The Ambassador's Mission

thought they did. Those Healers who had joined Sonea in treating the poor had begun to expand and develop fields of knowledge that had been long neglected. Some Healers still regarded non-magical healing as primitive and unnecessary, but Lady Vinara, Head of Healers, was not inclined to agree. She now sent novices favouring the Healing discipline to Sonea to learn both how to apply non-magical healing, and why it was still needed.

Turning into the main corridor, Nikea led Sonea to the front room of the hospice. A short, plump woman with grey in her hair paced the room, watching the people seated on benches around the walls with her arms crossed and a stern expression. Sonea suppressed a smile.

Adrea. One of our first non-magician helpers.

When the first hospice opened, Healers had spent as much of their time talking with everyone who entered to find out who was sick and who wasn’t as they did treating people. They had to decide how serious the illness or injury was, and pass the patient on to a Healer with the appropriate experience and knowledge. Soon Healers were complaining that they spend their time there herding people, not Healing them. They tried allocating the task instead to novices, but new novices were either too young or inexperienced to deal with distressed patients and their families, and older ones needed to learn something more than how to diagnose illnesses and ferry people about.

It had been Lady Vinara’s idea to circulate a request among the Houses for volunteers to help in the hospices. Sonea had expected no response, so she was surprised when three women had appeared at the door a few days later. She’d suddenly had to come up with useful tasks that weren’t too menial for women of the higher classes, but would not cause too many problems or damage if done badly.

Only one of those women had returned to the hospice after the first day, but after a few weeks Adrea had not only proven herself capable of being helpful but soon persuaded three other women – friends and relatives – to try out being “hospice helpers.”

A few weeks later more helpers began to arrive. Gossip about the original helpers had spread, and general opinion was that they should be admired for their noble sacrifice of time and willingness to risk personal safety for the benefit of the city. Suddenly it was fashionable to be a hospice helper and there was a flood of volunteers.

The reality of the work soon dampened the enthusiasm of fad-followers and the number of new volunteers settled to a steady rate. The helpers that remained not only continued to work at the hospices but organised themselves into shifts and held meetings to discuss new and better ways that non-magicians could help the poor and the Healers.

“Adrea,” Nikea called.

The woman turned and, seeing Sonea, bowed deeply. “Black Magician Sonea,” she said.

“Adrea,” Sonea replied. “I’m taking Healer Draven’s place tonight. Give me a few minutes, then send the first one in.”

The woman nodded. Turning back to face the corridor, Sonea took a step toward the Examination Room, then stopped and looked at Nikea.

“Nothing needs any special attention out here?” she asked, gesturing down the corridor to the patient rooms.

Nikea shook her head. “Nothing we can’t handle. There are three of us working the rooms. All the patients have been fed and half of them are probably asleep already. I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”

Sonea nodded. She moved to the first door to the left and opened it. The room inside was large enough for two chairs, a locked cupboard and a narrow bed along one wall. It was dark, so she created a globe light and sent it hovering near the centre of the ceiling.

Sitting down on one of the chairs, she took a deep breath and readied herself for the first of the patients. Adrea would ring a gong if anyone arrived who needed immediate treatment. The rest came to the Examination Room, where a Healer examined and questioned them before either Healing them with magic or treating them with medicine or minor surgery. If major surgery was needed but not urgent they arranged for the patient to return another day.

A knock came from the door. Sonea drew a little magic and sent it out to the handle, turning and tugging it inward. The man standing beyond looked surprised as he saw nobody standing behind the door, despite having visiting the hospice several times before.

“Stoneworker Berrin,” Sonea said. “Come in.”

He looked relieved to see her. He bowed, closed the door, moved to the chair and sat down.

“I was hoping you’d be here,” he said.

She nodded. “How are you?”

Rubbing his hands together, he paused to think before answering.

“I don’t think it worked,” he finally said.

Sonea regarded him thoughtfully. He had first come to the hospice nearly a year before, refusing to say what was wrong with him. She’d assumed something embarrassing and private, but what he’d revealed, slowly and reluctantly, was an addiction to roet.

It had taken some courage to admit it, she knew. He was the sort of man who worked hard and prided himself on doing “honest” work. But when his wife had died bearing their first child, which hadn’t survived, he had been so wrapped up in grief and guilt that he’d tried the wares of a rot-seller with a persuasive tongue. By the time the pain had receded enough that he could resume his former work he found he could not give up the drug.

At first she had encouraged him to reduce the amount he took and endure the aches, cravings and bad moods that came over him. He had done well, but it had exhausted him. The desire for the numbing, freeing sensation of roet did not diminish, however. Eventually, after several months, Sonea took pity on him and decided to see if magic could speed the process.

All Healers had agreed that roet addiction was not an illness, so to use magic to cure it was a waste of a precious resource. Sonea had agreed, but Berrin was a good man who had been taken advantage of when most vulnerable. She had Healed him in secret.

“Why do you think it didn’t work?” she asked him.

He looked down, his eyes wide with distress. “I still want it. Not as bad as before. I thought the need would grow less and less. But it hasn’t. It’s like... a tap dripping. Quiet, but if it’s quiet it’s there, nagging at you.”

Sonea frowned, then gestured for him to move closer. He shuffled the chair toward hers. Reaching out, she placed a hand on either side of his head and closed her eyes.

Healing him had been a strange experience. There had been nothing obviously wrong with him. No break or tear or infection that his body was already trying to deal with. Most of the time a Healer could pick up from the body what was wrong and let it help guide the application of magic to repair damage. Sometimes the problem was too subtle, but allowing the body to use magic to return it to its right state nearly always worked.

In Berrin there had been a feeling of distress coming from several directions. It resided in the paths of sensation, and in his brain, but was so subtle she could not comprehend how to fix it. So she had let his body guide her, and when the feeling of distress had gone she knew her work was done.

The aches had gone, and his mood had lifted. He hadn’t said anything about a lingering craving for roet, however. But maybe it had been too subtle for him to notice initially. Or maybe he had started taking it again.

Sending her mind forth, she sought the feeling of distress within his body. To her surprise, she found nothing. Concentrating harder, she detected natural healing around blisters on his hands and some muscular soreness in his back. But as far as his body was concerned, he was fit and well.

She opened her eyes and removed her hands.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” she said, smiling. “I can’t feel any of the indicators I felt before.”

His face fell and he searched her gaze. “But... I’m not lying. It’s still there.”

Sonea frowned. “That’s... odd.” She considered his steady gaze and what she knew of him. He’s not the type to lie. The very idea that people might think he’d lie is distressing to him. In fact, I expect his next question to be—

“Do you think I’m making it up?” he asked in a low, fearful voice.

She shook her head. “But this is puzzling. And frustrating. How can I heal what I can’t detect?” She spread her hands. “All I can say is, give it time. It could be there’s some echo of the craving there. Like the memory of someone’s touch or the sound of a voice. In time, if you don’t refresh that memory, your body may forget it.”

He nodded, his expression thoughtful now. “I can do that. That makes sense.” He straightened and looked at