In the brightened room red light flowed from the Seer’s eyes, like blood in water as the unnatural light met shards of sunlight drifting through the shadows. Reyland held the girl’s hand gentle and spoke to her softly, even though he was unsure as to whether she could hear him from whatever plane her mind was on.
It was a malady unlike anything he had seen in all his long years of experience. Underlying the bleeding light were myriad colours. The red suffused all, almost like oil lying on pure water. He could sense the clean underneath, but the weight of the red held her down.
Peering into her eyes he could see the other colours there, like a rainbow crumbling under blood red rain. He rubbed his eyes with his rough hands and sat back, away from the light. It hurt his eyes even to look.
It was worse than he had first imagined.
He remembered once, one of his many failures, a pickpocket he had tried to heal. The pickpocket had tried the wrong mark. His friend, both undernourished denizen of the Beggar’s Mile, had dragged him to the doorstep.
One look at the boy’s head had told him magic was needed. The boy was unconscious, and that was a blessing. His skull had been misshapen, and white shards had broken through the scalp where his skull had been crushed.
He had tried to use his magic to persuade those fragments to return to their natural place, but it had availed him nothing. The boys mind was so swollen from the blow that his brain failed as it pushed against the newly healed bone.
That had been a hard day, as every day he lost a patient was. Sometimes he could keep a man alive, sometimes he saved a breeched baby, or staunched a deep wound to an organ…never could he save them all. But, as always, no matter the odds of survival, he would try.
He lit an oil lamp and pushed the curtains further apart, for as much light as he could get. The girl writhed on the bed, straining against the covers, closing her eyes, but he sat atop her and pulled her eyelids open with his thick fingers. Her breath came in ragged gasps, but he knew the girl’s body was hale. It was just the infection fighting him.
He took a deep breath and prayed to Yemilarion, the god of healers, and let his own light seep forth to meet the red. White light met red on a thousand different planes, and at first the power of the white pushed the darkness back. Reyland’s breath came evenly, his grip on the girl’s head strong. Then, a powerful pulse of light from the red and Reyland knew he was in trouble. Sweat began to bead his brow and he began tiring. His vision swam, and motes of red light floated away from him, dancing out of the grip of the white. The room filled with red light and Reyland could feel it seeping into his skin, his lungs, making it harder for his heart to beat, hard for him to breath. He could almost taste the taint on the air, even thought the infection should only be visible, not palpable.
All the while the girl screamed, the sound pounding on the physician’s ears, driving nails into his brain. Still he did not blink.
Gasping now, Reyland pushed harder. The red pushed back for an instant, then met the white in the room in a wavering line, one pushing forward, one pushing back.
It was a contest of wills and it would not be won by brawn. It was all the physician could do to talk.
“Any time you want to help me, girl,” he gasped, “feel free.”
He wasn’t sure she had heard him for what seemed a long time, but was in reality only moments, and then from underneath and around the red light, an explosion of colour came, brighter than the sun. Reyland almost blinked, but forced his watery eyes to open further. The bright shards of light tore into his mind and he cried out in pain, just as the girl had before him. Still he did not look away. His heart pounding wildly in his chest, and his ears pounding from the girl’s scream, which grew ever louder, he pushed ever ounce of power from his eyes, drawing so much of himself and the light from the window into the healing that he thought he would burn himself out, his eyes bursting with the last vestiges of the ancient talent, never to heal again.
And yet he held. Quivering, he watched in amazement as the girl’s colours joined the fight, not destroying the red, but drawing it into her own colours, so that it joined an army of colours.
Suddenly, the colours seemed natural again, and the girl’s cries ceased.
Colours swirled in the sunlight, like a perfect prism refracting pure light. The thrashing underneath him stopped, and Reyland allowed himself to blink.
The girl blinked too. And then she smiled.
Reyland took a deep, shuddering breath and returned the smile. “I thought you’d be too much for me, girl,” he told her, his voice rasping with effort as he spoke, “but you’ve power I’ve never seen before.”
“You, too, have powers unseen in an age. Thank you, Master Uriwane.”
Reyland took a moment to register that the girl’s lips never moved. “Can you not speak?”
She shook her head sadly. “Once, I could. But the battle has scarred me already, and I think it will scar me further before it is done. But the fight is not your concern, and you have healed me as completely as any could.”
“I’m sorry, girl. I tried my hardest, but I fear it was more than I could handle. I have not seen the blight in many a long year, and have never fought it before. I am sorry you cannot speak.”
“Do not be foolish,” she spoke into his mind, with more years than he would have expected from a mere slip of a girl. But she was a seer — the years had little meaning for her. What must she have seen, he wondered, while her mind travelled the planes?
“I have seen much,” she told him, as if she had been reading his thoughts. “I have seen the birth of suns, the end of ages and the creation of new lands from the ashes. I have seen enough to know that there must always be balance. There must always be payment.”
“I need no payment from you. We have already agreed the price.”
“You cannot lie to me, Master Uriwane. I know what you need. It is not gold, but a reason to go on. Your good wife has been dead long years, and you never had children.”
“I always wished…” his voice cracked, and he could not go on. He blinked in surprise, shocked at the depth of emotion that still remained after all this time.
“Payment does not always have to be in money. There is a boy-child, thirteen years. He has led a life of the blind, his eyes are white, like yours. You must teach him. He will be your apprentice in the arts. You have years enough left to do so, and he will be greater in the arts than you. He will be like a son to you, and you like a father to him. Give him nothing but your love, and your wisdom, and he will grow.”
She told him where to find the boy, and rose to a sitting position, hugging him fiercely. “Find your son, live long, Master Uriwane. It is good to feel kindness again. I am glad it was you who woke me from my dreams.”
“And I was glad to know you, girl. What is your name?”
She touched his cheek sadly. “I do not know. But I call myself Sia. Fitting, I think, that the name should match the purpose.”
“I am old and foolish sometimes, but allow me to impart a little wisdom before I leave. You may be a seer, but you are not your purpose. You are a girl. Soon you will be a woman. Do not forget to live your life.”
She nodded, thoughtfully. “Good advice, I think.”
He rose and bowed as deeply as his back would allow. “Goodbye, Sia. Peace favour you.”
“Peace be with you, healer.”
He closed the door behind him, realising as he went that he had left his pack behind. With a rueful shrug and smile, he took the stairs.
Tirielle was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairwell. “How did it go, Reyland? Is she cured? Could you help her?”
“Peace, lady. She is fine. You may see her.”
She hugged him fiercely with a cry of joy, and ran past the bemused healer, bounding up the stairs. Quintal shook his hand with thanks, and took a pouch out. Reyland laid a hand on top of the paladin’s.
“Payment has been made, warrior. Peace favour you. Now, I have work to do.”
The paladin’s watched him go.
Quintal smiled. Soon, it would be time to go. But for now, they had new hope, in the face of a fresh girl. He called the barmaid down, and ordered himself a large drink. Time enough for a meeting later. For now, he was tired, and looking out the window at the full dark that had descended, he raised a glass at the receding, crooked back of the healer.
“Some arts are greater than others,” he said to Cenphalph, who was watching him. With a sigh the leader of the Sard rearranged his dagger and sat to wait the night out.
Upstairs, Sia wasted no time. She told Tirielle where she had to go, and of the pain she would yet have to bear. And yet Tirielle’s heart was light once again. One small success, sometimes, is enough to be going on with.