Chapter Ten
The Guild Halls of so-called “Healers”—interactive empaths—can be found in every Liaden city.
Healers are charged with tending ills such as depression, addiction and other psychological difficulties and they are undoubtedly skilled therapists, with a high rate of success to their credit.
Healers are credited with the ability to wipe a memory from all layers of a client's consciousness. They are said to be able to directly—utilizing psychic ability—influence another's behavior; however, this activity is specifically banned by Guild regulations.
—From “The Case Against Telepathy”
The garden smelled of greenleaf, damp soil, and a hundred other subtle perfumes. Walking beside Daav along the overgrown path, Aelliana's hand brushed against a tall lavender spike, releasing a burst of mint scent.
“To address what the Healers have . . . done to you, Aelliana, we must first allow you to know the state in which you were received into the Hall. The report I had from the pilots at Chonselta Hall was that you were raving, clearly assigning meaning to words which were . . . inappropriate to the case . . . ”
The taxi driver, and her own voice, quavering in and out of audibility, the words tumbling in a meaningless chatter of sound. “I remember,” she said, and that was true, though the memory was distant and without emotional charge, as if it had all happened a very long time ago.
'Ah. Then you will not find it surprising that two Master Healers were immediately called to your side—Kestra and Tom Sen. It was Master Kestra I spoke with today when I arrived at the Hall.
“Of the most recent trauma, you have been healed. There was, so Master Kestra tells me, some small bit of burn, which she pronounces insignificant. She is, by the way, all admiration for you and the solution you employed to preserve yourself.”
“Solution?” Aelliana frowned, trying to recapture that memory, but it eluded her, lost inside a sound like shouting and the image of a solar system entirely unknown to her.
“You had created yourself a piloting problem,” Daav said softly. “A model star system, the balancing of which kept your mind focused and the . . . more inimical effects of the Learning Module at bay.”
“Oh, but that's standard protocol,” she said. “The Learner will not disturb a brain at work.”
“Thus did you save yourself, when those of us who would have, could not.” There was something in that which reminded her too nearly of Clonak, but when she turned to look into his face, all she saw was weariness.
“The Healer who was with me when I woke, the first time today,” she said, the memory suddenly upon her. “I had asked her if I were brain-burned. She said she was trying to determine just that, and then—I fell asleep. How odd, that I hadn't recalled that until just now! When I woke again, I had no question but that I was perfectly well.”
“Healers are bright, and terrible, and wise,” Daav murmured, with the air of one quoting . . . poetry, perhaps.
“I've had so little experience of Healers—none, in fact.” She bit her lip and glanced at the side of his face, waiting for him to continue, but he merely strolled on, a man communing with his garden. The impulse to touch him was very strong. She curled her hands into fists, counted to twelve, and then asked another question.
“They—the Healers did something else, didn't they, Daav?”
“The gloan-roses are doing well, don't you think?” he said, pausing to call her attention to a mound of glossy green leaves and flowers the color of heart's blood.
“They're very pretty,” she said, but he was gone, angling across the short plush grass, to a wooden bench set within the embrace of the rosebushes.
Daav sat, one knee folded on the seat, his arm on the back of the bench, chin on his arm as he regarded the roses. The perfect study, Aelliana thought, of a man who very much did not want to answer the question that had just been put to him.
A step out from the bench, she paused, and asked herself, very earnestly, if she truly wished to know what the Healers had wrought. If it were enough to give Daav pause, perhaps she did not. And yet—
“I scarcely know myself.” Daav's words rose unbidden, a whisper no louder than the soft brush of the breeze over rose petals.
“Daav.” She sat on the bench, folding her hands tightly onto her lap. “What else have the Healers done?”
He closed his eyes. “Aelliana, have mercy.”
Mercy? Her stomach knotted painfully, familiarly.
“Have I escaped brain-burn only so the Healers might discover a greater flaw?” And yet, what? What might be so terrible that he wished to hide it from her, when copilot's care—
And if the copilot's best care of his pilot was to conceal an unpleasant truth?
“I am an oaf.” His voice was cold.
He straightened and turned 'round on the bench, his feet flat on the ground. Leaning forward, he put his hand over hers where it was fisted on her knee.
“Aelliana, it is nothing dire—I had only wished you to have some days to become accustomed, and to know yourself again before hearing the rest of what confronts you.”
Anguish swept through her, and self-loathing, tenderness, avarice, and pain.
“I think,” she said unsteadily, “you had better tell me.”
“Yes, I suppose I had better.” He sighed, and took his hand away, settling back into the corner of the bench. It took a ridiculous amount of willpower, not to snatch his hand back to her, but she managed to sit seemly, fingers folded tightly together.
