voice. His tones were calm and reasonable, as they always were.
“I might, at that. This is a Protectorate disease, one that infests them and brings them power. The red light is a symptom, and in them it is accompanied by a ten-fold increase in power. It is unnatural in this girl. It does not belong here, and perhaps, because of that, I can banish it from her. But I make no promises.” He smiled sadly, showing his yellowed teeth. “But I work in private. Physicians have their secrets, too.”
“I’ll not leave her alone,” said Tirielle firmly.
“You can, and you will. I will not work with you looking over my shoulder, pretty lady. I fear the distraction would be too much for my ancient heart.”
“Come, Tirielle, leave the man to work. She is in safe hands.”
Reluctantly, Tirielle allowed herself to be led from the room. The Physician ignored them, as if he had already dismissed them from his mind, and peered once again into the Seer’s blighted eyes.
Chapter Thirty-Two
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.
Chapter Thirty-Three
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.”
Reyland took a moment to register that the girl’s lips never moved. “Can you not speak?”
