Мерседес Лэки - Passages

The shadow of the tower fell across the road, the lowering sun painting the fields red-gold, and Tarek shifted in the saddle. They’d be at the stables soon, and he was more than ready to get off his horse. Though perhaps not quite as ready for what came after.

“What are Father’s symptoms?” he asked.

“Most days he has no appetite. He sleeps a lot, and recently he doesn’t even get out of bed.”

Tarek gave her a sharp look. “That’s not good.”

The man who’d threatened beatings if his children weren’t up at first light, ready to work, now spent days abed? Misgiving moved coldly through Tarek, a shiver touching his shoulders.

“You’re a full Healer now, though.” Elen glanced at him anxiously, and suddenly she looked like his baby sister once more. “You can fix whatever’s wrong, can’t you?”

Tarek straightened. “I’ll do everything I can to help Father back to full health.”

He had no other choice.

A short time later, standing beside Lord Strand’s bed, Tarek’s earlier fears came roaring back. The man who lay before him, apparently asleep, was a shadow of his former robust self.

“Sit down.” His mother pushed a chair up behind Tarek. “I’ll fetch tea.”

He glanced at her, noting the weariness in her face, the dark smudges beneath her eyes. Lady Strand looked as though she, too, was in need of a great deal more rest than she’d been getting.

“Are you sick as well?” he asked, his heart squeezing with anxiety.

“Just tired.” She gave him a wan smile. “Your father’s had a few difficult nights.”

“Difficult, how?” He glanced at Lord Strand’s pale skin, the gaunt hollows of his cheeks.

His mother let out a sigh. “It’s hard for him to get comfortable. His belly pains him.”

“Stomach trouble?” That was more than Elen had said.

“Sometimes. Other times he can’t catch his breath, or his limbs ache.”

That made the diagnosis harder, and Tarek frowned, wishing his mentor, Master Adrun, were there. But the Master Healer’s place was in the Collegium, not out with his new graduates, holding their hands. Even if, as in Tarek’s case, their education had been a bit rushed.

“Sit with me,” Tarek said, turning to his mother. “I can get my own tea later.”

He grabbed a second chair from against the wall and set it down near the head of his father’s bed, then sat. Muscles sore from riding protested, and he mentally shook his head. His father would scoff if he knew how a few long days in the saddle had affected Tarek.

“Books are no substitute for hard work.” The echo of Lord Strand’s voice threaded through Tarek’s memories. “A real education is gained through experience, not study.”

“Father,” Tarek said, gently taking the thin hand lying atop the smooth linen coverlet. “It’s me, Tarek.”

There was no response, and he glanced at his mother.

“He may wake soon,” she said softly. “If not, you can try again first thing tomorrow. Mornings are often better.”

“I’d like to use my Gift to try and sense what’s wrong,” Tarek said, then hesitated. “I’d rather do it with his permission.”

“Will it hurt?” His mother gave him an anxious look.

“No. An initial exploration, without attempting Healing, will be painless. But he wouldn’t like knowing it was done without his knowledge.”

To put it mildly. Lord Strand’s aversion to the Gifts was strong.

But hopefully, if Tarek’s father experienced the power of Healing firsthand, he would change his mind. At least a little. It would be best if he were fully conscious during the entire process, however, from the diagnosis through Healing and recovery.

“Father.” Tarek leaned forward. “Please wake up.”

Lord Strand’s eyelids fluttered, and a moment later he opened his eyes. Just a little, but Tarek could see the gleam of annoyance in their dark depths.

“What is it?” Lord Strand’s usual gruff voice was diminished, creaky now rather than commanding. He blinked, then opened his eyes all the way. “Tarek—thought it was you. Just in time. You’re the new Lord Strand when I go.”

Tarek’s mother pulled in a quick breath of denial, and Tarek shook his head.

“That’s years in the future,” he said. “We’ll get you Healed and back on your feet in no time.”

Then later—much later—he’d break the news to his father that he couldn’t be the Lord of Strand Keep.

“Healing, bah.” Lord Strand grimaced. “Too late for me.”

“I don’t think so. Will you let me try?”

For a tense moment, Lord Strand glared at him. Tarek’s breath hitched at the thought his father might deny him—might stubbornly cling to the belief he was dying and thus make it true. Then Lord Strand sighed, the spark of anger fading from his expression.

“Very well,” he said. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Tarek nodded and closed his eyes. One of his first lessons had been how to shield himself, so that he didn’t experience the aches and small injuries of every person around him. It hadn’t been easy, probably because he’d come to his Gift so late. But he’d learned.

Now, he opened himself to let his Healing flow, and nearly jerked back at the illness he sensed in Lord Strand’s body.

By the stars! His father was terribly sick, his body so compromised that . . .

No. Tarek’s mind shied from the thought.

He’d been given the Gift of Healing for a reason—and surely that reason was embodied in the man now lying before him. Tarek’s duty, his calling, was to save Lord Strand’s life.

“Well?” His father gave Tarek a knowing look. “Bad, isn’t it?”

Tarek’s lips tightened. “Not good, at any rate. Why didn’t you send for me sooner?”

“Wouldn’t have changed things.”

“Yes, it would!” With effort, Tarek forced himself back to a semblance of calm. “You have an internal sickness that responds well to Healing, if treated early. Now, though . . .”

“Incurable,” Lord Strand said with grim satisfaction. “At least now you’re home where you belong.”

Tarek glanced away, a mix of grief and rage swamping him. Did Lord Strand really intend to die simply to prove a point?

“I’m still going to try to Heal you,” Tarek said, returning his attention to his father. “Starting now.”

Lord Strand’s eyebrows twitched up, but he said nothing, as if inviting Tarek to do his worst.

Or his best.

Tarek took a deep breath, then closed his eyes again, sending Healing energy into his father’s body. Ignoring the smaller problems, mainly to do with circulation, he concentrated on the sullen red smolder of illness crouching in Lord Strand’s belly and lungs. Carefully, Tarek tried to flow a touch of brightness into the most diseased areas, encouraging his father’s body to continue fighting.

“Does it hurt?” Lady Strand asked her husband.

“I don’t feel anything,” he said wearily. “Tarek’s just sitting there taking a nap.”

Tarek refused to rise to the bait, instead continuing the delicate work of shoring up the most battered of his patient’s defenses. He was mindful, too, of not sapping his own strength too greatly. This was going to be a long, difficult Healing.

If it even worked at all.

Finally, he opened his eyes and looked at his father. “You’ll need to eat and drink—far more than it seems you’ve been doing. Bone-rich broths, at the very least. Tisanes and plenty of water.”

Lord Strand made a sound deep in his throat, but he didn’t argue.

“I’ll send to the kitchens,” Tarek’s mother said, rising and moving to the door.