The next morning I was at the bishop's kitchen early, though not as early as the Widow MacNeff. She'd just taken the barley porridge off the fire to cool. Now she ladled a bowl full for me, hot enough to scald Satan's gullet. I cooled it with thick cream from the ice house. A bowl of maple sugar waited on the table, and salt pork perfumed the air, sizzling on a sheet of iron over the coals. She turned the slices as I watched, and after a minute reached with tongs, getting me two of the most crisp. On a sideboard was a rye loaf, several slices already cut, and a bowl of butter, probably yesterday's churning. Given the dry weather, it was no longer spring yellow, but as tasty as if it were. I washed it all down with a mug of milk still warm from the cow.
I'd been told the day before that no morning hour was too early for the duke, whose pain invariably increased through the night as the whiskey wore off. He was usually awake by the first light of dawn. A guardsman met me at the palace's main entrance, and rang for the usher, but it was a quick-footed page boy who came. The usher, the boy told me, was at breakfast. He trotted off to tell Widow Sanders I was there to see the duke. Two minutes later he was back. The duke was still asleep; she'd send for me when he was awake and ready to see me. I suspected our healing session had something to do with his sleeping later.
I told the boy I was going to the guardhouse to see Captain Frazier, and that I'd come back later. I found Frazier having breakfast with the day's guard detail. He introduced me as "Master Luis of the Order of Saint Higuchi," which earned me looks ranging from respectful interest to wary awe.
All in all, the morning had begun nicely. I tried to refuse a second breakfast, but ended up with a large slab of warm fresh wheat bread spread with butter and honey, and a mug of sassafras, then sat listening to the small talk of armsmen, constrained in the presence of their captain and a churchman, while Frazier finished a modest breakfast and had a second cup of sassafras.
When he was done, he left the guard detail to the duty sergeant, and the two of us started for Edward's sickroom. Frazier had been surprised to hear that Edward had slept late. Judging by his aura, it worried Frazier; was the change for the worse? Widow Sanders met us at the duke's door. He was hunched over his table with a cup of duck soup, a soft-boiled duck egg, small slice of buttered bread, tiny cup of raisins, and new baby carrots barely cooked. And sassafras. Frazier and I had another cup "to keep him company."
The duke looked more alive than on the day before. His voice even sounded a little stronger. "If you didn't, have such urgent matters, to take you away," he told me, "I'd suggest you stay, a week or two."
"I'll be here at least till tomorrow," I said. "Why don't I give you a session later today, and another in the evening?"
"It will be, appreciated, Master Luis."
When he'd finished eating, he hobbled slowly and carefully onto the balcony, leaning on a cane. The morning was cool, and Frazier bundled him in blankets before helping him lie down. Then I gave him a ten-minute session. By the time I'd finished, he was actually smiling. "God bless you, Luis," he said.
"And God bless you, Edward Maltby," I answered.
I turned to Frazier then. "Captain," I began . . .
"Please, Master Luis, my name is Keith."
"Fine, Keith. And mine is Luis."
"Indeed. I'm afraid I interrupted you."
"I wondered if there is any resource Sota might have for her defense that I am unaware of."
"Ah. I lay awake almost till cock's crow this morning, thinking of what you said yesterday. And it seems to me your evaluation of the threat to Sota is correct. As for resources, there may in fact be one you're not aware of. Not exactly a resource, perhaps, but . . . Many of our youths, in their teens, show an adventurous streak. I'm sure that's true elsewhere as well, but here in Sota, with the Misasip on the east and the wilderness on the north, it's more easily indulged, and become a tradition. 'The faring time,' it's called.
"Generally by seventeen or so, a boy has learned good basic military skills in the militia. Some then go off hunting employment as an armsman, mostly outside their own duchy. Perhaps hiring out as oarsmen on a freight raft, seeking service at arms in lands as far as Loozyana, Ohio, even Allegheny or Susky Hannah. They may never find such service, but the journeying itself is an adventure. In any event, after a time, most return home, take a wife, and a farm or a trade, and of course reenter the militia. In fact, most of our militia officers and some of the sergeancy have served as armsmen somewhere, and bring to the militia their skills and experience.
"And perhaps as often, at sixteen or seventeen, lads will turn north to the wilderness, sometimes alone, but usually two or three together. They've trapped and hunted from childhood, if for little more than skunks around the hen house, coons around the corn patches. They've become good bowmen, and skilled with snares and deadfalls. And traps and setlines for fish. They've grown up with the ax, of course, cutting fence rails, mountains of firewood . . . till finally, some autumn, they trek off north on foot, to spend a winter in the wilderness, sheltering in some rude hut they've built, or found abandoned. There to hunt furs, and meat for their bellies. Sometimes over-hungry, and often freezing, but too proud to come home till spring. At April's end, when the snow has disappeared, most do come home, wiser and with a better-founded self-confidence. Others stay with it for a full year or more."
He paused, a finger tapping meaningfully on the arm of his chair. "And whether armsman or wanderer or fur hunter, when they come back, they have a new stature, a changed bearing. They add a certainty and sense of boldness to their militias, even among those who never left.
"In fact, my impression from the Anti-Pope's war is that our militias here in Sota are better than others. But they are strictly local. What they lack is an overall command to direct them. A command that all respect. All: the militias, the various forces at arms, the barons and dukes. Except at Nona and Austin, which seem irretrievable while Eldred sits the throne."
His eyes challenged. "The overall command I speak of is yourself, sir, or your Order. The scores of Sotans who served in and survived the Anti-Pope's War as armsmen, brought home stories of the Higuchian brothers: of their fighting qualities, and of their loyalty to one another and the Pope.
"Whether and how you make use of that reputation, I leave to you. The little I have observed of you, convinces me you're as well suited to the task as anyone could be. Nor do I doubt my duke will lend his authority and my help to your efforts."
I'd almost forgotten we sat beside the duke's couch. A soft chuckling reminded me. "You see now, Master Luis," Edward murmured, "why I so trust, my friend's wisdom, and judgement."
I did see. After discussing for a bit the training and qualities of Sotan forces at arms, I gave Edward another healing session. Then Keith and I left him relaxed, and as comfortable as his broken body allowed.
Late in the session I'd sensed something stirring in Edward, a result of two interlocking human energy fields communicating. Some understanding waiting to be seen and grasped. But I'd let be, preferring he reach it with neither Keith nor Widow Sanders on hand. Their presence might constrain what he would otherwise say.
As we walked down the corridor, I told Keith I wanted to speak with him about the duke's son, Donald. Where we'd not be overheard. The little I'd been told of him had been phrased enigmatically, and I wanted to know more before I met with him. So the two of us went to the stable, saddled our mounts and rode off. Alone except for a swirl of horseflies, which not liking the darkness in the stable, had hung around outside waiting.
Frazier took me not through town, but across a pasture into green and quiet forest, rich in basswood and ash. Donald Maltby, he told me, was nineteen years old, a youth with many strengths: honor, intelligence, self-discipline, outstanding physical strength and martial skills . . . "But unfortunately," he added, "the duke is a father who rarely praised his son, believing it would spoil him. Instead he stressed and criticized the boy's every error—even small ones, even in his successes—to improve him, he thought. Until the young man had little faith in himself. Now Donald lacks confidence in both his judgement and his actions—and has little love for his father. He fears and shuns responsibility, and is awkward in his relationships. Yet I have no doubt it's a sense of responsibility—to the duchy!—that has kept him from leaving.
"And in this case the tragedy is compounded, for in Donald Maltby I sense great potential. Potential stifled. And his father knows it now. The lad was seventeen when Edward gave him into my hands, asking that I 'make a man of him, fit to rule the duchy.' At least the duchy.
"It was too long delayed. Donald is no longer the sullen hangdog he'd become; by praise and affection I accomplished that much. But still he has a deeply ingrained view of himself as lacking, and it cripples his will. Nor do I know how to take him further. He probably will rule the duchy when the time comes, but I suspect the barons will take advantage of him, and I fear that in response, he may become heavy-handed."
We rode silently then, till we topped a terrain break. Below us through the greenery of floodplain trees, we glimpsed the Sota River. For a minute we stopped, the horses' heads tossing, tails switching, hooves stamping; I was sorry for them, and glad to be human, for horseflies are cruel.
"I hope I haven't discouraged you from talking with Donald," Frazier said. "Know that beneath that resentful, too often sullen surface lie stifled virtues. And I sense unusual power in you. Perhaps you can strengthen his troubled soul as you seem to be strengthening his father's broken body."
"My friend," I told him, "you have inspired me to try."
Riding back to the palace, it occurred to me that this had already been a major day in my life, and it was still morning. Five-plus years at the Academy had changed me a lot; I'd known while it was happening. But there, everyone was select, the trainees among us being educated and trained by other, more advanced selects. It was by them I measured myself. But these two days at Kato, especially today, had shown me the kind of impact I could have on people in the world at large. Even on people like Edward and Keith. Especially on people like Edward and Keith.
I looked forward to meeting Donald Maltby, but meanwhile . . . Keith and I parted at the stable, and I walked to the palace's rear entrance alone. He had duties to take care of, and I hoped to draw Edward out on private, personal matters.
The guardsman at Edward's door knocked—properly it was his job, not mine—and Widow Sanders opened. Yes, Edward was sleeping. And yes I could come in, but to please not waken him. Such healthy sleep, she said—and almost without whiskey!—was a blessing too good to be interrupted.
Edward had left the balcony for his bed, and muted daylight filtered through the curtains. His body aura was far from expansive, but it was lighter and cleaner than it had been. The aural "tear" was smaller, its blackness "cleaner," its energies less "trapped" and "snarled."
I had no idea why I said what I said next, but I said it very softly. "You know, Miz Sanders, I can see the man he was. A handsome man, wouldn't you say?"
"Yes Master Luis, very handsome." She answered as quietly as I'd asked.
"How long ago was it his wife died?"
"Nine years, sir."
"Did you know her well?"
"I was—I am a nurse, sir, and well regarded. I was brought to the palace during her illness, to attend her."
"I'm sure you're a good nurse, Sara." I paused before going on. "I understand she suffered greatly in her illness."
Tears had gathered. Now one spilled from each eye, running quickly down her cheeks. "Toward the end she did, sir. Her physician treated her with laudanum, to ease it, and his lordship would sit by her for hours, holding her hand. He had a surgeon sent up from Sanlooee, but the man didn't cut her. There was no use in it, he said."
My mind had gotten a picture, of the surgeon I had no doubt—a dark and lanky man, with short kinky hair like Kabibi's. And I got a sense of his words. "I know," I told Sara Sanders. "I can hear him." I changed my voice, trying for his, deeper and fuller than mine. "In cases like this, cutting does no good. She'll go to God soon. Meanwhile keep giving her the laudanum."
I watched Edward as I said it. He seemed not to have heard at any level; his sleep remained calm. Then I looked at his nurse. She'd been stunned by what I'd said, and for a moment afraid of me. I put a hand on her arm. "I'm going to give his lordship a healing session now. Longer than the earlier ones. This time I want to break through his condition, if I can. Turn it around. Meanwhile . . . which room is yours?"
Still afraid, she whispered her answer. "I sleep in the small bed there"—she gestured at a nearby cot—"where I can hear if he needs me. His voice is so weak. But my room is across the corridor, the second door to the left."
"Good. Go there now, and pray for his lordship and myself. I'll rap when we're done, and you can come back."
She got up and left without answering, closing the door softly behind her. I spoke quietly to Edward, without attempting to waken him. "Edward," I said, "I'm going to give you a session now. If you wish, you may continue sleeping. If . . ."
His eyes opened, first vague, then focusing, shifting to me. "I believe I'm awake," he said, in little more than a whisper. "Yes. Awake."
"Fine. Now close your eyes." I began to stroke his body aura as I had before. "Pictures or thoughts may come to you," I told him. "Whenever you wish—if you wish—tell me one of them. We're alone, and I will listen."
Neither of us spoke for perhaps ten minutes. I continued to stroke, not knowing what to expect, except that something was going to happen. Finally Edward spoke again, his voice stronger than before: "Clarissa's tumor, was in her chest. It was suffocating her."
"Thank you, Edward."
His spirit aura was darkening. I continued to stroke. His breath became more labored, his head rolling back and forth on his pillow. He began to moan. "Oh Clarissa, Clarissa, if only I could take, your pain, onto myself, free you of it."
My skin crawled. It was beginning. Edward's breathing smoothed. His head lay still again, and after a moment he chuckled faintly. I continued to stroke. His spirit aura had lightened; his body aura expanded notably. Within four or five minutes, though, they'd darkened again, and this time his moaning was different.
"I'm sorry Clarissa, blessed saint, I'm sorry. Clarissa! Where are you? I beg you, to forgive me."
This time my skin rucked like a plucked goose, from head to foot, and my short hairs bristled. For now someone else was there, and I knew who. It seemed to me she was talking to Edward, though I got none of it beyond a sense of transcendent love, utterly pure, and a beautiful golden glow. Edward began to weep, then to sob, the sobs seeming to tear him apart. I wouldn't have thought his damaged lungs could create such paroxysms, and wondered if I was killing instead of healing him. But still I stroked, and in the essence of Clarissa, I sensed the difference between human pity and angelic compassion.
The episode was brief. The sobs died. Edward raised himself on an elbow . . . and laughed! The phenomenon was common in Xioxian therapy. It was joy at the passing of old guilt and grief; old suffering replaced by understanding. I'd experienced it myself, often, in the clean-up we got at the Academy, and I'd been told to expect it on occasion as a healer.
But I hadn't been told of anyone like Clarissa taking part.
I'd been weeping too, I realized, and wiped my face and tear-blurred eyes on a sleeve. Edward and I looked at each other, and this time we both laughed.
"Do you know what happened?" he said. All in one flow, on one breath. Again we laughed together. From outside the door, the guard called—quietly but audibly. "Are you all right, your lordship?"
I went over and opened to him. "Come in, man," I said. He hesitated, then stepped inside. And stopped, staring. I turned. Edward was on his feet now, in his nightgown, as thin and pale as he'd been the day before, but standing almost upright. Grinning.
"Tren," he said to the guardsman, "I have been visited, by an angel. An actual angel, and she has—healed my soul. Thanks to the good work, of Master Luis."
He raised a constraining finger. "Now stay a minute. I'll want your help, in dressing." He turned to me. "Master Luis, please call Sara. Tell her I want, trousers, and a loose-fitting shirt." He laughed again, running his hands down his scrawny torso. "Ha! They're all loose-fitting now. It's time for me, to totter up and down, the hall a bit. Maybe a few, stairsteps. I've been too long, in this sickbed."
I went down the hall to Sara Sanders' door and did what I'd been told, then left to find Keith. Thinking what a burden of guilt could do, for Edward had unknowingly embraced his injury as an opportunity for self-punishment. I knew as surely as if I'd been there, that in the last days of Clarissa Maltby's life, her husband and her nurse had become lovers, probably an unintended outgrowth of comforting each other. And after his wife's death, Edward, filled with remorse, had sent Sara back to wherever she'd come from, well-paid and highly recommended.
Eight years later, with Edward broken and seemingly dying, it was probably Keith who'd sent for her to nurse his crippled duke.
And the light of Clarissa's compassion had let Edward forgive himself, had freed him to recover.