The Sard congregated in the common room of the Great Tree Inn. Disper had politely dismissed the owner, and bolted the door. There would be no distractions. How the Sard had afforded to rent the whole of the inn was a mystery that Tirielle would never solve. They had no wealth, she was sure, for she had never seen them spend any money. But somehow, they always got what they wanted.
Tirielle sat with a tired sigh and took a drink proffered by Carth with a grateful nod. It was watered wine, but she did not mind. She did not feel safe enough that she wanted to be insensible.
“You think she can be cured, Quintal?”
“The physician has magic at his beck and call. I could feel it in him, even if he did not hide it so well. He is old, so his eyes can be passed off as cataracts, but he is of the white or I am a washer maid.”
“The white? I have never heard of such.”
“It is the colour of healing. I suspect that none in this city know his art. He could be a court physician but for fear of the Protectorate. Unless I miss my mark, he has spent his life in anonymity, healing the poor and living in squalor for fear of his secret being discovered. His potions he carries are merely props in his theatre.”
“Then we have hope.”
“Faint, I would caution, my lady,” said Disper, wiping ale foam from his great moustaches. I would not want you to be disappointed.”
“But a healer with the arts — there is none such even among the rahkens.”
“No, but the man cannot cure everything. The white are gifted, true, but they are no miracle. Some ailments are too fey for any hand to heal.”
“I’ll not give up hope so easily,” said Tirielle, “and nor should you.” She took a sip of wine and sat back, discussion ended.
Quintal smiled sadly and turned to the other paladins assembled in the common room. Tirielle did not have the heart to listen in. Worry for the Seer gnawed at her as she gnawed at a fingernail.