"Yes," Idalia said aloud. "Who will share the price?"
The dryad looked surprised for a moment. *All,* she answered. *All will share,* she answered, with a gesture that encompassed the inhabitants of the clearing—brownies, dryads, fauns.
"Do you all agree to this?" Idalia asked, raising her voice a little so that all could hear. "Will you all share in the price of this healing?"
There was a clamor as every voice—even the dryads' silent ones— was raised in agreement, and Idalia winced as the shrill voices of the brownies pierced her skull. But the Wild Magic could not take what was not asked for and freely given. She walked forward through the crowd of Otherfolk, and knelt before the suffering dryad.
"Shoo," she said gently to the faun sitting in the dryad's lap, and the small creature reluctantly squirmed out of the way.
Idalia reached out and stroked the dryad's cheek, then took the dryad's hands in her own. They were ice-cold, with no trace of the vibrant green life Idalia associated with dryad-kind.
Kellen always thought of the Wild Magic as hard, as something you had to invoke and pursue with spells and proper forms, but for Idalia it was as simple as stepping aside from her workaday self, entering the greater Soul of the world around her, and letting it well up within. The Wild Magic was a thing of harmony and balance; the presence of evil or injury called it into action as much as any will of the Wildmage. She felt its presence; felt it seek out its price from all who shared in the healing, understood her own part in that payment, and felt health and strength and wellness flow through her from someplace Beyond into the dryad.
It was as simple—and as mysterious—as that. Idalia was the portal through which Something reached to set the world right with her help and consent, and in a timeless moment it was done. Strength and healing flowed into her and out again in a glorious and intoxicating verdant river. It poured into the grey void at the dryad's heart, and gradually filled it. She saw the dryad's skin flush gold with health once more, and rocked back on her heels as the Grove-Queen rose to her feet.
The fauns cheered and turned cartwheels, and the brownies threw their caps in the air.
*Ah, my poor tree. … * the Queen said sadly, running her hand along the bark.
Idalia stood up, staggering a little with weakness. But only a little, and only for a moment, for her work was not yet over, and the Wild Magic would not permit her strength to lapse while that work remained unfinished. She caught her balance, and walked over to inspect the split in the trunk.
"As to that, my part in this is to repair your tree, my lady. Once I've taken that branch off, and sealed over the heartwood with tar and river clay, your tree should stand fast for many seasons more," Idalia said, smiling.
Tar would seal the wound, forming a sort of bandage, keeping insects and fungus out. Clay would protect the vulnerable heartwood and give the tree time to build new defenses, and cutting away the split branch would prevent further damage.
"I'll come back tomorrow and take care of it; I need tools that I don't have with me."
It was a while more before Idalia was let to leave, for the brownies pressed scores of thimble-sized tankards of mead upon her, and several thumbnail-sized loaves of acorn-meal bread, and the fauns brought her handfuls of berries, only slightly crushed. All in all, it was late afternoon before she returned to the cabin.
NOW she was tired; the Magic had no more need of her, and she felt as drained as if she had run for leagues.
Kellen was waiting to greet her, looking impatient.
"Where have you been?" he demanded. "It's been the whole afternoon—"
"I was working," Idalia answered tartly—a bit more sharply than she'd intended.
Kellen looked immediately crestfallen, and Idalia felt guilty about being so short with him. "I healed the dryad—her tree was struck by lightning in that big storm that came through last night. I shared out most of the price of the healing, but I'll have to go back tomorrow and see what I can do about fixing her tree, so I'm going to need to use the tools for the day. I suppose," she added with a smile, "you're going to get your holiday after all."
"But I'll help," Kellen said quickly. "I'd like to help. If that's all right, I mean."
"Surely," Idalia said after a moment's pause. "I can always use an extra pair of hands."
Kellen's eagerness to help shouldn't surprise her, she realized after a moment. He was a good lad, after all. No matter what Lycaelon had tried to turn him into. Yet somehow, every time he demonstrated his basic generosity of spirit, it surprised her. Maybe she'd lived alone for too long at that.
THE two of them spent the following day at the dryad's grove cutting away the dead wood from the oak-Queen's tree and sealing over the exposed wood. Though an axe and saws were not the sort of implements that would normally be welcome in a dryadic grove, this time they were tolerated (though the dryads could not look at them without shivering), and Idalia and Kellen bent to the work.
It was quickly obvious what part of the price that the brownies and fauns were paying. The brownies brought tar—they used it in waterproofing, milking rising sap from pines in the spring in the same way that they milked maples, boiling it down into tar. The fauns came back with handfuls of river clay when she'd done sealing the breech with the tar.
It was hot work—autumn might be on the way, but the late-summer days were still warm—but when Idalia looked at the finished job, her arm draped companionably over Kellen's shoulders, she was rilled with a deep satisfaction. What could be better than helping and healing, setting right what had gone wrong in the world?
She knew that Kellen felt much the same way that she did—that he could sense, at least a little, when something was out of balance and needed to be fixed. But there was still something deep inside himself that he didn't trust to always make the right choices.
And until—unless—that last barrier came down, until Kellen really trusted his own instincts, there would always be a barrier between Kellen and his magic.
IT had been a good day. Kellen had actually enjoyed the work; he had found of late that he really got a great deal of pleasure out of physical labor, especially as his muscles had strengthened to the job.
Maybe I should have been a stone-breaker or a bricklayer after all, he thought, wondering what Lycaelon would say if he'd seen his son sweating like a common mortal. It had been fascinating to see the reclusive little brownies up close as well, and the oak-dryads were more dignified and less inclined to tease than their sisters of the apple orchard.
"I think I'll fill up the big cauldron and heat some water," Idalia said as they walked back to the cabin that afternoon. "I think we could both use a hot bath—or at least a good scrub."
Kellen grinned, and reached out to flick a scrap of drying river clay off her cheek. "Sounds good to me. But I'll carry the water and get the fire started if you'll make some of those dried berry scones to go with the rest of the leftover stew."
"Deal," Idalia answered promptly. Kellen had learned to do a number of new things well since he'd come to live with her, but cooking wasn't one of them. "Just let me wash this clay off my hands first, or you'll be eating it along with the scones." She turned toward the cabin.
But the sound of hoofbeats back down the trail alerted Kellen that their plans were about to be changed.
"Wait. Someone's coming." Kellen slid his heavy pack from his shoulders and turned back the way they'd come.
Idalia frowned—evidently she hadn't heard anything—but as she was about to question Kellen further, there was an enormous crashing noise from the underbrush, and a big chestnut-colored Centaur burst into the clearing.
"Idalia!" he roared. "You've got to heal me! Now!"
Kellen and Idalia both stared in astonishment, for this was possibly the most unlikely creature to come seeking Idalia's help of any in the Wild Lands. It was Cormo, the Centaur bully who had attacked Kellen at the berry patch when he had first arrived in the Wildwood, but it was difficult to recognize him now. Cormo's face and chest were badly swollen with a mass of beestings, and the Centaur was covered in half-dried black mud besides. It looked as if he'd tried to doctor himself—and failed—before coming to Idalia for help.
"Heal me—now!" the Centaur repeated in a menacing growl, taking a limping step toward her.
"That's no way to ask for help," Kellen replied angrily, and leaned down to reach for the pruning hook beside him on the ground, but Idalia put a restraining hand on his arm and took a step forward.
"Hello, Cormo," she said coolly. "What is it that you want?"
"Are you deaf, woman?" the Centaur bellowed, this time so loudly that it made Kellen wince, though Idalia gave no indication that she'd even noticed. "I'm hurt! You have to heal me with your Wildmagery!"
"Do I?" Idalia actually managed to sound amused; Kellen was impressed. "And do you expect me to do it for free?"
"You have to," Cormo growled, taking another step toward her. "If you're afraid of the cost, make the brat share it—I don't care! But I know your kind—you heal anyone who comes to you for help—and you don't want word to get around that you refused to help me, now, do you?" He took another step toward her, and now Cormo was standing so close to Idalia that he could reach out and shake her like a rag doll if he chose to.
Idalia simply smiled, refusing to give in to the veiled threat or even take a step backward. Kellen was amazed. And impressed. He'd have gone for a weapon by now; he wouldn't trust that bully any further than he could throw him!
"I have some herbal salves, and I'll gladly doctor you with them free of charge, Cormo. But if you want me to use my Wildmagery to heal you, you must agree to accept half the price, and I will take the other half."
Cormo shook his head and changed tactics. He tried to smile conciliatingly, difficult as it was with his face so swollen it resembled a ripe gourd. He pawed the ground, and his voice took on a pleading, whining tone.
"Aw, come on, Idalia, be a friend! It's just a little healing, and it really hurts—a lot! You can't honestly expect me to pay half the price on top of all this pain, can you? I could go blind if you don't heal me right now!" By now the whining was annoying enough that it put Kellen's teeth on edge. "You wouldn't want that to happen to your old buddy Cormo, would you?" he wheedled.
"Half the price, or no magic," Idalia said implacably.