Steven Brust - Athyra

Savn did so, and presently Master Wag said, “Yes, indeed.”

The wound had changed in the few hours since Savn had bound it. It was red, swollen, and puffy, and there was a thick white fluid coming from it. Savn stared, more fascinated than disturbed.

“Bathe his face again and keep fanning him.”

“What are you going to do?”

The Master didn’t answer, but began to remove things from his pouch—a sprig of laith, a vial labeled “essence of dreamgrass,” another vial with a light brown powder, mortar and pestle—and set them out around himself along with the knotweed and blowflower he’d collected on the way. Once more, watching the fluid efficiency of his hands while he worked, Savn was reminded of Vlad.

“Bathe his face,” repeated the Master, and Savn started guiltily, and complied. As he was doing so, his hand touched Vlad’s forehead; it had become even warmer in the time it had taken to get to the cave.

Savn began to fan him, but the Master said, “Wait, hold his head up so I can make him drink this.”

“What is it?”

“Crushed root of prairiesong, knotweed, and water. Tip his head—there. Down now, and begin fanning him again. Above all, he must be kept cool.”

Master Wag began touching and pressing the wound, and probing it with a thin, silvery tool that Savn could not recall having seen before, and, as he worked, the Master began to chant softly under his breath. Savn wanted to ask about the incantation, the tool, and the procedure, but he didn’t dare interrupt the spell. The Master broke off long enough to nod toward a pile of herbs and say, “Mash them well and add a little water.”

Vlad began speaking again, muttering phrases of which only a word or two was understandable. Master Wag looked up. “We do not pay attention to the ravings of those under our care,” he said, then returned to his soft chanting.

Savn did not answer. He handed the mortar to the Master, who took it without breaking off and poured the contents over the wound. Then he handed the empty vessel back to Savn and said, “Clean it, crush a small handful of those, put in three drops of this, and add more water to it. When it is done, make him drink it.”

Savn did so, holding Vlad’s head up. Vlad was still speaking, which made it easier to get the liquid down his throat. The Easterner coughed and half-choked, but did manage to swallow it.

The Master stopped his chanting and probing. “Notice,” he said, “how the edges of the wound are red. Are your hands clean? Then touch, here.”

Savn did so, tentatively. The wound seemed even warmer than Vlad’s forehead. “Sometimes,” said Master Wag, “it is possible to find the cause, the vehicle on which the Imps rode into the body. This time we were able to.”

“What?” said Savn.

“See, on the end of the probe?”

“What is it?”

“I believe it is a piece of his clothing, which was driven into the wound.”

“Clothing?”

“We wear clothing, why cannot the Imps? When a piece of cloth enters the body, it is almost certain that the spirits are riding it to a new home. It is our task to expel them. Thus I poured onto the wound the purest water I could find, mixed with laith, which demons hate, and blowfiower leaves which purify. And through his mouth we give him dreamgrass to help him sleep, and prairiesong which cools the soul.”

“I see.”

“Now I push—here—and we expel the Imps. You see how thick and grey is the solution? That is the grey of death. Necromancers are known to use it for evil purposes, so we catch it on a cloth, which we will then burn thoroughly. Here. Set it aside for now, until we have the chance to build a fire. Hand me a clean cloth.”

Savn did these things. Master Wag’s mention of necromancers made him think of His Lordship, but he put the thought out of his head, telling himself sternly to concentrate on the task at hand. As he was reaching for the clean cloth, both jhereg suddenly rose as one, stared down the cave, and hissed.

Savn looked but didn’t see anything. “Who’s there?” he said.

The answer seemed to come from a long distance away, and it was full of echoes. “Savn? Where are you?”

The Master looked at him, his eyebrows raised.

Savn got one of the torches and began walking down back through the cave, the jhereg, still hissing, at his heels. “No,” he told them, “it’s all right.” He wasn’t certain if they believed him; at any rate, they continued hissing.

He found Polyi about fifty feet away, apparently caught between several diverging paths. “What are you doing here?”

“Following you,” she said.

“Why?”

“To see what—Eek!”

“It’s all right,” said Savn. “They won’t hurt you.” He hoped he was right.

“Are those the same—”

Steven Bmst

“Never mind that. Come with me. We’re trying to heal the Easterner.”

“I know. I saw you.”

The jhereg watched Polyi suspiciously, but didn’t seem inclined to attack her. Savn led the way back to where Master Wag was tending Vlad.

“It’s my sister,” he said.

The Master grunted, then said, “Get back to work.”

Polyi didn’t speak.

Savn knelt down and touched Vlad’s forehead, which was still warm, as well as wet with perspiration.

“Bathe his head,” said Master Wag. “And I will teach you the spells. We will recite them together, and we will wait.”

“Savn—” said Polyi.

“Not now,” said Savn.

Less than an hour later, Master Wag touched Vlad’s forehead and said, “His fever has broken. We must let him sleep now.”

“My throat is sore,” said Savn.

“You must practice chanting,” said Master Wag. “Sometimes you will spend hour after hour doing nothing but sitting and reciting the spells. Your Easterner friend is lucky.”

Savn nodded. “How long will he sleep?”

“There’s no way to know. Probably a long time. But when he wakes, he will require water and—”

“Murmumph,” said Vlad. His eyes were open, and his expression was intelligent and aware. The two jhereg, forgotten by the side of the cave, began to hop around near his head. Polyi, who had not spoken for the entire time, just watched, her eyes wide and gleaming in the torchlight.

“I can’t understand you,” said Savn to Vlad.

The Easterner opened his mouth, closed it again, and said, “Who?”

“This is Master Wag. He treated your fever.”

“Fever?” His voice was just above a whisper.

“Yes.”

Vlad glanced quickly at the jhereg and at Polyi, then nodded to Savn.

Master Wag said, “Would you like water? Food?”

“Yes,” said Vlad. “And yes.”

The Master nodded to Savn, who helped Vlad drink from the wineskin. “Do you have food?”

“Yes. I have some bread, and cheese, and spring onions, and beets, and a few seasonings.”

“Help me sit up,” said Vlad. Savn looked at Polyi. She hesitated, then helped Savn assist Vlad. It seemed to be quite an effort for the Easterner, but at last he was in a sitting position, his back very straight. He took slow, deep breaths. Something about the flickering of the torches made his face seem even more gaunt than usual. “More water,” he said.

Savn helped him drink.

“Back down,” said Vlad.

Savn and Polyi helped Vlad lower himself, and when he was flat once more, his breathing was labored. He shut his eyes, and in a few minutes his chest rose and fell normally. Savn became aware for the first time of the smell of Vlad’s sweat—very much like the smell of a human who had been working hard or was ill.

About the time Savn had decided that Vlad had fallen asleep, the Easterner opened his eyes again and said, “Food?”