overuse of borren root. “Log Port has a temple dedicated to Thesda, there are clerics there. Maybe one could heal you?”
A hint of hope sprang in Jarah’s golden eyes. “Could they?
Morkleb grabbed his clothes. “One way to find out.”
They hurried through the crowded streets, hands clasped firmly, toward the temple. It rose above the little shops and homes, well away from the mills, forges, and tanneries near the river that split the city in half. It was on the southern side, the richer side of Log Port, a wide stone building with spires that reached high into the blue sky. The white stone had been quarried several miles south, and shipped to Log Port after the demise of the first church. The people of the city had donated heavily to build the temple three hundred years ago, believing it would help keep Thesda’s blessing and the ward up.
During the day, Log Port was a riot of colors. The people wore every different shade of cloth. The awnings over merchant stalls and shop windows ranged from garish yellow to deep somber purple. Most buildings were made of the common trees, interspersed in the redwood forest. As Morkleb and Jarah got closer to the temple, the buildings, mostly homes, were constructed of stone and painted in bright hues. Gradually they became larger and taller, until great mansions several stories tall shaded the cobbled streets. It was a sign of wealth and little fear that the nobles and merchants built within the city walls. Most common people retreated to little wooden houses outside the city when the day was over. The strong smell of the fisheries and ocean gave way to cleaner air and incense from the temple.
The courtyard before the temple was level and completely paved. A fountain bearing the statue of a young human man stood in the center, his eyes gazed reverently upward as water flowed from his outspread hands. It was a facsimile of what the people thought the savior priest looked like, for no one knew which priest had actually cried out the saving words. Priests and acolytes walked amongst the common folk in the courtyard. Some women collected water from the fountain in clay jars, gossiping with each other and two white-robed priests.
Morkleb and Jarah stopped next to the priests at the fountain. The human man looked at the pair with blue eyes, his dark brows rose and he rubbed at his large nose. “Yes?”
“Is there a cleric here? Who can help us?” Morkleb asked.
The priest’s thick brows drew down, and he looked over the pair more carefully. “A cleric can’t help her scars.”
Jarah quickly turned her face away.
Morkleb scowled at the priest. “Not for that. She took borren root for too long.”
The priest grunted and rubbed at the dark stubble on his face. “Go to the main entrance of the temple. There will be an acolyte seeing to petitions. Speak with him and tell him your trouble. Thesda may grant her healing, but if the damage has gone on too long, there is no reversing it.”
“Thank you.” Morkleb grinned and led Jarah toward the massive temple.
The tall doors were swung wide open allowing anyone entrance. Pews lined the grand interior and gilded columns held up the arching ceiling. Magnificent red rugs ran the length of the aisles between the pews and led up to the dais, where priests gave homilies every sunrise. On the far wall, behind the dais, a circle of gold was inset in the white stone, with a spiral of gold inside. It was the symbol of Thesda, of renewal.
Sunlight streamed in through towering windows and tall candles were lit along the walls. Paintings and tapestries depicted the works of Thesda’s clerics, healing the injured and sick. A few even showed demons being burned by a light from the circle and inner spiral, but that wasn’t the main focus of the religion. It was one of peace and healing, not battle. Other religions had clerics too, most could offer some form of healing, but none were as focused as Thesda’s ecclesiastics. Many cities and towns welcomed a church of Thesda, not many were dedicated enough to become clerics and earn the use of the god’s powers, but all the priests were trained in mundane healing arts.
The line to the lone acolyte seated at a small table with a book was long, Morkleb and Jarah clutched at each other’s hands while they waited. People with a range of sicknesses and injuries were in front of them and more queued behind them. The chronic illnesses and seeping wounds were separated and the most grievous given priority. Finally, they reached the harried acolyte in his brown cassock and white mozzetta, stained with sweat around his neck. The young human pushed his sweat-soaked blonde hair back from his face as he took in the two with a questioning raise of his eyebrow.
“I…” Jarah fumbled the words, anxious at the prospect of being able to have children with Morkleb. “I took borren root too long.”
The man frowned in concentration and flipped several pages forward in the book. “I can get you in next week. Sister Ulla is skilled with women’s… err… problems.”
Morkleb took a step closer to the table. “No, we can’t wait that long.”
The acolyte gave him a surprised look and a little snort of amusement.
Morkleb shook his head. “We’re sailors, on the Nightbane. We’ll be leaving in the next few days.”
“Oh.” He flipped back several pages. “Brother Kal is available this evening.” He gave them both a serious look. “But he is new to healing with Thesda’s power. He might not be able to help you. If there was a way to wait, to see Sister Ulla, you might have a better chance. Thesda’s power is great, but the cleric must know how to wield it.”
“We’ll see him,” Jarah said, not giving Morkleb a chance to try and figure out a way to make his mother stay at Log Port longer.
He reached into a box with several stacks of varied colored tiles and produced a blue one. “Take this to the hall on the right. There will be a blue door, wait in line until Brother Kal can see you.”
Jarah took the blue tile with a wide smile that twisted her disfigurement grotesquely. “Thank you.”
Before they could step out of line, a commotion rose up the throng of people as a young boy was carried to the acolyte past all of them. “Please!” the man cried holding the limp body. Blood dripped in a near constant flow from the child’s mangled arm, he was still alive.
The acolyte grabbed a black tile on a loop of string and hung it around the child’s neck. “To the left. Go!” The sobbing man rushed off to the left, leaving a trail of the boy’s blood behind him. The blonde man looked up at the two icren with an expression that bespoke of his sympathy for the man and child. “Thesda bless you both. Go see Brother Kal.”
The hall that led to the various colored doors didn’t have any windows, and little light reached it from the main chamber of the temple. Lamps on either side of each door lit the corridor, and people waited in line as each one. It was crowded with the sick and injured, Morkleb and Jarah had to step sideways between the clog of people to reach the blue door. People in brown cassocks went from room to room carrying buckets with red stained rags. So
metimes, they left the rooms with another pail filled with vomit.
At the blue door, three people waited in front of them. A minstrel with a broken finger, his lute hung from his back. A ghastly thin woman who leaned on the man at her side, and a boy with a bandage darkened with old blood over one eye. Morkleb and Jarah waited without speaking, neither one daring to voice their hopes. One by one the people before them entered the door and exited. The minstrel again had nimble fingers, the woman walked unsupported beside the man, her pallor lifted, and the boy without his bandage. Only the boy gave them a moment of doubt, the blood, and pus had been cleared away, but the eye was a ghostly white with scar tissue around it.
Clerics could only heal what would heal naturally over time. They couldn’t regrow limbs or repair paralyzed spines. The healing could save some people who would otherwise be mortally wounded. If someone was bleeding internally, the healing touch could stop it. If someone had shattered bones, the splinters would be realigned and regrown together. Even poison could be cured if caught before an organ was killed.
Morkleb and Jarah entered the well-lit room, a table with a thin mat was in the center, and a small table and chair were at the rear. The walls held no decoration and only reflected back the light from the oil lamps. A young, red haired human stood behind the matted table, his eyelids drooped over green eyes. His white cassock was stained at the wrists from blood that wouldn’t wash out. He took the blue tile Jarah handed him and did his best not to stare at her face.
“What may I help you with?”
“I took borren root too long. We want to have children.”
Kal’s face fell. “Oh.” He scratched at the pale skin of his cheek. “Take a seat here.” Jarah hopped up on the mat. “I’m just going to touch you here.” His hands hovered over her abdomen and when she nodded, rested them on her. A soft white nimbus of light glowed from his hands. “How long did you take the root and when did you stop?”
“I took it for a total of almost four years,” Jarah answered. When she saw his concerned expression, she swallowed and continued, “I didn’t miss a day. I stopped for a few months after three years, took it again for five months, and stopped…” She looked at Morkleb with an apologetic expression. “I stopped over a month ago, but my blood flow never returned.”
Kal grimaced. “That’s a long time.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Thesda, have mercy,” he muttered. He began his prayers, softly under his breath. The prayers didn’t need to be said aloud, but he felt better hearing the words. The warmth dipped into the woman and his hands became chilled.
Jarah closed her eyes and laid back, letting the warm touch soak into her. She’d never prayed to any god before, but she silently asked for Thesda’s help now. She promised that if she were healed, she would become a follower of Thesda and teach her children the same. Morkleb paced the front of the room, between the table and the door. He couldn’t tell if anything was happening, the two were mostly silent, only the cleric’s mumbled words filled the room. He would occasionally stop and look at the two, desperate for one of them to say something, to give a sign that it was working. More time passed than any of the other patients had taken.
Kal began to sweat and his fingers trembled with cold. His words became quieter until there was little sound other than his deep breaths. Gradually, he felt a little response in her body, it was enough to make him continue. He’d rarely had to work so long for Thesda’s power to get a reaction, normally injuries healed within a matter of heartbeats. Poison could take longer; the frail woman who’d come to him earlier had almost been beyond Thesda’s reach.
Kal refocused on his task, his hands became icy as he worked. The womb wasn’t dead, that would have sickened Jarah. But there was a lot of damage, and he couldn’t be sure that healing the womb alone would restore her ability to have babies. It was like trying to rehydrate a raisin. Hunger gnawed at his belly, he hadn’t stopped for lunch, it had to be late evening, and his throat was parched. The room became warmer as he worked feverishly.
Doubt began to hammer at Morkleb, as he continually looked to the cleric and Jarah. He lifted his wings from his shoulders, trying to cool himself. The capillaries within the membranes were swollen with blood, and he shifted his wings back and forth to dissipate the heat.
Finally, Kal opened his eyes with a deep intake of air, his hands felt frozen. The light around his hands ebbed away, and he looked between the two icren. “I’m sorry.”
Jarah’s wail nearly sent Morkleb to his knees. He moved to her and held her as she cried.
Kal gave the couple a despondent look. “Take whatever time you need.” He picked up the tiles he had collected throughout the day with numb fingers and left the room.
Jarah didn’t hear what Morkleb was trying to say to her. She didn’t hear him say that maybe he could convince their captain to stay in port a few extra days, that they could try again with a more practiced cleric. She didn’t hear that he would marry her anyway.
Her mind raced with the misfortunes of her life, born the bastard daughter of a whore, working for years in a brothel so she wouldn’t starve. Then losing the only way of life she had ever known to a bitter man who was too drunk to get hard. Her looks ruined, she had despaired she would ever find a husband. Even if one could ignore her time as a whore, who could look past the ruins of her face? Then the one spark of hope she had, the one person who might have been her answer, would have his dreams of a family crushed because of her. She couldn’t bear it.
Grief was a fire in her mind, burning away all reason. She pulled away from Morkleb, his crying just a flicker of the outside world. She would save him from her tragedy. She wouldn’t have his desires drowned with her. She fled the room and ran down the empty hall. Distantly, she heard him shout for her, but she wouldn’t answer. She came to the darkened main chamber of the temple, only a few servants looked up at her as they cleaned.
The outside world was dark, the wild keening, growls, and roars couldn’t be blocked by the windows and doors of the temple. The sounds echoed Jarah’s own heart, and she ran to them. The heavy bar blocked the doors from opening. She spun, her eyes clouded with tears and ran to the tall windows that reached from floor to ceiling. Morkleb came around the corner as she threw herself at the window. He screamed as it cracked and she rebounded off. She threw herself at it again, and the glass gave way, tearing at her as she fell through it. Morkleb charged to the shattered window, even as the servants did while frantically dragging one of the rugs that lined the floor. The sound of the demons outside made Morkleb tremble in fear. The scent of sulfur and burnt hair burst in through the broken window. Dark shapes descend on Jarah, pulled at her limbs, there was a spray of blood, and her scream broke off. Then two servants wrestled him to the floor as the others pushed the rug into the broken opening.
***
Morkleb was numb as he walked back to the docks the next morning. The colors of Log Port were muted, the sounds of people around him a dull roar. When he reached the dock, his mother leaped from the ship. She didn’t open her wings to slow her fall and came dangerously close to breaking her leg. She hugged him fiercely, demanding to know where he had been. His father rushed down the gangplank after her and gathered them both against him.
Morkleb refused to get back on the ship. He told them, in a haunted voice, what had happened. The Nightbane rocked morosely against the dock, creaking and bumping, as though answering his anguish with its own. Everything about the ship reminded him of Jarah. It was where he’d met her, where they’d made love, where she would whisper to him and giggle her silly girlish giggle. He simply couldn’t go back to it.
“I’m going back to the temple,” Morkleb said. His mother, his strong, amazing captain, began to cry. “I’m going to become a cleric, and I’ll know how to heal anyone who needs it.”
Captain Noorusa pleaded with her son to come aboard, even to get his things, but Morkleb wouldn’t do it. His father tried to command him, but Morkleb mutinied. Even
tually, they ordered some of the sailors to gather his things for him.
“I’ll come back in the summer. If you want to come home, you can,” Captain Noorusa said. She blinked back her tears. “Every summer if I must.”
Morkleb nodded, still not fully feeling what leaving his home, his family, would do to him. He needed to be a good cleric, a great cleric, and trust that Thesda would do astounding healing works through him. He would do that for Jarah. He picked up the heavy bag of his belongings and walked away.
When he returned to the temple, he didn’t go inside. Instead, he walked around to the side where craftsmen were already repairing the window. Morkleb stared at the blood-stained stones where Jarah had died. Two brown clothed servants were scrubbing at it. He dropped his bag and went to them.
“Give me the brush.” The servant hesitantly did so, not understanding why an icren with sailing clothes would ask for it. Morkleb went to his knees and began scrubbing away Jarah’s blood. “Leave her. Just let me…” his voice broke. “I’ll take care of her.”
The sun was beginning its descent when a stately older human came to stand next to Morkleb. He wore a simple pale, undyed, linen shirt and pants. The knees of his pants were stained with dirt, and Morkleb didn’t look up beyond that. The only blood on the cobblestones now was what fell from his raw and blistered hands.
“I heard what happened. I’m sorry we couldn’t help her.” He knelt and gently took the brush from Morkleb’s red fingers with dirt-stained hands. “Want me to heal them?”
Morkleb stayed on his hands and knees and continued to stare at the cobblestones, but nodded. Warmth washed over his hands, the blisters were soothed away and the rawness melted under new skin. With a shuddering breath, he rocked back and sat up. The man had brown hair so dark, it looked black and deep brown eyes, wrinkles softly folded his tan face.
The Titan's Tome (The Mortal Balance Book 1) Page 16