Valdemar 11 - [Owl Mage 03] - Owlknight (37 page)

“Bendan told me,” she replied, clasping the old man's hand. “Is it the Wasting Sickness? Summer Fever?” Those were both names for the same illness, the disease that struck the channels that carried the commands of the mind to the body, causing weakness and paralysis.

“Nay, it is something else, another new sickness out of the times of evil magic and heartsick skies; something that chokes the breath but does not weaken the muscles. So short of breath are they that we dared not send them over-mountain, for the mountain sickness would have killed them. When they move with any forcefulness at all, they become unable to breathe, but they cannot stay completely still,” he told her, and she felt a little thrill of excitement, though she immediately was ashamed of being excited at someone else's misfortune. Still—the prospect of seeing something new—

“Let us go to them, and I will see what may be done,” she said instantly. “All else can wait.”

The old man's eyes lit up. “Hah! You are a true Wisewoman!” he exclaimed, leading her to think that perhaps he had encountered those who had not been as dedicated to their duty. “Come, and I will show you.”

The sick folk had been isolated from the others in a separate log house. Although there were no windows, the roof had actually been propped up here and there to provide fresh air and ventilation. But the patients were bundled up near the fire, all of them weak, feverish, and thin. An effort had been made, using thick slabs of bark set upright in an overlapping-edged ring, to make sure that the smoke from the central fire was at a minimum; nevertheless, there was constant deep coughing coming from nearly everyone around the fire.

The Shaman told the stricken ones who this strange woman was, and in response there were murmurs of relief between rasps and coughing fits. Keisha examined the child nearest to her at the Shaman's urging, opening her shields and sinking her awareness deep into the body before her.

It didn't take her long to identify what was wrong—and it
was
a disease new to her, something that lived in the lungs, scarring them and turning them from a healthy honeycomb to a useless solid mass. But for all its toughness, for all that it was, if unchecked, absolutely deadly, it was no match for the forces she could wake in the body of its host with her power. It thrived because it walled itself off from those forces with scar tissue; she could break that wall down.

She gave the child a good first treatment before she emerged from her Healing trance, to see the Shaman staring at her with intense interest. “Have you the mastery of this magic?” she asked him. “The way of seeing inside the body, and going to war with sickness?”

“Nay, but my student has,” he said instantly. “I could not teach him, and he has been doing the best that he could without any learning, trusting to instinct. I shall go to fetch him, if you would deign to teach him.”

That's a relief!
“Please! That is why I am here. And if you would call upon the spirits as well, while we help the sick ones, it would be well,” she told him. “It is not good to treat only the body and leave the spirit untouched.”

He grinned broadly and got to his feet, leaving the log house only to return in a few moments with a very young man—perhaps fourteen or fifteen—and a bundle, which proved to be a set of drums, wrapped in a charm-bedecked cape. The boy bobbed his head awkwardly at her, and she smiled in a way she hoped would encourage him.

She could tell already that he had used his Healing powers in much the same way that she had at that age—crudely, because he never had a real teacher. The Shaman at least recognized his power, but he was unable to teach him. Instinct and necessity had given him some direction, but to go any further, he needed proper instruction.

“You've done well by yourself,” she told him, as the Shaman donned his cape, and cast cedar on the fire. “You are like a carver who has been making good images with only an ax—I will give you fine knives as well, with which to do your work.”

He brightened at the praise, and nodded enthusiastically at her explanation. “Yes!” the boy all but shouted. “That is exactly how I have been feeling! I know that there is a way to do things, but I cannot make them happen! Oh, Wisewoman, but show me the way, and I will speak your name to the spirits forever!”

“Exactly.” She patted his hand, and placed it on top of hers, for the physical contact would help her make mind-to-mind contact. “Now, prepare yourself, and let me show you what I know....”

Keisha worked with the young student until they were both exhausted; by that time, all of the people suffering from the illness that the Shaman had termed “Hammer Lung” had been given their first treatment. The disease was treacherous and tenacious, and would need many more treatments to be eradicated. The young student had gotten his bearings, and Keisha was certain he would make a fine Healer, in time.

Tomorrow I'll ask Shandi to give me a hand; maybe Darian, too. We'll get these people over the worst of their illness before we leave.
Something in the back of her mind teased at her. There had to be a way to give this young man more of her own knowledge, but she couldn't make the thought come clear. Finally she let it go; if she didn't work so hard at it, it would probably surface by itself. That was how things seemed to work for her. When there was a problem that could be solved with quick thought, it would be at the forefront of her awareness, but if it would take a long time to solve a problem, then it would be mulled over behind her consciousness until finally popping up as a clear solution.

The patients were already feeling and looking better. She'd been able to advise some other things that let them breathe more easily, things that the Shaman could do in addition to his spiritual ministrations.

The student stumbled off to his bed, glowing with the satisfaction that only comes with accomplishment. The Shaman packed up his gear and offered to conduct her to the Men's Fire.

“Please,” she said gratefully. It was very dark outside the log house, and she really wasn't up to stumbling around looking for the men. “I would appreciate that.”

Henkeir beamed his pleasure, his beard practically bristling with cheer. This had been a good day for him, statuswise; the foreign Wisewoman sent by the tribal totem had deferred to him, requested that he specifically tend to the souls and spiritual needs of the sick ones, and now had asked him to escort her to the Men's Fire. If he had feared the possibility of losing status because of her appearance, those fears had been totally put to rest. Completely aside from her personality, for those reasons alone he would have liked her.

He led her out of the log house, as the patients settled into what must have been their first restful sleep for many weeks. Soft calls of thanks and well-wishes faded away behind as the pair walked. Even though there hadn't been a lot of light inside the house, thanks in part to the smoke shielding around the fire pit, it was incredibly dark outside it. The cliffs on either side cut off most of the sky, and the moon was not yet up. Mist wreathed among the trees; the smoky air, cedar-scented and damp, penetrated Keisha's clothing and made her shiver. She was quite glad that she had accepted his guidance before they had gone more than a few paces, for the Men's Fire, as was the custom at Ghost Cat, had been sequestered in a remote pocket from the rest of the village. By contrast, the Women's Fire, which they passed as they walked between two more log houses, was right in the center of the village, with the women and young children clustered about it, laughing, talking, and eating. There was a wonderful smell of roast meat and some sort of bread, of wild herbs and onions. Her stomach growled.

The fire they sought was in a little pocket carved into the cliff when an enormous boulder came crashing down from above some time in the far past. The boulder itself, the size of one of the log houses, shielded the sight of the entrance to the pocket from the rest of the village, and even hid the reflected firelight.

The pocket canyon was as welcoming as a conventional hearth in a Valdemaran home. Firelight warmed the air and the stone walls, and if there was no roof, tonight at least there was no need of one either. The men “welcomed” her to the circle simply by making space for her beside Darian and passing a wooden platter loaded with roasted tubers, onions, and venison to her. She was famished, and with a nod and a word of thanks, set to her meal.

She ate as they did, with her fingers and a small, stubby eating-knife, keeping her head over her platter so that the juices from the meat dripped back down onto her food. The Shaman immediately took command of the conversation, telling the Chief the good news—both that his wife and children were on the way to being cured, and that the Shaman's young student would soon have the special healing magics of the southerners himself.

The Chief would not rush to thank Keisha here, in front of the rest of the men, but the look of gratitude he threw at her told her he would definitely be approaching her in private. She sensed that before their arrival, the conversation had taken a dark and foreboding tone, and that the Chief had welcomed the change their good news brought.

Meanwhile, the food warmed and filled her—and tasted wonderful, especially after the somewhat meager meals of the past few days. As her hunger eased, she started feeling how tired she really was; tired, not sleepy. She was content to sit beside the fire and listen to the men—and Shandi—talking. She had closed her shields in tight around her, knowing that she would be oversensitive after all her work, and as a consequence felt as if she were wrapped in a cocoon that kept the rest of the world at a comfortable distance. She had her footwear off, and her soles baked deliciously from their proximity to the slow fire, as she lay back and closed her eyes for a while.

The earnest conversation that her entrance had interrupted resumed after the Shaman described with great pride the work of his apprentice. He's right to
be proud; the boy outdid himself, and he's a fast learner. He's one I certainly won't forget.

But already the conversation had gone back to bleaker subjects. “There is no doubt that Wolverine has taken up what Blood Bear left off,” the Chief said, with a glance over his shoulder into the darkness, as if he feared that a spy from Wolverine tribe might be lurking there. “The difference, though, is that they raid, not destroy. Their raiding parties come farther south every moon; they take everything of value, male children less than five, widows and unmated females of breeding age. If a tribe dares to resist, they cripple the warriors after they have won.”

“Ah, but first they come all smiles, and offer alliance—or rather, encourage their servitude to Wolverine—” the Shaman interjected. “It is only if the tribe fights that they raid.”

Keisha was too tired to feel anything for herself, and too protected behind her walls to feel what the others felt, but the tension and concern beat against her protections and would flood her if she let it.

“Oh, but alliance means to surrender half of the provisions and goods, and all of the unmated females, and all boys down to the toddlers!” the Chief scoffed. “I do not call that generous!”

“They have not found us yet,” the Shaman confided to Keisha. “That is why we are unmolested. Our valley hides us well.”

She nodded; she had not seen the mouth of the valley until they were practically inside it.

“Your sentries are to be given credit, too, I would think,” Wintersky observed. Steelmind nodded, even as he frowned, and Shandi spoke up.

“It isn't just your location or your sentries, is it?” she asked, and looked directly at the Shaman. “You are—concealing.
You
are hiding the tribe, Honored One, using your powers. Aren't you?”

“Not I—the Snow Fox hides us, as he himself hides in winter,” the Shaman protested, but he looked pleased. Darian raised his eyebrow at Shandi and smiled at the Shaman in a conspiratorial fashion. The Shaman gave Darian the same smile—Mage to Mage, exchanging the compliment of recognizing each other's handiwork.

“I do what little I can,” the Shaman said modestly. “But too much done to hide our people would reveal, rather than conceal them. Wolverine has a Shaman, too, whose power is of the Eclipse, and he will see the use of power should I overstep myself.”

“That's why the hunting parties are on their own.” Darian made it a statement. He sighed. “I can't think of any way of concealing them that wouldn't betray them just as readily; you are perfectly right to be cautious.”