Whitesong Series

Second Movement: The Master Healer

Second Movement: The Master Healer
All Copyrights Erin Pfeiffer, 2005.

With Oliende safely in the women’s dormitories, Alex found himself walking alone down the corridor towards the Pearl Wing. His footsteps echoed on the empty marble, a hollow reflection of his heartbeat. Brushing gray strands back from his face, he folded them into a simple Healer’s braid at his nape. He didn’t regret his choice, but it made for a lonely life. Funny...there were men in the world who locked themselves away forever inside stone walls, living in solitude for a lifespan, and yet he dared to believe himself lonely. It seemed selfish, and he scoffed quietly, shaking his head. Surrounded by people, working to help those who truly did need him and his brothers. And now, with so many apprentices....he’d never had more than two.

The corridor was chilly, and Alex pulled his robes closer to his thin frame, pushing his glasses further up his nose. The emptiness got to him, late at night like this. A fine sweat iced his skin, and he smoothed it away with a sleeve. Not far now. The corridor broke off into a few branches, many dark. Alex took the branch to the right, lit by wall torches and breathing out warm air. He could feel it there, the breath. Everyone sleeping, exhaling heat that blew out from under the doors like smoke, tendrils curling up his legs as he walked. Down to the end of the corridor....through the arch.....down the steps. Into the darkness. They didn’t light torches this far at night. Most of the high-ranks didn’t like them.

Pushing aside the heavy curtain that hung in his doorway – Alex didn’t believe in doors with locks, since a Healer must always leave his door open to those who needed him – he stopped at the doorway for a moment, long fingers gripping the doorframe until his hand trembled.

It was a beautiful room, no doubt about it. Marble, the whole thing, with a large canopied bed and sheer bed-curtains, beautiful cherry wood tables and bureau, all with huge pitchers of white lilies set atop them. Two long couches, both white. Wide, French doors, always open to the balcony that overlooked the sea, with floor-length curtains of gossamer white. Tonight the wind blew off the ocean, throwing moonlight onto the bed and setting the curtains to dancing. It looked ghostly, un-lived in, as though the white of the bed were glowing and the rest of the shadowed furniture a misty gray. Dark, foreboding, lonely. There was no life here, aside from the lilies and the false movements of the curtains.

He stood in the doorway feeling betrayed. Behind him was the long whisper of breathing, the warmth of humanity. Running his free hand down his chest longingly, he paused just below his navel and closed his eyes, exhaling gently into the empty room. Ironic, wasn’t it, how he turned his back to the warm corridor just as he had turned his back so long ago from human comforts. Strange and sad that this side of his body should be in shadow and cold ghostly emptiness, as if repeating back to him the wish to be whole.

Without a word or a thought, he crossed through the empty room and passed by the French doors, his own white Healer’s robes lifting slightly in the damp sea breeze. They comingled with the curtains, entwining like bodies. Alex caught his breath, walked to the edge of the balcony and breathed in the scent of the leafy cypress trees that shaded the marble. His worn hands, with their long, slender fingers, gripped the railing so hard the knuckles whitened. A silver droplet appeared on the back of one hand, then two.

The soft wetness made no sound and was gone as quickly as it came. Staring out to sea, into the endless emptiness, his eyes were glassy and held no trace of emotion. This was how it had to be; he had chosen a life devoid of the weaknesses, sorrows, joys, failures and triumphs of a whole man. He had chosen this strength to give to others, and it was a choice he could not revoke. He was not sorry.

It all began in the village of Vies, on the outskirts of KariKaro. Where Alexander Rueson, a child of only ten, first met Ma’am Mikura, the Healer of the capital city. After a week of observation, she chose five children from the village to travel with her to the city, to be her apprentices. She only chose children from Alex’s class, only those smart enough to be sent to Master Johei’s for schooling, and only those who had seen their tenth winter this year. Alex went with her, along with the timid twins, Shaoni and Lian, Mika, and the son of the village herbalist, little Sorat.

The time he spent with Mikura was brief, and his memory of it vague. Perhaps it was the long hours, the grueling work. The color of his hands, so unnaturally red, full of open sores that winked angry eyes at him as he washed and doused and ground plants and squeezed out juices. Hard work did that to a man, made him cold and forgetful. All the healers could focus on was the next step, and it kept them from developing a solid memory. Later, as Alex studied such topics more in depth, he discovered that patterns could also affect memory....a repeated motion, such as daily chores or walking to and from a common place became one memory, instead of many individual ones. Alex’s own memories seemed just like that.

At seventeen, the new healers were released into the world. Rootless, his parents long dead, Alex worked for herbalists in the city for many years. The unpleasant, dirty work didn’t seem much different from his chores as an apprentice, and it didn’t pay much more either. But a young man didn’t have many options in KariKaro at the time; money meant eating, and that at least Alex still enjoyed. So he continued on in that fashion, performing what tasks he could, learning as he went. Rising to prestige as a healer, Alex discovered, wasn’t much like rising in army ranks or becoming a successful merchant. A skillful combination of ability, determination, care, flattery, honor, and stubbornness had to be achieved. A base of pleased patients needed establishment. It took years.

When the first letter arrived, he was almost twenty-four. By now his practice was large enough to command a bit of respect, although he had no apprentices of his own yet. Recognizable, surely, but not enough to draw the attention of anyone outside the city; or so Alex believed. Confused by the government seal, he sought a return address, prepared to take the missive back to it’s rightful owner....but all that was written on the envelope were the words, ‘Alexander Rueson’, spelled correctly and in a clear, bold hand. It seemed no mistake.

There was no way around it; the damned thing would have to be opened. His hands trembling, he gripped the rough white paper for what seemed hours, running calloused fingertips over the sharp creases of paper. He’d not done anything wrong. What would the government want with a lowly healer? Shakily, he jammed a thumb under the seal and broke it, drawing out the parchment and leaving fingerprints of clammy sweat on the edges.

Master Rueson, the letter read.

Please report to the Ivory Fortress Healer’s Wing, Eastern Corridor, Room 114 B, by precisely noon on the third day of Adridres. An officer will be waiting for you.

Ivory Fortress Mage-in-Chief,
Oliende tul’Rosria

For a long moment he stared wide-eyed at the letter. How could....why would....what did .... His jaw hung slack, knees weak. The Ivory Fortress? But they housed soldiers there. Why would such a place have need of him? A mere herbalist....barely a practice to call his own....they didn’t choose people like that to serve, did they?

The thought hit him heavily, and he sat down with a whispered grunt, clutching the paper. He was being called into service. To the army. To serve. To stand among the dying and tend un-tendable wounds, to reassure those far beyond his ability to heal. A Deathwatcher, that’s what they called them, didn’t they?

The hand on his shoulder brought forth a groan of terror and something akin to agony, and the young woman who was standing over him backed away, looking nervous. Alex only waved a hand at her wearily, as if to say ‘You’ll need to find someone else.’ The girl blinked, furrowed her brow, and hurried out wordlessly.

Alex found the last of his strength....just enough to close and lock the doors, draw the draperies, and collapse onto the nearest cot to cry.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The journey itself was long and unpleasant, spent mostly in hot merchant wagons travelling with miles-long caravans. Already his healer’s robes were torn and dirtied; by the time they reached the city, the once-white cloth would be black with grime. Every morning he rose to vomit for nervousness before taking a drought for motion-sickness and sleeping the bulk of the day. Four months seemed impossibly long, and the time was passed only through blessed sleep and constant preoccupation with the caravan’s invalids, whom Alex tended in return for his travel fees.

Just when he’d begun to believe the rest of his life would be spent in a wagon-bed....

“Hai! The city of Sinai! All entering have their papers ready!”

The gates themselves were vast and terrifying, a huge white glow with deep purple shadows that ran out over the ground like bruises. At the entry, a gruff, unshaven guard tore papers from visitors’ hands, stamped them, and stuffed them back into outstretched palms. The whole thing was terribly impersonal and left Alex feeling ruffled.

But he’d no time for anger, because almost immediately the caravan owners dumped him unceremoniously out of the wagon with his belongings and wished him a good journey before vanishing into the crowds.

Standing knock-kneed at the entrance to the city, Alex bowed his head and prayed to live through the day before walking whatever direction his instincts agreed upon. He spoke to no one, looked at no one, touched nothing. The better half of the day he wandered, stubborn and too proud to ask, before he finally found it.

How he had missed the place was a bit comical. The topmost tower rose like a pinnacle over the city, white as bone, and indeed the whole structure seemed supported by the bones of a very large beast. Massive white marble steps led up into a cool courtyard framed by cypress trees, and it was here that the young healer, filthy, hungry, and completely overwhelmed, finally paused. He stood in the wide chamber, watching the bustle of people and completely at a loss for what to do next. He was here, at the address he’d been given. What now?

Perhaps it was his bookish looks, or the way he kept shifting from foot to foot nervously. Maybe it was the dark hair or the bright blue eyes. It might even have been the torn and dirty robes that first brought her eyes to him. But whatever it was, Jatienne found the newcomer and touched him kindly on the shoulder.

She was slight, with wide hips, small shoulders, and a round face. From a distance, she had the jug-like look of a well-fed woman, with bright purple eyes that glittered pleasantly from her face. Her allure lay not so much with her figure, but somewhere inside....the shimmer of happiness she seemed to exude, her power. There was no doubting it; Jatienne Doiht glowed with passion.

“Are you new here?” The Mage-Priestess asked, leaning her blonde head in towards him with a smile. The room seemed to suddenly grow much warmer and smaller. Alex blushed.

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured, inclining his head deeply. “Can you tell me where to go? I....got this letter.” He held it out, pushing his glasses up his nose.

Her laugh was bell-clear and sounded like shattering crystal. “Of course I can. They want you in the Healers’ Wing. Come along, we’ll talk.” Grasping his hand, she drew him down the maze of corridors with easy confidence. “My name’s Jatienne, but you can call me Enny. Everyone else does. I’m a Priestess here. Welcome to the Ivory Fortress.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Those words were a death sentence,” Alex whispered into the unhearing night. Lifting his glasses off his sharp nose, he rubbed his face with chilly hands. He was getting older, and like all things that aged, his mortality bothered him. How many years had he been trapped by Jatienne’s words? If he had never seen her, would he have taken that final step?

A rustle at the door brought him out of his reverie, and the half-elf healer turned to glance over his shoulder wearily. A young woman he recognized as Hannah, one of his oldest apprentices, was standing stoically in the doorway. When he looked at her, she swept into a deep bow.

“Forgive me, Master,” she whispered in her pleasant, breezy voice. “I was sent from the Sisters of the Order to fetch you. They said something about the Rainstorm Project.”

Alex’s eyes widened and he turned quickly from the balcony. Gripping Hannah’s arm as he rushed by, he hurried her along the corridor with him towards the lighted torches.

“Who told you this? Sister Alya? Hildrel? Speak, child, it is imperative you tell me from whom these orders came!” The Rainstorm Project. On one hand, it could be the key to saving so many. A work of true care and concern for mortal-kind. But on the other, if it failed.....it would surely destroy the girl and many others along with her.

“It....it was Hildrel, Master,” Hannah choked, frightened by the sudden insistence of her usually calm teacher. It was rare to see Alex in any state of agitation. But between his earlier tears and his current worry, he was tight-lipped and shaking; no wonder the girl looked nervous. Still, he had no words of kindness for her. Not now.

“Hannah, I want you to leave me and go find Shannon and Durig.” The girl could only nod unhappily. Waking Master Rueson’s two Senior Apprentices in the middle of the night was not a task any apprentice wanted to be assigned. Both were kind, but almost as stern and cold as Alex himself. Besides, Durig was a well-known night-owl and grouchy if he was woken early; and Shannon liked the early morning hours and preferred not to be woken for any reason until five.

Alex knew just what was going through Hannah’s mind as she tiptoed down the darkened corridor, and could only shake his head uneasily as he turned and hurried towards the Hospital Wing. It got to him, that project. Something was terribly wrong with it. No one, no matter what their strengths or weaknesses, should have to live a life of imprisonment as a medical or scientific experiment, especially not someone so bright and lively..... He pushed his way through the gaggle of women standing in the archway, rounding a corner to bump embarrassingly into a young woman in white. At once her blonde head turned and she looked up at him with frightened eyes, mouth half open.

The Master-Healer only smiled, and inclined his head to her. “My dear, can you direct me to Mistress Myra’s chambers? She called for me.”

         “You are....you are Master Rueson, then?” the child piped in a fluting soprano.

“Yes, child. The Rainstorm. Where is she?” He ran a hand over his hairless chin impatiently, in a hurry and trying to keep from snapping at the girl.

“I’m sorry sir....” her face reddened and she gestured. “Down that way, sir. Follow me, sir.”

At once Alex felt a surge of guilt, and he fell silent, removing his glasses to rub them against his robes in self-conscious anxiety. It always felt cruel, impersonal, when someone called him by a title. For obvious reasons, such names and appellations were necessary; order needed to be imposed to keep young people from growing too arrogant. But he was a healer....and it just seemed unnecessary. Healers should be treated as friends, not superiors. His post was one of service to others, and having others serve him in any way seemed unnatural.

The thought didn’t stay long in his mind, however. There were too many other things to worry about. Trailing the young woman in white, Alex made his way down deep into the honeycomb of sickness. It reeked of death in this place, of sterile pain, fear, and hopelessness. The deeper he dove, the sicker Alex himself began to feel. It wasn’t the illness that made him feel that way....but the despair, the desolation and pain.....he stumbled, and the girl looked back at him. Rubbing a hand over his hot forehead, he smiled back at her. What was wrong with him? Get it together, he thought harshly, ducking into the room.

Glancing over the girl’s shoulder, he froze and choked. Myra and Adelene stood backs to him, holding the struggling Okoth child against the wall by her arms. Red-faced and sweating, the girl wept with helpless shudders, trembling. A hot wave of anger rose in Alex’s breast and before he could think about what he was doing he swept into the room, his cold tenor like an axe-fall.

“Myra, step away from that child.” Shoving Adelene out of the way, he scooped the trembling girl into his arms, laying a hand upon her forehead. “Sleep,” he commanded, and at once the raven-haired child closed her eyes, her body limp. Lifting his head from her face, he glared at Myra. “How dare you frighten her so? You and your Sisters toy with her life! You owe her a debt for that. How dare you, you foul woman!”

The woman Myra, a chubby Sister of perhaps fifty, closed her eyes and rubbed her temples wearily. “Rueson, I don’t need your bloody lecturing. She would have injured herself.”

“From your ministrations!” he was smoothing the black hair away from the perfect face, clutching the child to his chest. “Teach her the Art, don’t kill her with it!”

“Zoheret Okoth is a strong child. Stronger than you ever were, Rueson. Don’t discount that.” The Sister reached for the girl. “Give her to me.”

“No!” His face twisted in a mask of hatred, a very uncharacteristic gesture. “I am officially taking over this project, Sister Myra. Because clearly you are too foolish to handle it yourself.” He nearly snarled the last, crossing the room and calling for the apprentices. Three of them, including Adelene, followed him into the next chamber. Kneeling at the bedside, he set Zoheret down gently and touched her lips. “Rise.”

A strange golden glow settled over them, like thousands of fireflies, and the child stirred. Alex, weakened, staggered back from the bed and dropped to one knee. Magical healing was not an easy task in the least, and his age crept up on him some days. So many he’d seen just today, and Zoe had such power....

As her eyes drifted open, Alex slumped against the wall. Zoe blinked, sitting up, her arms wrapped around her chest. At once she began to cry, and crawled out of the bed and over to Alex, immediately struggling up into his lap. “Mister Alex!” she whimpered, tugging on his robes and pressing her hands to his chest. At once a flare of heat began in the center of his breast, spreading quickly to his fingers and toes, and Alex stirred. “You sick, Alex!” she chortled in her childish voice. He could only grin wearily.

“Yes, little one. I am. But I’ll be all right. Are you feeling sick?” He already knew the answer was no; her bright purple eyes twinkled with fear and sadness, but her body was stronger and healthier than it had been the last time he’d seen her.

“Nuh-uh,” she chirruped, settling her head into the hollow between his chin and collar-bone. “My fine. You takes me with you?”

Too tired to move, Alex let his head drop back against the wall. “Yes, I will take you with me. But for now, you should get some sleep.” Gingerly as he could, he lifted her close to his chest and heaved himself up, stumbling a few feet before collapsing onto her cot. Setting her down, he rolled over twice to put his back against the wall, slung an arm over the child, and promptly fell asleep. Zoheret wiggled closer, burying herself against his chest, and in moments was sleeping soundly herself.