Khari'na Made (Muse Book 1)

by Jean Winter

  They soon pulled up to a humble home attached to the side of a great water mill near a bend in a river. Several children of various ages and lankiness leaped from the rickety porch, running toward the surrey.

  “Dr. Nim!”

  “Hurry, hurry! Mama is waiting for you!”

  “Jank is awful bad!”

  “Who is that? Is she goin' to help?”

  Nim tried to calm the children as she hasted down where they followed her to the house like puppies nipping at her heels. Lyra stood in the surrey, great apprehension filling her breast as she stared at the whitewashed Weet family home with the colorful little border flowerbed.

  “Come along, Lyra!” Nim urged from the door, but Lyra had a hard time getting her legs to move. Oh God, what do I do?

  Pounding foot pads thumped over packed earth and Lyra turned to the sight of the broad-backed, coral scaled Whinnee cantering up. Sitting astride her with nothing but a simple lead rope round her nose was J'Kor. Oh thank goodness! Somehow, just knowing he was near calmed her nerves much more than she thought possible.

  Whinnee snorted and puffed as she was pulled up beside the surrey. She was not normally asked to move so quickly. J'Kor slid off and went to Lyra, helping her down. Seeing her numb stance, her face drained of all color, he took her by the shoulders. “You can do this, Lyra.”

  “But magic. I just—”

  “Look at me!” he said. “Your god gave you this ability. And this talent—this power—is good; it heals. This is what you were made for.”

  “You don't believe in my god!”

  She felt his fingers dig harder into her skin. “That is no' the point. These are good people, Lyra. They are my friends and you can help that child. Right now.”

  Suddenly, she was getting turned about and ushered toward the house. “But what if nothing happens?” she whimpered, wooziness seeping through her veins. “What if I make it worse?”

  “You will do just fine. You have already been practicing this to a certain extent for years. Just trust your instincts.”

  Within the relatively dark interior of the Weet's front room, a small crowd of somber bodies stood around an even smaller dining table. J'Kor gave her a quick squeeze, whispering, “Besides, you are the woman who, in the last few weeks, has stood up to two o' the most powerful men in the country. You are not going to let the sight o' an injured little boy get to you now, are you?”

  Upon seeing her, the bodies reverently parted and bile rose in Lyra's throat as she beheld on the table behind, oozing redness, torn clothing, and flesh that somewhat resembled the shape of a small human. Her hand made a frantic search for something of support. It found some in J'Kor's strong fingers at her side.

  Nim introduced her to the family, saying, “This is Lyra. She is a song mage and she is going to make Jank better.”

  What? Lyra couldn't believe Nim had just told them that! Her anxiety reached new, unexplored levels as the Weet family: a tall, rotund, bushy-haired father, a tearful, red cheeked woman clutching a blood stained apron to her chest, and five somber-faced children of varying heights still in their sleepwear, all stared at her like she was their last hope for happiness. J'Kor nudged her forward.

  The prayer Lyra started in her heart wavered when she reached the table and looked down at the small, lean boy with ears that poked playfully out from under wispy locks of straw-colored hair, lying on his back absolutely still. A deep, dirty gash ran from nose to jawbone. One leg was bent at an odd angle and his left arm hung from his body by a portion of skin alone. Lyra didn't even want to assess the gaping hole bleeding out from under his torn nightshirt. God in Heaven, he had lost so much blood!

  “Have you healed injuries o' this seriousness before, Mistress?” the distraught father, Pol Weet, asked.

  “Uhh.” Lyra's trembling fingers hovered over the boy's nose and mouth. He was breathing. Barely.

  “You are, at least, experienced, Mistress. You have done this before.”

  Uhh …

  A new wave of sobs overcame the boy's mother. The oldest daughter went to comfort her. Lyra pulled a chair up to sit before the body and, placing one hand across the scuffed forehead, she bent her head and closed her eyes, trying to tune into him as she had done Dr. Wyk.

  Crowding in, Pol expressed concern that Lyra was not beginning at his son's vital organs. (“Does she no' know what she is doing?”) Mrs. Weet's moanings over her “sweet baby” came in spasms. The children shuffled closer to see what was happening.

  “Why has she no' started singing yet?”, “Move over! Let me see.”, “Please hurry, ma'am. He's dying.”, “Why is she just sitting there?”

  Nim started herding people away. “Everything is just fine. She just requires a moment to concentrate and you lot need to give her some space.”

  “But he needs his mother and father to stay by him!” Mrs. Weet protested.

  “Are you sure she knows what she is doing?” said an unconvinced Mr. Weet.

  “Mama? Is Jank goin' to die?”

  “That is it! Everyone leaves this house immediately,” J'Kor's authoritative order rang through the room. “No, you, too, Ritiri. Pol, please escort your wife out. Saod,” he turned on the oldest boy with military efficiency, “get your siblings out that door. Take them to the swings.”

  “Aye,” Nim agreed. “Everyone out now.”

  Together, the two pushed the couple and their children outside then Nim eliminated anxious faces at the windows with a draw of the curtains.

  “Thank you,” Lyra rasped, her mouth dry as the northern deserts. It was difficult to swallow. How was she supposed to “sing” like this?

  “Lyra?” J'Kor knelt beside her. His hand went over hers still at the bloody head. “I need you to relax for me. Can you do that?”

  With a nod, she breathed in and out slowly a few times.

  “Good girl.” He rubbed encouragingly at her back. “Come on, Sugarpip. Listen to your instincts.”

  Lyra nodded again. “Um, can I get a little light?” The closed curtains were both a blessing and a curse.

  Nim started some candles burning while Lyra thoroughly washed her hands and arms at the kitchen sink. When she sat down again and closed her eyes to listen, she couldn't hear anything at first. It made Lyra wonder if a person's tone weakened with their body. Well, if that was the case she was in real trouble. The child was nearly dead.

  She bent closer, placing another hand on the boy's sticky chest. Father, if this be Thy will—

  Then, something … something very high and very distant.

  It ebbed and flowed erratically like—like the tiny meow of an exhausted kitten. So weak. So pleading. The tone—a half dozen cycles above a high F. Lyra didn't bother to wonder how she knew this so surely, but instead concentrated on trying a copy of it in her throat. Both hands shifted to the boy's abdomen.

  For a full minute, she “sang” this note over the child, pausing for breaths as needed. Then Lyra lifted her hands and, by candlelight, examined the area for healing signs. Her heart sank. It looked the same as before—a shredded, raw mess.

  “It is okay, Sugarpip” J'Kor coached. “Just try again.”

  She bent her head again to listen harder. There was the same tone. Lyra hummed it and listened again and hummed it again. This time she could tell that her vocalization of it was not quite right. The pitch was correct, but the quality was different. Shifting her tone's placement from her throat to something more forward in her skull, Lyra let it buzz in her head for a moment and was rewarded with a light ringing sensation that coursed through her bones. A perfect tonal match!

  As she focused on this new placement, the tone seemed to grow louder in her head, taking over every other thought just like last time. Simultaneously, Lyra became aware of her energy waning, like it was being sucked out of her. She changed tonal placement again as the note grew steadier and began to evolve in quality. Another minute passed. J'Kor's quiet encouragement sounded distant and muted.

  “That is
right. Good girl. Keep going.”

  A new note! Lyra keyed into the second pitch: a minor third below, brighter placement and … wait a second, a vowel?

  Slowly, the boy's music grew in complexity and Lyra, tuning into it all, risked opening her eyes as she continued her song. A dizziness and fatigue swept over her like a rolling fog, but Lyra kept her wits as she witnessed with her own eyes the very slow but steady, magical transformation occurring. Weeping blood vessels bound together. Ripped organ tissue knit itself back to one whole. Wow! Then she stopped a moment to rest and share joyous glances with her two companions; they waited patiently for her to be ready to continue. Lyra was only a minute before she was refocusing and starting in again.

  “Wait,” Nim said who had moved in for a closer look at the progress. “Lyra, see here.” She pointed at a severed bowel—a section of small intestine. The loose ends were healing into something resembling scar tissue, but not together. “I think we need to proceed more carefully. You are speeding the growth o' new cells and tissue, but that is all. The cut bowel is no' joining to the next section on its own. It is merely healing the end off in a scar.”

  Lyra understood. “I need to hold the pieces together as I go.” So this was not so magical after all.

  It quickly became a lot more like clinical surgery as the two women carefully picked through nearly unrecognizable innards, locating matching tissues to place and hold together before Lyra began her healing song again. Nim held fascia and skin out of the way so Lyra was only touching what she wanted to work on. In this manner, they were able to steadily make their way to the outer layers of the boy's abdomen.

  Despite her efforts at selectivity, they also soon discovered, however, that some general healing continued to occur across the body, and Lyra had to gently pull loose some skin that was growing back around an extruding rib so she could set it back into place. And, like Dr. Wyk's cut, the tissues were not necessarily healing like new. There was scarring and swelling left behind—just like how the body healed itself naturally.

  Only, this was much, much faster.

  After about two hours, the fruits of their labors were truly realized when little Jank finally stirred and began to breathe more deeply. Sweat dripped into Lyra's eyes and mouth as she concentrated over the inexplicable burning out of the muscles in her body. The next time she had to take break, it was for several minutes. Nim brought her water and J'Kor cooled her fevered skin with a damp rag, watching her with concern.

  “How are you holding up?”

  “I'm fine,” she assured tiredly. “It's just like some kind of intense physical workout. Every muscle in my body … I just need to let everything rest for a few minutes.”

  Another half hour's work and Lyra found she had to take yet another break. She stretched her back. Oh, she was so weary! Completely drained.

  When her eyes returned to the table again, she saw J'Kor sitting across from her, grinning at her. Lyra smiled shyly back. Then she dropped her head and scrutinized her progress to determine where to go next. When she was ready to proceed again, Nim had J'Kor take over the assisting job so she could go relay the good news to the anxious family.

  When Nim returned, J'Kor asked her to resume helping Lyra. “I really need to get back to the house,” he said with apology. “It looks like the worst is over anyhow. Lyra, will you be all right to finish up here with just Nim?”

  With the back of her arm, Lyra wiped at some stray hairs sticking to her face. “Yeah. I think so. Thank you, sir.” Their eyes met, and this time, Lyra did not shy under his gaze. With one more smile, he left the house.

  “'Sir'?” A smile played about Nim's lips.

  Ah, furnflugs! She had forgotten to use the right term! “Nim, would you be able to let it go if I just said that we … have an interesting relationship?”

  Nim chortled softly. “I suppose so, my dear. I have heard people in love call each other stranger things.”

  Bending back over the spot on which she had been working, Lyra said, “That is most definitely not the right term for it.”

  But Nim chuckled again. “Oh, dismiss it if you will, but I can assure you Kadent has never looked at me that way.”

  Lyra didn't have the energy to argue further. At the rate they had been progressing, she estimated that she still had a couple more hours of work ahead of her. Oh, boy. By the time she finished she was the one that would be in need of a healer! Nim went to a different position at the table and they started reattaching the arm to its shoulder socket.

  It seemed the harder tissues took more time. And energy. Lyra spent forty-five minutes on his cracked femur alone, and by the time she was done with the slash across Jank's face, Lyra barely had energy left to turn her head to the clock over the blackened stone mantle. The job had taken five hours! Moons! Not only did she feel unable to even get up from her chair, she was absolutely famished. It was like she hadn't eaten in three days!

  The boy's body and limbs were cleaned up with a warm, wrung-out cloth by the good doctor while Lyra sat limp and listless, wryly figuring she was doing quite well just not falling off her chair. Little Jank had not yet recovered consciousness, but that was to be expected. His body was still in shock from loss of blood. Lyra's biggest concern, in fact, was infection in the sealed body cavity. She didn't know if her healing took care of the dirt and germs she knew had been left in there in their haste to put the boy back together in an unsterilized work environment. Nim finally stepped back in satisfaction.

  “His pulse is strong. His breathing steady. You did well, dear.” She gave Lyra a hug. “You are truly amazing.”

  Lyra grinned, but with great effort rasped, “Nim, I did this to save this boy's life, but please don't make me a spectacle. I am afraid of being taken away. I want to stay with my lord. Do you understand?” The sound of her voice surprised her. It, too, was exhausted by the hours of continuous use.

  Nim straightened. “O' course, dear. I suppose it is unfair o' me to dictate how you should proceed with your life. You could so easily be exploited.” She made her way to the front door. “I will instruct the Weets to keep your part in this to a minimum. They are good people. They have great respect for Kadent and now will for you, as well. I believe they will try to honor your wishes.”

  The family celebrated Jank's survival with Lyra slumping quietly on a cushioned bench to the side. She did her best to rejoice with them and respond to their many hugs and words of appreciation, though she could barely lift her arms or speak. Eventually, she and Nim were allowed to leave and Pol was only too happy to carry Lyra to the surrey where she speedily passed out on the seat.

  “How did the rest o' it go? Is Lyra all right?”

  J'Kor's voice carried through the soup of stupor and Lyra felt herself getting lifted from the surrey. An energized explanation of the child's improvement and the family's response was given by Nim. Then the old woman was driving away with one more final thank you to Lyra.

  “How do you feel? You look awful,” J'Kor said as he took her inside.

  “Thanks,” Lyra replied hoarsely, trying to lift her head. If she laughed it would only sound like asphyxiation. “I feel like I just ran all the way up the Forkors and back down again lugging a poof on my back.”

  “That good, huh?” He laid her gently on the sofa and went to the stove, dipping a ladle into a pot. “I made soup for midmeal and kept it warm for you. Are you hungry?”

  At the cracking of the lid, something delicious wafted toward her and Lyra's stomach grumbled in anticipation. “I'm starving! That smells wonderful.”

  A bowl was set for her on an end table and J'Kor helped her upright. Some biscuits with jam were brought, too, and, sitting before her on the old hassock, J'Kor sliced her bread while Lyra started in on her bowl. She paused when he started spreading her jam for her.

  “You don't have to do that for me. This is,” she regarded the meal he had just served her, “more than enough.”

  “I know.” He kept spreading. “So, how
do you feel?”

  She laugh-grunted between spoonfuls. “You already asked me that.”

  J'Kor gazed pensively into her eyes. “No, now I am asking how you feel, about what you did.”

  “Oh.” How did she feel? “Well, you already know my reluctance regarding this … talent.” With a nod he offered her a spread biscuit and Lyra took it. “I've never believed in such things and I always thought anyone who did was just courting evil. Now, well, now I don't know.” She bit into the biscuit and chewed thoughtfully. “But when I was doing it,” she said after swallowing, “it was exhilarating and consuming. Almost spiritual.”

  “It felt right,” he guessed.

  “Yeah.” Lyra stared at her soup bowl.

  “I could see a change in you after the first few minutes,” he said. “Once you stopped worrying about whether it was right or wrong and just dove in, well, that was when things started to click. That was when it became amazing.”

  Lyra's brows knit together with the possible intended double meaning there, but she let it go. “How did it—how did I sound? I was so caught up in what I was doing, kind of like chasing his soul song and singing it back, then having to be ready for when it transitioned to something new, I was completely unaware how I may be sounding from the outside.” She glanced up embarrassed. “Pretty strange, I bet.”

  “It was beautiful,” he said without hesitation. “At first, it did sound like you were just humming random notes, but once you really got into it, the quality changed. It became something less … human. Otherworldly. Penetrating. Music that was more felt than heard. A few times, I could have sworn you were singing more than one note at a time.” At her look of disbelief he just shrugged.

  He insisted on cleaning up and helping her to Jos'lie's bed to rest. But when he knelt to take her shoes off for her, something in the spaces of her weary brain warned she should resist. This was not appropriate behavior for a boss. Lyra marveled again at the change in him, but didn't possess the conviction to protest. It felt too good, having someone care for her.