The Healer's Legacy (18 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Milvari headed toward the well, her basket sagging with its burden of winter roots. The fresh tubers were covered in dirt and needed to be scrubbed and cleaned before they were stored. As she struggled with the weight of the basket, Tratine intercepted her. He planted his feet, crossed his arms and stood before her, barring the way.

Milvari smiled. “Welcome back, Tratine.”

“Welcome back! Is that all you can say?” Tratine’s face was flushed and reddened by the winter wind and sun. “Mother looked for you when we arrived and you weren’t there to greet her. Where were you?”

“I was out gathering roots,” Milvari said in a small voice, nodding her head in the direction of the basket. She shifted the weight of the basket and attempted to take a step forward.

“Gathering roots?” Tratine refused to move.

Milvari lowered the heavy basket to the ground.

Tratine kicked at it, spilling the contents on the ground. Milvari stooped, picked up the tubers one by one, and placed them back into the container.

“Stop that!” her brother yelled. “That’s a servant’s job!”

Milvari’s mouth flew open, but her throat tightened around her words. She finished gathering up the roots and stood.

Tratine glared at her. “What is wrong with you?” he asked. “Why can’t you behave properly as Mother asks?”

Milvari bit the inside of her mouth to keep from crying. What was wrong with her? She looked down at herself and rubbed at the dirt on her hands.

“Mother is right,” her brother derided her. “You’ll never be a proper lady, and you’ll never find a proper husband.”

His words were meant to hurt, but Milvari’s muscles suddenly turned to stone. Her head buzzed and small black dots swam before her, turning everything fuzzy and gray as confusion and anger roiled up in her. The past few weeks had been the first she’d known of freedom. Freedom to question. Freedom to learn. Freedom to be who she wanted to be, rather than who she was told she should be. Why did they insist that something had to be wrong with her just because she was different? “I can see you know all about it,” she said. “My big brother has come back from seeing the world and will now tell me how to live.” Her voice was high-pitched and coated with contempt.

Tratine jerked his head back, as if he’d been struck, and stared at his sister. A nervous giggle pushed its way up from Milvari’s middle. She pursed her lips and feigned a frown.

“It’s a good thing that hunter will be leaving soon,” Tratine said. “Being around her has made you worse than ever.”

“What do you mean, leaving?”

“Just what I said. Mother is going to see that peasant gone.”

A chill ran cold fingers along Milvari’s skin. “She can’t!” she blurted. “She’s injured.”

“Injured?” Tratine sounded surprised.

“Yes, a basilisk. She’s been ill for several days now. I—I’m caring for her.” Milvari stuck out her chin.

“You? I suppose you think that you’re some sort of healer, now.”

Milvari stared at the ground. “No, I—I’m only making her teas and—and poultices,” she murmured.

“Not that it matters. Mother is determined to be rid of her. And you know what happens when Mother sets her mind to something.” Tratine gave Milvari a cold smile.

All of the confidence fled from Milvari. She felt small and weak. The way she used to feel. She wanted to hide, to be unseen. “Mother can’t make her leave. Uncle Milos won’t allow it.” Her words were as much to reassure herself as to convince her brother, but they made her feel less afraid. She picked up her basket, stepped around her brother, and went to the well to finish her task. The voices in her head clamored at her to apologize, to tell Tratine he was right. No, don’t listen, she told herself as she set the basket beneath the pump spout and worked the handle. Icy water spurted out of the pump and splashed over the basket of roots. She knew Tratine’s eyes were fixed on her, knew his face was contorted into a fierce glower, but she refused to turn around.

She filled a bucket with water and scrubbed at the tubers, punishing the dirt from their thick hides. Tratine marched up beside her. “When I am the holder here, the servants will behave as servants. And the ladies will act like ladies,” he grumbled.

Milvari tried to picture her brother as a grown man, running the hold, but all she could see was her father’s hands reaching out to her to lift her into the air and carry her into the warm kitchen. Her mother’s harsh, thin-lipped gaze suddenly appeared before her. She frowned. Tratine might have their father’s hair and eyes, but he had their mother’s mouth. And her hard, calculating nature.

She gazed past Tratine as Harl came out of the stable and headed toward the kitchen at the back of the main hall. Milvari smiled. Harl had become a good friend. With him she could be herself, just as she could with the hunter. Her eyes flicked back to Tratine. The two boys were close to the same age, but were utterly unalike. Decidedly, she preferred Harl.

Tratine stuck his fists on his hips. “What are you smiling about?” he snarled.

“Nothing.” Milvari picked up another tuber.

Tratine glanced over his shoulder, but Harl had disappeared into the kitchen. Tratine rolled his eyes and stalked off.

Milvari stopped scrubbing and emptied the water bucket. She would need to speak to Uncle Milos about the hunter, to make certain he knew how ill she was. It was Milvari’s responsibility to make sure the hunter healed properly. She picked up the basket of tubers and hauled them into the storage room.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Kira licked her dry cracked lips. Her tongue felt thick and furry. She was stiff all over and her arms burned. When she tried to open her eyes, the light cut into them like a knife. She inched open one lid, groaning as she lifted her hand as a shield against the brightness.

The light that had at first seemed so blinding slowly receded to a pale gloom, and she saw that she was lying in a large bed in a strange room. She tried to sit up, but fell back in agony, gritting her teeth against the burning pain. Pushing aside the coverlet, she peered down at herself.

Beneath the cotton sleeping-gown she wore, her arms and neck were covered with a thick salve. Ah, the basilisk, leaping at her without warning and releasing its poison. She knew that under the balm her skin wore a mess of blotches and dark blisters. More memories returned to her and she cried out. Vaith. Dear little Vaith. He had tried to protect her from his own worst enemy, a venomous basilisk. She saw again the fluttering of gilded wings, heard the screams of the terrified horses, relived the searing pain of the poison. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Foolish little creature, she thought, foolish and loyal and brave.

She leaned back into the pillows and covered her eyes with her hand, mouthing an oath as pain shot through her arms. Her mind reached out for Kelmir, seeking the comfort and reassurance of the connection. The big hunting cat paced beneath the trees just inside the forest southwest of the hold.

She sensed now that Kelmir had been with her and that he had struggled to stay linked to her semiconscious mind as Milos brought her back to the hold. He had watched as the holder lifted her, draping her across Trad’s back, followed them back to the edge of the forest, and waited since without food or rest. Now, raw-edged hunger gnawed at him.
Go, my friend
, she told him.
Hunt. Eat. I will live
.

He hesitated.
Go
, she repeated.
I do not wish to lose you, too
. There was doubt in his mind, and something niggled at her brain.

Vaith
?

No, it was wishful thinking and delirium. She had seen him attack the basilisk. She had heard his cries. The sensation pushed at her again and her wish became a certainty.
Oh, Vaith, it is you!
I thought I had lost you
. His senses were weak and sluggish, but he was alive. New tears scalded her eyes.

Images flooded her mind in quick succession. The holder’s horse rearing back. Her body thrown to the ground. The basilisk poised to strike. Vaith screeching and diving. The basilisk rising to the attack.

She recalled the scorching pain of venom burning into her flesh. Wherever her leather jerkin didn’t cover, the venom had burned through her shirt, blistering the skin beneath. She remembered screaming as the poison blazed across arms and neck. Then darkness.

Kira thought the venom had exploded over Vaith, too. But Kelmir had finished off the basilisk, springing from behind to snap its neck. As Kelmir launched himself through the air, Vaith was knocked aside and tumbled into the brush. Hurt, not killed.

Kira closed her eyes.
Yes, my dear Kel. You did well to kill the beast swiftly. Now go. Hunt
.

The images drained away as he turned his thoughts to the hunt, instinct driving him. She stayed in his mind as he headed deep into the woods to sate his hunger. She allowed herself to sink into his senses, to feel his stride lengthen into a lope, to smell the moist odors of plants and soil as she drifted back to sleep.

* * *

It was night when she woke again. Stars glittered in the sky outside her window, and she saw the round hump of the waning moon as it rose over the eastern hills. A fire glowed in the hearth on the far side of the room and she wondered that she had slept through the tending of it. She sent out her thoughts, searching for Kelmir in the night, and sensed him in the distance, sated and sleepy. She left him and sought Vaith. He was half-asleep, but nearby. She didn’t try to rouse him.

He is alive. He is hurt, but he lives.

She moved her arms in tentative motions, expecting the searing pain. But the sting had lessened. Her burns were healing. She exhaled in relief and coughed. Her throat was a scorched desert. Her mouth held a sour metallic taste. She must have breathed in some of the basilisk’s poison. She picked up the drinking cup from the bedside table, sniffed at the contents and smelled chamomile and other soothing herbs. Ah, Milvari, you have learned well, she thought, taking small sips from the cup before placing it back onto the table. She tried to talk, rasping out a few whispery syllables. She would be hoarse for days.

She smiled. Heresta would have told her to take advantage of this opportunity to learn to think before she spoke. When she’d been a child, Heresta had cautioned her time and time again about her temper and flare for sharp words.
Words can be a knife. Capable of skinning the truth when need be, but liable to cut through the heart. And some wounds never heal
, she’d said.

Kira recalled the verbal wounds Toril had inflicted on her. They had gone deeper than the flesh he’d marred. Toril. His name caused a bitterness to rise in the back of her throat and her stomach tightened with sickness. Toril the Bold. The man she had met had been that. Bold as well as brave. The man she had fallen in love with, she reminded herself with another surge of bitterness. She had other names for him now. Toril the Brute. Toril the Beast!

Yes, he had been brave, but he had also been hungry. Hungry for power. Why did she still think of him? Why couldn’t she make herself forget? But she knew the answer. He had been the first man, the only man she had ever been with. And she still remembered the time they had together before he had grown cruel and cold. She hadn’t fallen in love with a warlord; she had fallen in love with a man. A man who could be tender and strong at the same time, a man she had believed had loved her in return.

Kira clenched her jaw, gritting her teeth as the bitterness in her throat turned to bile. Nausea washed over her. She leaned over the side of the bed, wincing at the pain, her hand seeking the chamber pot as the sickness burst from her. She wiped her face on a piece of linen, then lay back on the bed. Perhaps she should avoid thinking of Toril while the basilisk poison was still in her blood. The two things clearly didn’t mix well. She closed her eyes and willed herself to drift back into healing sleep.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Milvari balanced the tray in her hands as she hurried toward the sickroom. As she passed her uncle’s library, the sound of angry voices carried through the door. She paused just outside, setting her tray down onto a nearby table, pretending to adjust the items on it as she listened to her mother and uncle argue.

“I will not give her over to a bounty hunter simply on his word that she is an escaped indentured. She is wounded and in the care of Tem Hold. I will not hand over a wounded person to a man we know nothing of.”

“But Milos, I gave him my word. She cannot be worth more than that.”

“Have a care, Mayet. You forget your place. I am holder here, not you. Your word does not stand against mine.”

“But he represents a powerful man. What do you expect me to tell him?”

“I expect you to have no further dealings with him, whoever he represents.”

“If Kamar were alive, he would think of his people first.”

“You mean he would defer to you. My brother was a good man, but in at least one thing he did not make the wisest choice.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You know well what I mean, Mayet. You have no concern for the people of this hold. Your motives are selfish, as they have ever been.”

“How dare you? If it weren’t for you, Kamar would be alive and I would still be lady of this poor excuse for a hold!”

There was a long pause. Milvari’s hands stopped moving and she held her breath.

When her uncle spoke, his voice was a low growl, but his words pierced through the door like sharpened knives.  “I am well aware of my role in my brother’s death. Do you not think that I suffer every day with this knowledge? That he would be alive if I had not convinced him to go on the hunt with me that day.”

“Then why do you dishonor his memory by running this hold into ruin?”

“I am tired of trying to keep the peace with you Mayet. If you dislike the way this hold is run, then I suggest you seek elsewhere for a place to dwell.”

“You would drive us out? Over a disloyal peasant?”

“No. But neither will I keep you here against your will. As for the Hunter, she is under the protection of this hold, and by the laws of our land no one may remove her or send her away without my bidding. She is here at my sufferance and will so remain.”

“You use the law as you would a herd beast, Milos Tem. You would give the people a say in hold business, but only when it is to your liking. You’re no better than the holders you scorn. Worse. You say one thing and do another! Perhaps there is something more to your motives in protecting her.”

There was no response from Uncle Milos. Angry footsteps moved toward the door.

Milvari gripped the tray in her hands and rushed down the hall, turning the corner at the same moment that the library door flew open. She hurried to the room at the end of the adjacent hallway and slipped inside. She shut the door quietly behind her and waited to catch her breath.

A wedge of late morning sunlight cut through the dark room and fell across the floor. Setting the tray on a table near the fireplace, Milvari went to the window and pulled at the heavy curtains to close the gap.

“Leave them,” a voice croaked from the bed. “This is not a death room. A little light is welcome.”

Milvari let go of the drapes and hurried across the room. “You’re awake. How do you feel?” She stared expectantly at the young woman lying on the bed.

“Like a log that’s been thrown onto the fire and dragged halfway out again.” The hunter laughed with a whispery rasp. “Although, I am already healing, thanks to you.”

Milvari’s mind clouded with doubt. The voices inside chided her, listing her shortcomings. She frowned. “The herbs weren’t ground fine enough and the salve was too thick. I’m afraid I might have torn the skin when I applied it—“

“Milvari, stop. The salve is fine. It’s doing the work it was meant to do.”

“I was so worried that I did everything all wrong.”

“You’ve done well.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

A flush of pride warmed Milvari. “Brilissa helped with the tea,” she said, wrinkling up her face as she recalled her first effort at concocting the healing draught. “It tasted horrible at first. She made it much better.”

“There, you see? You took care to consider the taste of the medicine, and asked for help where you saw the need.”

The last of the hunter’s words were breathy and almost beyond hearing. “You should eat and rest,” Milvari told her. “Brilissa made hot broth and fresh tea. Let me help you sit up.” She arranged the cushions to allow the hunter to sit up, then retrieved the tray from the table. She waited as the hunter spooned some of the broth into her mouth and swallowed.

“You’ve added willow bark and valerian root to the broth?”

Milvari grimaced. “A small amount. I didn’t think it was enough to be noticed.”

“It probably wouldn’t be to an untrained palate. But it will often help a patient rest.” The hunter smiled, ate several mouthfuls of broth, then set the spoon down. She took a few sips of the fresh tea and leaned back into the cushions with a sigh. “How is your uncle?” she asked, her voice less raspy.

Milvari remembered the argument she’d overheard between her mother and uncle. Torn between loyalty to her mother and her desire to protect this woman she had grown to love, she decided to remain silent. The last thing she wanted was to upset the hunter while she was ill and needed to rest. “He wasn’t hurt by the basilisk. He said you stepped between him and the creature when it attacked.”

“That wasn’t quite my intention. I was trying to get us both out of the way.”

“Vaith is in the stable. Uncle Milos brought him back to the hold, as well,” Milvari said. “I wasn’t certain how to care for him, so Master Jarret and Harl have been tending him. He is hurt, but he is alive and his wounds are mending.”

“Yes, I know,” the hunter said sleepily.

How could she know? Milvari shook her head. The sleeping herbs must be making the hunter groggy and confused. She cleared away the tray and dishes, then set the mug of tea on the table near the bed and waited until the hunter fell asleep.

When she opened the door to leave, she found her uncle standing in the hallway outside. Milvari pulled the door shut behind her.

“How does she fare?” he asked.

“She has eaten a small amount of broth and she appears to be healing.”

His face was grim. “Can she speak?”

Milvari did not move away from the door. She glanced at the floor, and then raised her eyes to his. “She’s sleeping. And she should rest. I think the herbs have made her delirious,” she mumbled. Being responsible was no easy charge.

He squinted at her, peering into her face, his forehead wrinkling. “It will keep, then. But not for too long.” He stepped back to give her room to pass, and stood staring at the closed door behind her.

Milvari started to move toward the kitchen, then turned back. She drew in her breath. “Uncle. I heard what mother told you.” He wrenched his gaze from the door, turning irate eyes on her, and she stopped. Gripping the tray to steady her shaking hands, she continued. “I know I should not have listened, but . . .” She forced herself to stand tall before him. “Mother said the hunter is a runaway bondservant. Is it true?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I intend to find out.”

“If it is,” Milvari said. “I know there must be a reason. She—the hunter—she has a good heart.”

His fists clenched. “You have the innocence of youth, Milvari. You’re too young to read the hearts of others.”

She gave him a sad smile. “You may be right, Uncle. But I am learning.”