Songs of the Earth (32 page)

Haral’s horny hands grasped his head and turned it into the light so he could examine it.

Over the weapons-master’s shoulder, Arlin smirked.

‘You’ll not need stitching, but I think you should see a Healer,’ Haral said, releasing him. ‘You’ll have a fair headache come morning.’

Another headache. Wonderful.

‘One more point,’ Gair said.

‘What?’

‘I want to fight one more point, Master Haral.’

The Syfrian frowned. ‘There is no place here for revenge, Gair.’

‘One point, to settle the match. That’s all.’

‘And then you’ll go to the infirmary?’

‘My word on it.’

‘If you’re sure about this, I’ll let it go to one more point. But no more, you hear?’ he said, levelling a finger at Gair.

‘Yes, Master Haral.’

Grunting, Haral retrieved his staff. ‘Final point, gentlemen,’ he declared. ‘Then it will be time to stop.’

Arlin looked surprised, his lips already shaping a protest. Taking station opposite, Gair tugged his bloody tunic off over his head and threw it aside. It stuck to him, dragged at his skin; he could move more freely without it. As he set himself at the guard, he saw movement in his peripheral vision. The other students had stopped exercising and formed a loose ring around the two of them to watch. Sorchal, wrists rested casually on the waster across the back of his neck, caught Gair’s eye and tipped his head in salute.

Arlin had noticed the spectators too. He shrugged at them, as if it was all the same to him whether Gair wanted to take another beating, and took up position.

The first few strikes Gair turned aside without any attempt at a
counter. He wanted to know how tired Arlin was, but it was difficult to guess. His head felt so bloated and strange that time itself dragged. Blood running from his hairline tickled the corner of his eye; he had to wipe it on his shoulder to keep his vision clear.

Arlin feinted quickly, closing in like a hawk on a sparrow. Wasters cracked together, scraped round and broke free. Gair recovered quickly enough to step in with an attack. Arlin parried, but gave ground. Gair pressed home his advantage, using his longer reach to probe Arlin’s defences. Again the Tylan led left but feinted right; Gair struck hard, forcing a clumsy parry. Whilst Arlin was off-balance, he struck again and again, driving him onto his back foot, then into taking a half-step backwards. Wood crashed on wood, punctuated with the scuffle of feet and grunts of effort. A flicker of uncertainty crossed Arlin’s face. His counters became less sure as crashing blows numbed his wrists and forced him to give more and more ground.

A fierce exultation grew inside Gair. He hardly had to think about his thrusts and slashes now; they were as automatic as if the battered wooden sword in his hands was an extension of his arms. The blood at the corner of his eye became no more than a minor annoyance, one he could ignore. His whole consciousness was focused on compelling Arlin to make a mistake. Gair feinted left and right, and Arlin brought his weapon round to parry, but he was too high. Gair swung in, two-handed, and the weighted wood thumped against the Tylan’s side.

Arlin’s breath whooshed out of him and he folded round the weapon like a sack of meal. He hit his knees but managed to catch himself with one arm; his other hand clutched his ribs as his breath came in hoarse whoops.

For just a few seconds, Gair felt only exultation. The match was his. Then the reality hit him. Flinging his weapon aside, he dropped to his knees next to Arlin, but the Tylan snarled a curse and shoved him away, then sobbed again, hugging the pain in his chest.

‘Let me see, lad, let me see.’ Haral was there, carefully lifting Arlin’s tunic to lay a hand on his ribs. Arlin cried and swore again. Letting the tunic fall, Haral rocked back on his heels.

‘I think there’re a couple of ribs broken, so we’d best let Saaron take a look at you,’ he said. ‘Gair, go with him.’

‘No!’ Arlin shrugged away Haral’s proffered arm and struggled to his feet, glaring.

‘Nonsense, boy,’ said the weapons-master. ‘You’re grey as gruel! Saaron will never forgive me if you faint in the corridor and fetch yourself a broken head.’ He held up a hand as Arlin began to protest. ‘Don’t argue. Just go to the infirmary with Gair. You’ve done enough damage to each other for one day.’

Shoulders hunched around the pain, Arlin made his way to the steps up from the yard.

Gair followed a couple of paces behind. As they turned into the infirmary cloister, he ventured an apology. ‘I’m sorry, Arlin. I wasn’t aiming to hurt you.’

Well, maybe a little bit. Mainly he’d wanted to win.

Ahead Arlin stumped on, giving no indication that he had heard.

Gair sighed. At least he’d tried. He dabbed cautiously at his face with his tunic. The bleeding had lessened, but it still hurt. He could only imagine how it looked.

At the infirmary Arlin tugged the bell-rope, then fumbled the door open, leaving Gair, following behind, to fend it off with his arm as it swung back in his face.

He closed it quietly behind him. The waiting room was empty. Across the room the surgery door stood ajar, but Gair saw no one inside. ‘Saaron can’t be far away,’ he said. ‘I’ll fetch him.’

Arlin glowered and eased himself down onto a bench, one hand held to his injured ribs.

Gair stepped into the surgery. Yellow blinds covered the large skylights and came halfway down the windows. The tiled walls were damp, as was the large surgery table, as if someone had recently scrubbed the place down, but of Saaron there was no sign. He was
about to leave to try the Healer’s study next door when he heard footsteps. The door opposite was pulled open by a slender young woman in a green Healer’s mantle.

‘I thought I heard the bell,’ she said. ‘I was in the dispensary. Can I help you?’

‘I’m looking for Saaron.’

‘I’m afraid he’s not here. There’s spotted fever in Pencruik; he’s gone down to help.’ She put down the clay jar she carried and raised the blinds, letting sunlight fill the surgery. ‘What happened to your face?’

‘I got hit with a practice sword.’

‘You’re one of Master Haral’s students?’

Gair nodded. The girl looped the blind cords around their hook and came towards him. Close to, he saw that she was Astolan. Her red hair was tied in a thick braid over her shoulder, but little curly wisps had come free to form a halo around a fine-boned, golden-skinned face. Large, tawny eyes slanted up at the corners, like a cat’s. She took hold of his chin and tilted his face towards the light.

‘It looks superficial,’ she said. ‘Hop up on that stool and I’ll clean it for you.’

‘I think you should see Arlin first,’ Gair said. ‘Master Haral thinks he might have broken ribs.’

The Astolan girl’s brows arched. ‘Was he the one who hit you, by any chance?’

‘Yes.’

She rolled her eyes.

Arlin cursed and yelped his way onto the surgery table, where the Healer deftly sliced open his tunic with a scalpel. An angry welt across his ribs was already staining purple-black, and his breathing sounded shallow and tight.

‘Ouch,’ she said and laid her hand over the welt.

Gair sensed her call the Song, although the tone of it was unlike anything he had ever felt before. The hairs on his arms stood up, as if they’d been stroked with a feather. She closed her eyes and
moved her palm back and forth across Arlin’s ribs, almost as if she were listening to his injury. Without thinking, he strained to hear what she heard, and at once the Song leapt up inside him.

She looked back over her shoulder. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Sorry.’ Hurriedly he checked the Song, and she turned back to her work.

Her concentration now was absolute, her face utterly still and her awareness elsewhere. After some minutes she straightened up, the Song quieting within her. ‘Well, Master Haral was right. One rib fractured cleanly, one that’s just cracked. What did he hit you with, a tree?’ She gave Arlin a smile. The Tylan turned his head away without speaking and her smile faded. Her glance flickered across to Gair. ‘I’ll start it healing, but I’m afraid I can’t discharge you until Saaron has examined you. He should be back first thing tomorrow.’

Again Arlin said nothing. The Healer laid her hands over his ribs and called the Song once more.

Gair wanted to watch what she was doing, but he made himself resist the pull of her power, looking out of the window instead, at a couple of novices who were weeding the herb garden whilst a green-mantled adept moved along the rows snipping seed-heads into a linen bag. Behind him, the Song’s rhythmic pulse became slow and somnolent. When it stopped, he turned round.

Arlin’s head was lolling.

‘Is he asleep?’ Gair asked.

The Healer nodded. ‘It often happens like that. It’s a side-effect of the healing process.’ She gestured to the stool. ‘Why don’t you sit down so I can clean that graze?’

With the briskness of long practice she fetched a basin of water, some swabs and a bottle from the shelves that lined the wall. She poured a splash of the bottle’s contents into the basin and swirled it around with her fingers. With a swab soaked in the solution, she bathed away the crust of blood from Gair’s temple and cheekbone.

‘Now then,’ she said as she worked, ‘are you going to tell me what happened, or do I have to drag it out of you?’

‘What do you mean?’ Gair asked, although he suspected he knew. The solution stung his abraded skin, making him grimace.

‘I mean, he’s got two fractured ribs and you’ve had your face laid open. That’s a little more than horseplay.’

‘Arlin doesn’t appear to like me very much.’

‘That much is obvious.’

‘Master Haral paired us off to practise together, and when I won the first point he didn’t take it well. Things started to deteriorate after that.’

‘He hit you, so you hit him, yes. I understand.’

‘I didn’t mean to hurt him.’

The Healer’s tawny gaze flicked over his shoulders and arms, then she raised one eyebrow a fraction, encompassing in that tiny gesture her professional assessment of just how hard he could strike if he chose.

Shame squirmed inside him. ‘I let my temper get the better of me,’ he admitted.

‘Were you provoked?’

‘A little.’

‘Then I think it’s honours even.’ She discarded the soiled swab and used a fresh one to pat the wound dry.

Gair yelped at a sudden sharp pain.

‘There must be a splinter in it. Let me see.’

The Healer fetched tweezers from a drawer and bent close, holding the skin taut with the fingers of her free hand. Gair tried not to flinch, but the wound was tender and the tweezers were cold. Carefully she drew out two slivers of wood, depositing them on a swab. Then she cleansed and dried the area again.

‘That should help it heal,’ she told him. From the dispensary she fetched a twist of paper and handed it to him. ‘Here. I think you might need this.’

‘What is it?’

‘A powder for the headache you’re going to have later.’

He touched the tender swelling. ‘Is it bad?’

‘You’ll be a picture tomorrow.’ She smiled. ‘Mix the powder in a cup of water and drink it straight down. It doesn’t taste very good, I’m afraid.’

‘Few medicines do, in my experience.’

‘Then this one will be no disappointment. I’m Tanith, by the way.’

‘I’m Gair.’

‘From the Holy City, yes. Your reputation precedes you. May I?’ She took his left hand and turned it over. Cool fingers examined the brand; the merest thread of the Song tickled him and was gone. ‘I wish they wouldn’t do this. So much damage, and for what?’

‘I think the Church feels my sin is severe enough to be marked prominently.’

‘It’s barbaric. You’re lucky it’s healed as well as it has.’

‘Alderan did the best he could with the supplies he had.’

‘Saaron and I keep his scrip well stocked. It’s just a pity he didn’t have room in it for a Healer too, or you’d have been spared most of this scarring.’

Gair shrugged. ‘If wishes were crowns we could all be rich,’ he said. ‘Thank you for the powder, and for treating this.’ He gestured to his face.

‘You’re welcome. Next time, I suggest you duck.’