David Coe - The Sorcerer's Plague

But rather than seeing his father, or the prior, or anyone else from Greenrill, as he had feared, he saw a woman he didn't recognize.

She had white hair, and at first D'Abjan assumed that she was Qirsi-a peddler maybe, or an Y'Qatt from another village. But then he realized that her skin was too brown, and that her eyes were so dark that they looked black. An Eandi then, and injured by the look of her.

In that moment, the woman looked up at him and halted. She seemed to teeter briefly, and then she collapsed onto the road.

D'Abjan hurried to her side. There was a knot the size of an egg at her temple. Already it was darkening to a deep angry purple, the color of storm clouds early in the Harvest. Blood oozed from the middle of the lump and there were small pieces of dirt and rock embedded in her skin.

"What's your name?" he asked her, not quite knowing what to do. She merely groaned.

He looked her over quickly and decided that she had no other wounds. She had been carrying two large baskets, each one covered with a blanket. Peeking inside of them, he saw that both containers were filled with smaller baskets of fine quality. She also wore a carry sack on her back. She was dressed simply, and she wore no jewelry.

"Can you tell me where you've come from?"

Still she didn't answer.

At last, D'Abjan scrambled to his feet. "I'm going to get help," he said, though he wasn't certain she could even hear him. "We're near our village. I won't be long." And with that, he ran back to his father's shop.

His father was waiting there for him, his arms crossed over his chest, a stern look on his round face.

"Where have you been?" he demanded. "Didn't I tell you-?" "There's a woman!" D'Abjan said. "And she's hurt!"

His eyes narrowed. "What woman? Where?"

"On the road just west of the village."

"What were you doing there?"

"Just walking. She's hurt, Father. She has a bruise on her head and she was unconscious when I left her."

"Who is she? Do you know her?"

D'Abjan shook his head. "She's Eandi. A peddler from the looks of her. I've never seen her before."

"All right," his father said. "We'll get Pritt. Come along."

Pritt had been the healer in Greenrill for longer than D'Abjan had been alive. And he looked it. He was bent and he looked frail, with wispy white hair and a narrow, gaunt face. But he'd seen the village through injuries caused by floods and fires, as well as through several outbreaks of Murnia's pox. And despite his age and appearance, he remained spry. If anyone could help the old woman, he could.

They found the old healer in the marketplace, buying healing herbs from an Eandi peddler.

"Pritt," D'Abjan's father called, approaching the man. "You're needed on the road west of the village."

The old man turned slowly at the sound of his voice and stared in their direction, squinting as if to see. "Who is that?"

"It's Laryn, healer. And my boy, D'Abjan."

"Ah, Laryn," the man said, grinning. "Good to see you. What's this about the road?"

"There's a woman there. Eandi. The boy found her," he added, gesturing toward D'Abjan. "She has a head injury and she's unconscious."

The healer frowned. "All right. Can the two of you manage to carry her to my house?"

D'Abjan's father looked at the boy, a question in his pale eyes. "I think so," D'Abjan said.

The healer nodded. "Good. Meet me there."

Pritt started to walk toward his home, and D'Abjan and his father hurried back to where the woman lay.

As it turned out, she was so light that Laryn could carry her by himself, leaving it to D'Abjan to carry her baskets and travel sack. He started to lift one of the blankets to look once more at the baskets she carried, but his father spoke his name sharply, stopping him.

"Those aren't yours to look in" was all he said.

D'Abjan nodded and picked up the woman's things.

The stranger moaned once when Laryn lifted her, her eyes fluttering open briefly. But she didn't stir again before they reached the healer's cabin and laid her on a pallet by his hearth.

The old healer shuffled to her side and bent over her, looking intently at the bruise on her head. After some time, he straightened and clicked his tongue twice.

"Laryn," he said. "Put that kettle on the fire and then fetch me a bowl from the kitchen." He glanced at D'Abjan. "There's a bucket out front, boy. Fetch some fresh water from the stream. Not the well, mind you. The stream. Quickly now."

D'Abjan nodded and ran to do as the healer instructed. It was a long walk to the stream, and longer still on the return, carrying a full bucket of water. By the time he returned, the cabin was redolent with the smells of Pritt's healing herbs: comfrey and borage, betony and lavender.

"Ah, good," the healer said, seeing D'Abjan in the doorway. He beckoned to the boy. "Bring the bucket here. Is the water cold?"

"Freezing," D'Abjan said.

"Excellent." He had placed a poultice on the wound, but now he lifted it off and handed a dry cloth to D'Abjan. "Soak this in the water and lay it on the bruise. Refresh it every few moments. With time it ought to bring the swelling down."

"Yes, healer."

D'Abjan pulled a chair over to the side of the pallet and began to apply the cold cloth as the healer had told him. As he did, Pritt and D'Abjan's father moved off a short distance and began to speak in low voices. D'Abjan had to strain to hear them.

"She's taken quite a blow to the head," the healer said, glancing at the woman, his brow furrowed, a frown on his narrow face. "Someone younger, I wouldn't be too concerned. With time, such a wound will heal. But I'd guess this woman is in her seventies. I just don't know if she can recover the way someone younger would."

"How long until you'll know?"

The old man shrugged, glanced at her again. "By morning certainly. If she hasn't woken by then, she might not at all."

Laryn nodded. "Well, let us know how she's doing."

"Why don't you leave the boy with me?"

D'Abjan had taken care not to let the two men see that he was listening, but now he looked up, making no attempt to mask his eagerness.

"He has work to do," his father said, eyeing D'Abjan and clearly intending his remark for him as well.

"I could use the help," Pritt said. "And he was the one who found her. If she survives, it will be largely because of him."

If D'Abjan himself had asked, Laryn would have refused. The boy was certain of it. But refusing the old healer was another matter, and in the end his father relented.

"Fine, then," he said, trying with only some success to keep his tone light. "Stay with her. I'll return later."

"Thank you, Father."

He nodded once as he let himself out of the house, but he said nothing.

Pritt shuffled over to the pallet and watched D'Abjan as he wet the cloth again, wrung it out, and replaced it on the woman's bruise. "Good," the healer said. "Keep doing that. I've a few things to finish in the marketplace. I'll be back shortly. All right?"

"Yes, healer."

Pritt patted his shoulder and left the house.

D'Abjan continued to press the cloth gently to her wound, refreshing it every few moments with the cold water and watching the woman for any sign that she was waking. Seeing none, he heard again the healer's words, spoken quietly to his father. I just don't know if she can recover…

Bending to wet the cloth yet again, D'Abjan wondered if Pritt possessed healing magic. Was that why he had become a healer in the first place? Was he capable of saving the woman with his magic, if only he were permitted to wield it? D'Abjan knew that people had died in the healer's care. No doubt this happened to healers all the time. But if Pritt did have healing power, how did it make him feel, watching those in his care die, knowing that he might have been able to heal them? Of all Qirsi magics, surely here was one that Qirsar had to have intended for them to use. How could the god want the Y'Qatt to let others suffer, simply so that his children would preserve their V'Tol for another day? Where was the sense in that? Where was the compassion, the justice?