Andre Norton - Ciara's Song

Trovagh stared at her, then his voice went higher, “ Not Father, Boldheart!”

Ciara gasped, then acted. She dived for the stillroom seizing her healer’s satchel. “What about Uncle Nethyn, he isn’t hurt at all?”

“Just a few bruises,” Trovagh panted as they ran. “Here, up behind me.” He held the overexcited pony still as she mounted, before kicking it to a gallop. They raced across pasture, up the hillside, and around the curve of brush. Before them Tarnoor sat, Boldheart’s great head in his lap. Tarnoor’s hand stroked the sweat-streaked neck. He glanced across as the children galloped up.

“I can’t leave him. If I do he tries to stand.” Ciara saw the pain in his eyes. She dropped lightly to the ground studying the injured leg. For a horse to break a leg meant he must die, but perhaps it wasn’t really broken. She ran light fingers down the foreleg. There was a break but it was clean. Maybe, just maybe…

“Keep him still, don’t talk to me for a while.” She pulled her pendant free, cupping it in one hand while she laid the other across the injured leg. She didn’t know if she could do this. She knew she would try. Boldheart had been the best of all the foals of his year. He’d come to a call, proud but friendly. Uncle Nethyn had chosen him when his previous horse got too old for the harder riding. Boldheart was beautiful, dapple-gray over a silver white mane and tail a cascade of pure silver. He was so gentle that once or twice she and Tro had stolen a ride on him, yet he was warhorse trained. She could feel his pain, his fear, but his trust in his rider, and in the humans who had always been kind to him, kept him lying there.

There was no one but Tarnoor and Trovagh to see. She slipped deep into the mist, it was so easy now. She let her thoughts slide, just emotions. She had it! The feeling of damage, of something to be repaired. It was like pulling herself up a rope; she reached the place and sank her mind into the problem. First she had to put all the bits together. Luckily there were only the two main portions and a chip or two. She held them in place with her mind and wondered. What should she do next? A memory surfaced. Metal turned molten in a mold. Did she have the power to do this? But if she failed, Boldheart died. She must not fail.

She reached out, drawing the mist into her. It flowed, filling her with warmth. Then she drove it into the injury, poured it out sinking it deep into the bone. Slowly, so slowly the bones mended, flowed together until all was whole again. She was far into the mist, a glimpse, a hint of a road there. She was thrust violently backwards. In her mind rang a voice.

“ Silly girl. Not yet. Go back. Do I have to do everything around here?” Ciara surfaced, giggling weakly. She’d recognize her grandmother’s tones anywhere.

She found she was clutching the pendant so tightly the wings had left marks on her palm. She lifted her other hand from where it lay curved around Boldheart’s injury. With the last of her strength she ran light fingers down the leg. It was healed. There was no sign it had ever been less than whole. Then she fell back too exhausted to move. Tarnoor gaped down. By all the Powers, she had done it. His attention came back to the child, she was so white. His hand sought her throat. The pulse was slow but strong.

He eased himself out from under the heavy head and stood slowly. Then he spoke to his horse. With a thrashing of legs the beast rolled to sit, then to rise to his hooves. Trovagh’s face lit joyously.

“I told you so. I told you Cee could fix him.” He crouched back to touch Ciara’s arm. “Is she all right?”

“She’s drained herself of strength, lad. She needs to be gotten to a bed. Hold!” Tarnoor grabbed his arm before Trovagh could vanish. “It isn’t as easy as that. I’ve been listening to the messengers as they come and go. Beyond Aiskeep the mood is growing harsh about the Witches and the Old Race.” He looked into Trovagh’s eyes. “Do you know what Cee has done here?”

He answered himself. “She healed a broken leg. When you were very ill she healed you, too. Each time she was tired for days. Healing takes a price from the healer. With the Old Blood driven from Karsten there are very few now who have her ability. She’s valuable—and what is valuable may be taken. The longer we can keep silence about this the safer for her. Do you see?”

Trovagh saw. “I won’t say anything. We could sneak her in the back way. Elanor could say Cee’s got a cold and has to stay in bed a few days.”

The idea worked. Ciara was well again in a week. It was Lord Tarnoor who was left to think of the problems that could arise if this were known. He talked to Elanor. She had a good practical head on her shoulders. Moreover, she loved both children.

“She’s healed both Trovagh and now Boldheart. About the horse we can keep silence. No one but us knew he was ever injured. But Hanion tells me there are some garbled hints around the Keep of her healing of the boy. As I see it the problem is twofold. First the Old Race is still outlawed in Karsten, and Tylar’s death is not so long ago his sons have forgotten. If they could do her an ill turn without bringing down my wrath, they would do it. Secondly there is the question of power. Not hers so much, but what others may see in it.”

He did not need to elaborate on that to Elanor. Her line might be a cadet branch, but in its time they had fought their way upward just as savagely. Ciara’s healing ability could be used as could any ability. One of the powerful coastal clans would happily use the girl as healer in war. They’d use the very fact they had her to encourage their men at arms. Soldiers would fight far more ferociously if they believed they could be healed of crippling wounds after the battle.

“You said she was exhausted afterward?”

“For several days. She said she was unable to call her gift during that time.” His look was black. “Do you think any of that sort would care? They’d force her to it, or lie to their men. All that would be necessary would be to show her healing one of their own. The soldiers would believe. After that if she failed her master would have only to threaten to give her to the men she refused to heal.”

“To what end?”

“Think, woman. They’d believe her as treacherous as they have always claimed those with the Power to be. That lie could be used to inflame the men against whoever they wished. They could claim the enemy was Witch-ruled, or involved. Oh, any good lie would serve. We need to keep the girl’s gift a secret. I’ll have an eye kept on Sersgarth, too. Those sons of Tylar’s have been troublemakers from birth.”

To that Elanor could agree wholeheartedly. “One of the men told me the older son has moved stock onto the old Elmsgarth land.”

“Seran, yes. I hesitate to object as yet. Legally the land belongs to Aiskeep but it’s too far from the Keep to be used. So long as Seran stays out of the house I’ll hold my hand.”

He ushered Elanor out saying no more. Seran was as nasty a piece of work as Tylar had been—and more cunning. Tarnoor was sure the man had been talking to Aiskeep people. He couldn’t lock the guards in the Keep. Off duty for a few days they often rode to Tend township and the markets there. Too much to drink, the right questions, and Ciara might be safe no longer.

In that he was right. Seran had already garnered some of the Keep gossip about a child healer. He’d leaped to conclusions—unfortunately, some of them were correct. He could not recall having ever seen the child. She’d look like the Old Race, he expected. Sharp-angled face, black hair, and gray eyes.

Elanor, too, had considered that. Ciara did not look like her blood. After all, she was no more than half. It might be possible to make her look even less like to those still hunted. She sent for Ciara; the girl had sense. She might even have further ideas of disguise.