Restoration (13 page)

What palaces or hovels had graced the heart of Azhakstan were all the same now, collapsed into a maze of half-walls and broken paving. A few gaunt pillars and a fallen statue of a lion marked a slight rise in the center of the city. The lemon and almond groves were gone, and the sweet grass. Only the unceasing wind remained, a soft and hollow wailing that stirred the sand, covering and uncovering the crumbling walls and toppled towers, stealing a bit more of the ancient city's bones with every pass. A dusty lemon tree stood alone beside the walled courtyard where we barricaded the horses and Gaspar's scrawny chastou to protect them from prowling zhaideg and kayeets. A row of spreading blue-green tamarisks marked the eastern approach, where they had once offered welcoming shade to all who approached the holy city. Now they held back the dunes, preventing the desert from claiming the ruin completely. And a small grove of the ever-present, ever-useful nagera palms stood just beyond the sheltered corner of broken walls where we laid Aleksander to see if he would live or die.

It was difficult to believe any humans actually made a home amid such desolation. One would expect the scorpions half as big as my palm, the lizards, the jackals that whined outside the boundaries of our fire at night, and the vultures that circled over the dunes. But the old man Gaspar and the boy Qeb were two of five people who squeezed out a living from the spring and the trees and a few goats. The other three were women—Sarya, Manot, and Fessa—all of whom appeared to be even older than Gaspar. I was curious about the boy. If he was a slave, then it was a benevolent bondage, as he was unmarked and wore no slave rings. The four old people obviously doted on him. His features and coloring hinted at Derzhi or Basran ancestry.

The journey from our bit of wasil had been very slow. The jostling could have been nothing but agony for Aleksander, and by the time we reached Drafa, he was glassy-eyed and feverish. No sooner had we laid him under the shade of the nageras than the three old women began hovering about us like flies on drying blood.

“Get away from him,” Sovari snapped at the wizened little woman Gaspar named Sarya. Her skin was the color of the baked mud, all cracks and crevices, and she appeared to have no more than three teeth, those in precarious condition. “No filthy desert vermin will touch him.” All through the long night's trek I had watched the guard captain's hand drawn to the heavy sword at his belt, only to see him snatch it away a few moments later. A seasoned warrior like Sovari knew how dangerous it was to let a limb mortify. He was steeling himself to save Aleksander's life. I prayed to every god I knew that we would not come to that.

“Have you any medicines?” I asked Sarya quietly as Sovari bathed the Prince's face and tried to get water down him. “We have nothing, and the only remedies I know come from forest-lands.” No oak trees in this desolation, and none of the herbs or roots Ezzarians used to care for wounds.

“Manot knows well of healing. Fessa knows more,” said the old woman, nodding her head to her companions. A tall, angular woman with a tangle of wispy white hair stood peering at Aleksander, her leathery nostrils flared, testing the air for any whiff of putrefaction, I guessed. The third old woman, round-faced and fluttering, darted around Sovari and Aleksander clucking her tongue. “But they need to see the wound and tend the damaged parts so it can heal cleanly. We must be quick.”

Gaspar and the boy walked slowly down the dusty path. “Your other friend is seeing to your horses,” said the old man. “How fares the warrior?”

“Very ill,” I said, drawing the old man aside. “These women ... ?”

“They know what they're about. There's healing in the desert” —he winked at me and smiled conspiratorially—“for all kinds of injury.” I had the uncanny sense that his sightless eyes saw far more than was comfortable. I had not forgotten his greeting ...
one of darkness and one of light ... the last battle ...
And how had he had been able to tell the women of Aleksander's injury before he came to find us in the desert?

As the sun crept over the edge of the dunes, I squatted next to Sovari. The veteran sat with his chin on his fists, staring hopelessly at the sleeping Prince. “We need to let these women see to him, Captain,” I said softly. “They're not royal physicians, but they'll know what remedies are available hereabouts. You and I have only the one thing to offer, and he'll not welcome it.”

Sovari shot me a hard glance, and then looked away. “My duty is to protect his life,” he said. “Who knows what poisons these people would concoct?” Fessa had tiptoed close again, and the captain angrily waved her off. “What could ignorant beggars know of healing? Might as well have the jackals come gawking, or some Thrid witch-woman. Leaving him with a mortified limb will kill him for certain.”

I was set to argue with him, but a panting whisper from in front of us silenced the dispute before it began. “You will not take it. You will not.” “ Aleksander's eyes were not open, but his fists were clenched as if ready to take us on in battle.

“Of course not, my lord,” said Sovari. “Only if absolutely—”

“You ... will ... not ...” The words were edged steel. “... ever.”

“As you wish, my lord. Of course.”

I raised my eyebrows at the captain, and he grudgingly shrugged his shoulders. Though Sovari had scarcely moved, the women descended on us and gradually eased us aside. Before we knew it, they had a small dung fire burning, woven mats unrolled and baskets laid out with various roots and dried leaves in them, and our crude bandages cut open to expose Aleksander's leg—looking far worse than the day before. I hadn't thought it possible. The Prince took no notice. The effort of speech seemed to have sent him into a stupor.

“Qeb,” called Sarya. “We need fresh chosoni.” The boy nodded and ran off, leaving Gaspar sitting against a wall, where the old man soon nodded off.

Sarya ground dried roots of the sticky milkweed that grew in the cracks of the mud walls, boiled the gray powder, cooled it, strained it through coarse cloth, and then boiled it again. While Manot used the steaming liquid to wash the dirt and blood from Aleksander's wound, Fessa heated nagera oil in a small earthen vessel, adding crumbled tarbush leaves. For two hours she stirred the mess, sniffing the acrid fumes and touching her tongue to drops she sprinkled on her hand.

The sun rose higher, baking away the night's coolness. Qeb brought Sarya a handful of grayish spiky weeds, and then squatted down beside Gaspar, telling the old man he would help him to bed to finish his nap. Gaspar protested drowsily, trying to sit up straight. “It's been too long since we've had visitors. As soon as the healing's done, I want to talk.” He pushed away a goat that had wandered close, interested in the patch of thistle behind Gaspar's back.

“As soon as the healing's done, Qeb will bring you back,” said Sarya, glancing up from peeling the bark from three pine branches. “You'll have your time to babble as you will.” Her crinkled eyes were smiling.

“Not much time.” The old man scratched his beard. “No. Not so very much.”

Sarya's smile fell away, and her eyes darted to the boy. Qeb, his tanned face serene, helped the old man to his feet and maneuvered him gently and safely over the broken ground. The boy returned after a while, silent as he watched everything that was done, helping however was needed.

The women pressed me into service, too. I chopped two onions from Manot's basket, while Fessa strained her oily mixture through the cloth into another earthen cup. Sovari and Malver returned from caring for the horses, and the round-faced Fessa bade the two men hold Aleksander's shoulders. It was well-done, for Fessa dripped her concoction right into the raw wound. Aleksander's scream ripped the day's stillness.

“Curse you, witch,” yelled Sovari. “Ezzarian, we should send for a real phys—”

“The pain is necessary,” said Sarya, laying her withered hand on my arm. “We must kill the poisons before the wound can heal.”

The Derzhi would sear such a wound with a hot iron, and then bind it up until it festered or healed. Even in the best cases, the victim ended up lame. Surely this treatment could be no riskier. I breathed again and resumed my chopping. “He is very important,” I said.

“We know.”

I looked up quickly, but Sarya had returned to the fire and set a small vessel of water ready to prepare Qeb's gray-leafed chosoni. Another hour and they had placed an onion poultice on the wound and covered it with leaves. The chosoni was steeping in a pot, and the resin from Sarya's bark had been cooked and mixed with nagera oil to make a sticky, pungent ointment. Now we waited.

Manot watched the Prince first, her light-colored eyes scarcely blinking. After a few hours, Sarya relieved her, while the tireless Fessa brought us something to eat: a few of the red fleshed fruit from the nagera, cups of goat's milk, and flatbread baked from ground almonds and sweet nagera butter. After sharing this generous offering—three healthy men were going to tax such a meager subsistence—Malver and Sovari went scouting, saying they needed to get the lay of the city and find the best place to set a watch. For the next two hours I sat in the stifling shade and watched Aleksander's fever rise. His cheeks were flushed, his breathing shallow and rapid, and he grew restless, so that whichever woman was caring for him had to keep a hand on his chest to keep him still. We would need no fire to warm him when the cold night came.

Fessa took up the watch. I could sit still no longer. As the ruthless sun traversed its course, I paced the sandy rubble and stared out at the sculpted dunes Aleksander so prized. The desert's changes were subtle. Blue shadows stretched slowly across its face. A dusting of sand shifted in the wind. I had grown up in deep forest, and loved few things better than the smell of rain on spring earth or the touch of autumn sun on my cheek while red and gold leaves spoke fire above my head and beneath my feet. Yet I could not conjure an image of my homeland as I gazed upon the evening desert, nor could I fasten my mind on insidious demons or perilous dreams or failed love. The peaceful emptiness was very welcome.

“This is a holy place.” Gaspar's voice was as spare as the desert. Qeb and the old man had come up the path as the sun slipped into the west, spreading night upon the desert like a cloak.

“I feel it,” I said.

“There was a time when all Derzhi warriors made pilgrimage to Drafa,” Gaspar said. “Just after they earned their braids, they would come here seeking visions. A young warrior newly steeped in blood must find his center of balance.”

“Sometimes older ones need the same,” I said.

The old man stood at my shoulder, almost of a height with me, and beside him stood the slim and graceful boy, his silver earrings catching the last stray beams of day. About the two hung a heady sweetness of smoke and unfamiliar herbs. “We can help you, warrior. Few remember we are here, but we've not fallen wholly out of practice.”

“Is that why you stay in this ruin?”

“There have been ones like us in Drafa since it was new-built from the sand. As long as there are warriors, we will be here.”

So Gaspar was some kind of tribal mystic. Every race had them—wise men or women who watched the stars or claimed to see visions or to find portents in clouds or beast entrails or worm droppings. That would explain the boy. Gaspar had likely found Qeb in some backward village and brought him to Drafa to be his acolyte, training the child to serve some priestly function for Derzhi who no longer came to find balance in Drafa. Before I could learn more, I heard a hoarse shouting from the shelter.

I hurried back to find Sarya taking the pot of chosoni tea off the fire, while Manot and Fessa gripped Aleksander's arms. The Prince's amber eyes were open, flaring hotly in the firelight, though seeing nothing of the women or of me. “Out of me, demon! I'll not have you! Oh, mighty Athos ... he burns ...” His ravings were fragments of memory: of arguments with his father, of love and longing for his wife, of the time when the Lord of Demons had ravaged his soul to make himself a dwelling place, of confusion and uncertainties long held private.

“Raise his head and hold him steady,” commanded Sarya, holding a steaming cup. “We'd hoped to let this fever burn itself out, but it's too fierce.” Careful not to spill the hot liquid on Aleksander's bare chest, she forced him to drink the vile-smelling chosoni tea. He gagged and fought and raved, calling us demons and traitors, threatening every sort of mayhem. When he had drained the cup, the old woman brought another and we forced that one into him, too. And another, and again, until Sarya's pot was empty. The Prince was limp and quiet when we laid him back on his cloak, and soon he began to sweat. Sarya nodded in satisfaction and gently blotted his face and chest and limbs with rags, while Manot renewed the poultice on his leg.

For two more days the Prince's fever soared and was sweated out again. Sovari and I took turns sitting with him as the women plied him with their teas and potions. With Malver we shared the watch, the care of the horses, and the hunting to supplement the food supplies. We snatched sleep in hour-long bits. By dawn of our third morning in Drafa, our tempers were short, and my eyes felt like sand had been ground into them. After a frustrating morning trying to shoot something that was edible, I threw Malver's luckless bow onto the sand and fell to the ground beside Sovari, asleep before my empty stomach could complete its hollow rumble. Malver was on watch.

 

 

Sun glare seared my eyes when I cracked them open. Cracked was an apt word, I thought, perhaps a crack right through my forehead. And the murderous sun weighed heavy on my shoulder.
Dangerous. Stupid.
What kind of fool was I to fall asleep un-sheltered ? Yet I was sure I had lain down on the woven mat under the nagera trees, three steps from Sovari and the Prince.