Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy) (16 page)

“Wizards are a thing of the past. This man is no threat to the Protectorate. He is a symbol of hope, and if there’s one thing the Protectorate like to give more than pain it is false hope,” he explained.

Tirielle couldn’t argue.

She pushed the door to the Great Tree open and held it for j’ark to enter. Typraille was still on guard duty. Although no swords were allowed within the city confines, he was armed. He wore a long dagger at his belt.

“This is Reyland, Typraille. He has come to see the girl.”

They never called her the Seer in company. Rumours would spread like wildfire and a thousand people would congregate outside there door. A Seer was someone that came along once in an age, and people didn’t realise that they had more important work to do than find lost amulets, or lost loves, or tell what sex a baby would be.

They would never leave the city if that were the case, even should the wrong kind of attention be drawn, that of the Protectorate, but so far they had been lucky. Tirielle could only hope that her luck held.

“Well, take me to your friend, then. I can’t very well do anything standing around here.”

“Of course,” said Tirielle, and took the old man’s arm as she led him up the stairs. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she caught him trying to look down her dress. She pulled the neck tighter and gripped his arm.

“A little less tight, if you please, lady,”

She wasn’t sure if he referred to her dress or her grip. She relaxed her grip.

“I wouldn’t want you to take a tumble, doctor,” she said politely.

He was nimble enough, though. In the gloom of the hallway Tirielle tried once again to look at his eyes, but they were so murky she could not tell if he was magically gifted or not. Perhaps he had cataracts. That would explain the almost filmy appearance of his eyes.

Perhaps, she thought, he was something she had never seen. She would never know, she was sure, for even if he had some magical aptitude, the chances of him using it openly in front of them was minimal.

“Wait here,” she told him when they reached the top of the stairs, and j’ark, who had been huffing on his way up the stairs with his burden, laid it down with a sigh of relief.

She pushed open the door to the Seer’s room, round a corner and out of sight of the old doctor.

“Roth?” she called lightly into the gloomy room.

“Yes, Tirielle, I am here.”

It stepped from the shadow and Tirielle could see that it had been there all along. It was a creature of stealth indeed.

“Can you go along to Quintal’s quarters and send him here? The physician has come and I’m not sure it would be a good idea for him to see you.”

“I suppose not. What is he like?”

“He is an old lecher, but harmless enough. Whether he is a skilled physician or not I could not say. We shall have to see.”

“We can but hope.”

She had to back out of the doorway for it to pass. She watched her friend walk down the hallway and knock on Quintal’s door. Only when the giant
rahken
was out of sight did she return to where the doctor was waiting.

“She is ready for you,” she told him.

“Let’s just hope I am ready for her,” he said with a warm smile, and Tirielle found herself wanting to trust the old man.

j’ark grumbled only slightly as he shouldered the pack once more.

*

Chapter Thirty-One

The old man sat on the bed opposite the Seer, peering in the gloom at her unblemished face. He sighed and pushed himself off the bed, walking to where she lay still and unresponsive.

Quintal, j’ark and Tirielle watched in silence.

Gently, he pulled aside the blindfold which kept the red light at bay. He made no sound as the light from her eyes lit the room. Nor did he jump back, fearful of being infected. He looked deeper into her eyes and stood.

“Open the curtains, lady. I cannot work in this light.”

“I dare not. She does not like the light,” said Tirielle in reply. It was true, whenever they had opened the curtains the girl’s breathing became more laboured, her body often contorting in some unimaginable agony that bound her deeply inside her body, insensible to the world. Sometimes, with the light on her, she had opened her eyes and spoken. Often her words were confused and little point could be discerned, but sometimes she spoke again of the Myridium, as she had done when she was under the ministrations of the
rahken
s. Only once had she spoken of the crossroads. Tirielle did not know what either meant, and the Sard were none wiser on the subject.

“It is not her that does not like the light, it is her infection. Open the curtains and trust that I know what I am doing.”

Reluctantly, Tirielle pulled back the curtains and daylight flooded into the room. The light
from the girl’s
eyes darkened for a moment, then returned blazing against the sunlight. Still the old man did not pull back, but he held the Seer’s hand kindly as she began tossing and turning. He whispered to her in his gnarly voice, and for some reason it seemed to sooth her. Her thrashing subsided, and the light from her eyes retreated, returning to what for her was a natural kaleidoscope of colours.

“She is a Seer.”

Quintal held Tirielle back from saying anything. “She may be, at that. What do you plan to do about it?”

“Fear not, I will tell no one. I am a physician, not a snout. I hold no love of the Protectorate, and I know them for what they are. I have seen their work, healed their work, too many times to tell on an innocent. This too, is their work.”

“Can you do anything for her?” asked Quintal. If he was suspicious of the old man, he didn’t betray it with his voice. His tones were calm and reasonable, as they always were.

“I might, at that. This is a Protectorate disease, one that infests them and brings them power. The red light is a symptom, and in them it is accompanied by a ten-fold increase in power. It is unnatural in this girl. It does not belong here, and perhaps, because of that, I can banish it from her. But I make no promises.” He smiled sadly, showing his yellowed teeth. “But I work in private. Physicians have their secrets, too.”

“I’ll not leave her alone,” said Tirielle firmly.

“You can, and you will. I will not work with you looking over my shoulder, pretty lady. I fear the distraction would be too much for my ancient heart.”

“Come, Tirielle, leave the man to work. She is in safe hands.”

Reluctantly, Tirielle allowed herself to be led from the room. The Physician ignored them, as if he had already dismissed them from his mind, and peered once again into the Seer’s blighted eyes.

*

Chapter Thirty-Two

The Sard congregated in the common room of the Great Tree Inn. Disper had politely dismissed the owner, and bolted the door. There would be no distractions. How the Sard had afforded to rent the whole of the inn was a mystery that Tirielle would never solve. They had no wealth, she was sure, for she had never seen them spend any money. But somehow, they always got what they wanted.

Tiri
elle sat with a tired sigh and
took a drink prof
fer
ed by Carth with a grateful nod. It was watered wine, but she did not mind. She did not feel safe enough that she wanted to be insensible.

“You think she can be cured, Quintal?”

“The physician has magic at his beck and call. I could feel it in him, even if he did not hid
e
it so well. He is old, so his eyes can be passed off as cataracts, but he is of the white or I am a washer maid.”

“The white? I have never heard of such.”

“It is the colour of healing. I suspect that none in this city know his art. He could be a court physician but for fear of the Protectorate. Unless I miss my mark, he has spent his life in anonymity, healing the poor and living in squalor for fear of his secret being discovered. His potions he carries are merely props in his theatre.”

“Then we have hope.”

“Faint, I would caution, my lady,” said Disper, wiping ale foam from his great moustaches. I would not want you to be disappointed.”

“But a healer with the arts – there is none such even among the
rahken
s.”

“No, but the man cannot cure everything. The white are gifted, true, but they are no miracle. Some ailments are too fey for any hand to heal.”

“I’ll not give up hope so easily,” said Tirielle, “and nor should you.” She took a sip of wine and sat back, discussion ended.

Quintal smiled sadly and turned to the other paladins assembled in the common room. Tirielle did not have the heart to listen in. Worry for the Seer gnawed at her as she gnawed at a fingernail.

*

Chapter Thirty-Three

In the brightened room red light flowed from the Seer’s eyes, like blood in water as the unnatural light met shards of sunligh
t drifting through the shadows.
Reyland held the girl’s hand gentle and spoke to her softly, even though he was unsure as to whether she could hear him from whatever plane her mind was on.

It was a malady unlike anything he had seen in all his long years of experience. Underlying the bleeding light were myriad colours. The red suffused
all, almost like oil l
ying on pure water. He could sense the clean underneath, but the weight of the red held her down.

Peering into her eyes he could see the other colours there, like a rainbow crumbling under blood red rain. He rubbed his eyes with his rough hands and sat back, away from the light. It hurt his eyes even to look.

It was worse than he had first imagined.

He remembered once, one of his many failures, a pickpocket he had tried to heal. The pickpocket had tried the wrong mark. His friend, both undernourished denizen of the Beggar’s Mile, had dragged him to the doorstep.

One look at the boy’s head had told him magic was needed. The boy was unconscious, and that was a blessing. His skull had been misshapen, and white shards had broken through the scalp where his skull had been crushed.

He had tried to use his magic to persuade those fragments to return to their natural place, but it had availed him nothing. The boys mind was so swollen from the blow that his brain failed as it pushed against the newly healed bone.

That had been a hard day, as every day he lost a patient was. Sometimes he could keep a man alive, sometimes he saved a breeched baby, or staunched a deep wound to an organ…never could he save them all. But, as always, no matter the odds of survival, he would try.

He lit an oil lamp and pushed the curtains further apart, for as much light as he could get. The girl writhed on the bed, straining against the covers, closing her eyes, but he sat atop her and pulled her eyelids open with his thick fingers.
H
er breath came in ragged gasps, but he knew the girl’s body was hale. It was just the infection fighting him.

He took a deep breath and prayed to Yemilarion, the god of healers, and let his own light seep forth to meet the red. White light met red on a thousand different planes, and at first the power of the white pushed the darkness back. Reyland’s breath came evenly, his grip on the girl’s head strong. Then, a powerful pulse of light from the red and Reyland knew he was in trouble. Sweat began to bead his brow and he began tiring. His vision swam, and motes of red light floated away from him, dancing out of the grip of the white. The room filled with red light and Reyland could feel it seeping into his skin, his lungs, making it harder for his heart to beat, hard for him to breath. He could almost taste the taint on the air, even thought the infection should only be visible, not palpable.

All the while the girl screamed, the sound pounding on the physician’s ears, driving nails into his brain. Still he did not blink.