The Legacy of Gird (136 page)

"
He's
using magery." Seri's tone left no doubt which "he" she meant, or that she disapproved. "I didn't know he could do that. Will he be immortal, like the elves?"

"I . . . don't know." Aris had never considered that use of magery; he could not imagine its limitations or methods. "He must get the power somewhere—for something like that—"

"But you know I'm right," Seri said, her eyes snapping. "You know he's doing it—it's the only explanation."

"I suppose." Other possibilities flickered through his mind, to vanish as he realized they could not be true. Long lives bred long lives, yes: but not this long with no trace of aging. The royal magery itself? No, for the tales told of kings aging normally, concerned that their heirs were too young as they grew feeble. Could he be doing it without realizing it? Hardly. Aris knew Luap to be sensitive to subtleties in those around him; he must have noticed the changes, the graying hair and wrinkling skin, and known his own did not change. "I must talk to him," he said. "He must tell me what he's doing, and why."

"The
why
is clear enough," Seri said. "He doesn't want to die, that's all."

"I don't think so. I think it's more than that. You know he always has two plans nested in a third; for something like this he must have more than one reason."

"He won't thank you for noticing," Seri said, taking the last bite of her bread. "Not now."

Aris knew she was right, but felt less awe of Luap than he had for some years, now that he knew whence that unchanging calm had come. "I'll be back," he said, "to tell you what his reasons are."

"If he'll give them." She handed him the empty pot and cloth; Aris took them and fought the wind back to the entrance shaft.

Usually he met Luap several times in an afternoon, without looking for him, as they both moved about their tasks. Now he could not find him. Aris looked in his office—empty—and in the archives—also empty. He carried the pot back to the kitchen, where Luap sometimes stopped to chat with the cooks. They took the pot without interest; Luap was not there. They didn't know where he was . . . and why should they? they said, busily scraping redroots to boil. Aris looked in his own domain, where he found the others busily labeling pots of the salve they'd made that morning: the task he had given them. No Luap, and he had not stopped by while Aris was gone. Back down to the lower level, where the doorward at the lower entrance said yes, Luap had gone out some time before. He often took short, casual walks; he would be back soon, the doorward was sure.

Aris took the downward slope toward the main canyon without really thinking about it. Luap might have gone across to visit any of those who had hollowed out private homes in the fin of rock across from the entrance. He might have gone for a dip in the stream, though it was a cool day for that. But he walked most often out to the main canyon and across the arched bridge, so Aris took that route.

The main canyon, under the blowing clouds, looked as strange as it had from above. Aris paused on the arch of the bridge, and looked upstream and down. The wheat and oats had been harvested; the stubble in some terraces had already been dug under, while others looked like carding combs, all the teeth upright. Around the edges of the terraces, the redroots and onions made a green fringe against the yellow stubble. Down the canyon, he could see the tops of the cottonwoods turning yellow. Up canyon, a few of the berry-bushes had turned dull crimson. For a moment he thought he saw a wolf slinking among them, but it was only a cloudshadow, that slid on up the canyon wall like a vast hand.

But no Luap. Aris walked on to the pine grove on the south side of the canyon, and found a child bringing goats back . . . the child had not seen Luap. He came back across the bridge, telling himself that he was being silly, that not seeing Luap for a few hours meant nothing. But his heart hammered; he could hear his own pulse in his ears.

"Aris—you're needed!" Garin waved at him as he went past the storeroom where the herbal remedies were kept.

"What?" His voice sounded cross to him; he saw by Garin's surprise that it sounded cross to others. "I'm sorry," he said. "What is it?"

"A child of Porchai's has fallen down the rocks—you know they've made that new place, the next canyon over—"

"I know it." And he'd told them to be careful, with three young children, all active climbers.

"A badly broken leg, the word is. The runner came in just after you were here before."

"I'll go," he said. "No, you stay—I'll take one of the prentices." He chose the one who had the sense to have a bag packed ready—Kevye, that was—and strode out. He would certainly find Luap when he got back.

The shortest route to the Porchai place lay through a tunnel cut through the fin that separated the two narrow canyons. Aris disliked the tunnel; he had argued against making it, despite the distance it saved those who lived on the far side. But convenience and speed mattered more to most people than his concerns about safety. The tunnel was cleared and lighted by magery; most of those who had need to go from one side-canyon to another used it. Aris rarely did, but could not justify leaving a patient in danger just to satisfy himself. He strode through quickly, hardly noticing the stripes of red and orange in the rocks on either side.

Irieste Porchai met him as he came out, crying so he could hardly understand her. "You said be careful of the dropoff, and we were, I swear it. He was climbing up from the creek, and slipped—turned to look at something, I think."

"It's all right. He's awake? He can see?" But he could hear the child now, fretful whimpers interrupted with screams when anyone came near or tried to move him. He moved quickly to the sound, and found a small child lying twisted on the ground, the bones of his legs sticking out through bloody wounds. He knelt beside the boy, and put his hands on the dark hair. First he must be sure nothing worse had happened.

"Lie
still
," Iri Porchai said to the child. "It's the healer, Lord Aris." Even at the moment, he wished she had not used that title; he'd never liked it. But he'd never convinced the mageborn not to use it.

The child's head rested on his palms now . . . he let his fingers feel about through sweat-matted hair. A lump there, and a wince; a small bruise. He felt nothing worse, and his hands already burned with the power he would spend. He let the child's head down on a folded cloth someone had brought, and ran his hands lightly over the small body. The child looked pale, and was breathing rapidly: pain and fright, Aris thought. All the ribs intact, and no damage to the belly or flank. He looked more closely at the legs. Both were broken, and both breaks split the skin; on the left, one bone stuck out a thumbwidth; on the right, the child's flailing had drawn the bone ends back inside. With all that dirt on them, Aris thought. This would not be easy, even for magery. Aligning such badly broken bones, healing the ragged tissues . . . he would be here until after sunfall. He looked up at his prentice. "Kev—you'll have to steady his legs for me; we must be sure the bones are straight."

"Don't hurt me!" cried the boy, trying to thrash again.

"It won't hurt," Aris said, "if we get them straight in the first place." He wished he had Gurith's power of charming the pain away; this would hurt until the healing was well begun. "Come now—we'll be quick." He nodded to Kevre and to the adults who would help hold the boy still.

As Kevre moved the boy's legs to a more normal position, the broken ends of bone disappeared back into the wounds; he yelped but quieted quickly as slight tension kept the ends from wiggling. Aris laid his hands on the boy's thighs, and let the power take over.

His years of training and experience melded with that power so that now he knew what he had not known in his boyhood: he knew how the broken bones lay, how the thin strands of tendon and ligament had twisted, which of the little blood vessels had torn. He could direct his power more precisely, even into both legs at the same time, working down from the knee-joints, first aligning all the damaged bits of tissue, then forcing them to grow together, to heal as if they had not been broken. The bones were the easiest; they were easy to visualize, and being rigid were more easily controlled. Harder were the blood vessels and tendons, the torn muscles and ripped skin. Hardest of all were the innumerable bits of dirt, any speck of which could cause woundfever. Slowly, methodically, Aris directed the flow of power, concentrating on each minute adjustment. He knew by the boy's relaxation when the healing had progressed enough to ease the pain, but he was far from finished.

When the power left him, the child lay silent, watching him with bright brown eyes. Dark had come; magelight glowed around him from a dozen watching adults. Aris drew a long breath. He had not quite completed the healing before his power ran out; the bones and other tissues were aligned and firmly knit together, but he had not been able to replace all the lost blood. "Wiggle your toes," he said to the boy. A frightened look, that said
will it hurt?
as clearly as words, then both feet moved, and all ten toes wiggled. He looked at Irieste. "He'll need a lot of your good soup," he said. "As much liquid as he'll drink, and good meat to help replace his blood. I'm sorry; my power ended before I could replace that." He felt dizzy and sick, as usual, but he knew he would be all right. Kev helped him stand; his knees felt as if someone had hammered on them.

"Lord Aris, you need to eat something. . . ."

I
need to sleep,
he thought. But he could not fall asleep here; he must not worry the family. "We'll go back, Kevre." He leaned on Kev's arm more than he liked, and yet he could walk . . . how was it that he had used all his power, but had not fainted from it? his mind worried at the question, as if it had importance just out of reach. The family followed him into the tunnel, which he suddenly saw as an orifice in the body of some vast animal. Like walking into a blood vessel, or a heart . . . the prick of fear woke him enough to make walking easier. In that light, the red rock streaked with darker red and orange looked entirely too much like something's insides. He staggered, climbing down to the creek, and Kevre steadied him. In the stronghold, he wanted only a bed. Seri appeared, and started to ask a question, but her face changed.

"Ari! What happened?"

Kevre answered for him. "A healing, Marshal Seri; two broken legs. He's just tired. . . ."

"He's more than tired." Seri's arms around him renewed his strength; he could lift his head, now, and focus on the faces around him. She helped him to his own room, and pushed him onto his bed.

"I'm better," he said, smiling at her. She did not smile back; she was chewing her lip.

"You look half-dead," she said. "Kev says your power ran out before you finished the healing?"

Shame washed over him. "Yes. The boy will be all right; I finished the main part of it, but I couldn't do it all . . . it was just gone." Exhaustion clouded his vision; now that he was down, he could not imagine how he had stood and walked so far. "Sorry . . ." he murmured, and let himself slide into blackness.

When he woke, Seri sat curled in the corner of his room, wrapped in blankets. He tried to throw back his own covers, and she woke up and blinked at him. "So—you're alive after all."

"Of course I'm alive. You know I sleep after a difficult healing."

"I know that ten years ago you would not have called a child's broken legs a difficult healing."

Aris frowned, trying to remember. "I suppose . . . it's part of getting older. I don't have the strength I had."

Seri unwrapped herself and stood up. "I think it's something more. Remember what we were talking about yesterday?" He didn't; he felt that his head was full of wet cloth, heavy and impenetrable. "Luap," she said, leaning close to him. "Luap staying the same as the rest of us aged."

The conversation came back to him dimly, like something heard years before. "That can't be right," he said. He wanted to yawn; he wanted to go back to sleep.

"It is," she said "Come on—get up and eat." She pulled the blanket off him, and yanked on his arm. Aris stood, stiff and sore, and let himself be prodded down the passage, in and out of a bath, and into the kitchen.

"Breakfast's long past," said the cook on duty. "Where've you been?"

"He was healing last night," Seri said firmly. "He exhausted himself, and we let him sleep it out."

"Oh. Sorry." She spoke to Seri and not to Aris. "What does he need? Something hearty, or something bland?"

"He's hungry, not sick. Meat, if you have it."

"I've the backstrap off that stag; I was saving it for the prince." The cook looked at Seri again, and said, "But Lord Aris can have it; it'll give him strength." She pulled a slice from the deep bowl where it had been soaking in wine and spices. "There's soup, as well, in that kettle there—" She nodded at it. Seri filled two bowls, and brought them back to the table as the cook worked on the venison steak. She grabbed a half-loaf of bread from the stack on another table and tore it in two pieces.

"Here. Ari—get this into you." Aris sipped the hot soup, and felt its warmth begin to restore him. The fog before his eyes thinned; by the time the cook laid a sizzling steak in front of him, he was alert and hungry. He began to feel connected again. Seri said nothing, just watched him eat, and when he had finished the steak she handed him another hunk of bread. "Come on, now, we're going out."

"Out?"

"Yes." With a cheery thank-you to the cook, she led Aris out into the passage that led to the lower entrance.

"I should tell Garin where I am," Aris said. He had no idea how late it was, or if Seri had told his assistants and prentices where he would be.

"Not now," Seri said. Her grip on his arm might have been steel. He strode along beside her, more confused than worried. She slowed a little as they neared the entrance, and nodded casually to the guard she had insisted on posting there. She led Aris downstream toward the main canyon, but turned off the trail to a hollow between two trees. They had often sat there to talk in privacy; the stream's noisy burling in the rocks just below ensured that. Aris curled up in his usual place, with the tree-trunk behind him and a twisted root as an armrest; Seri stretched out, her head near his knees, her booted feet on a rock. "You went looking for Luap after we talked," she said. "Did you find him?"