| Healing |
| The dragons keened on the seventh day. Iphaeth, defiant, lived far longer than As’mir’s first patient. No one knew what to do with Saroa, who sat white-faced and dry-eyed on the Hatching Sands, where Iphaeth had last rested before he went between. Her blank stare only kindled when she laid eyes on As’mir. “Healer,” she rasped, the first noise she’d made since the diagnosis. The bronzerider flinched as if she had struck him. Brown eyes turned toward her, anxiously. “I wish to learn your craft. Who would teach me?” As’mir swallowed at the dead tone in her voice. “Baeris,” he said at last. “Baeris Kshau. I’ll take you, if you wish.” “No, thank you,” Saroa said coldly. “I would prefer Alnath. It’s only fitting.” Regal in her mourning, the ex-rider rose and paced off the Sands, her black jacket belling out around her too-slender form. “I’ll go with you!” called As’mir, guiltily. “To recommend you.” No reply echoed back from the long tunnel to the Weyrbowl. As’mir preceded Saroa in visiting Baeris only by convincing Oruchanth to time it. He met with her gravely, contemporary to contemporary. Baeris surveyed him with a raised brow. “Why the sudden interest in my goings-on, As’mir? Got a problem?” On As’mir’s pale face, a flush showed up beautifully. “Yes, in fact, I did,” he said diffidently. “I’ve a student for you.” “Go on,” she bade him. “It must be pretty extraordinary for you to come back and find me.” “She is,” As’mir assured her. “Saroa is sixteen Turns old. She Impressed brown Iphaeth from Jiantyth’s clutch.” The brow beckoned an explanation. “Isn’t she a bit too busy with Weyrling studies, then?” “Iphaeth’s dead,” As’mir said flatly. “He had the same thing that Meporith did. The first thing she said after he died was that she wanted to be a dragon healer.” Brown hands with the faintest tinge of redwort steepled. “I see,” Baeris replied, a little gentler. “And has she had any previous healer experience?” “None at all.” As’mir swallowed. “Unless you count being abused and made to tend your own bruises experience.” Baeris scowled. “Wretched business. By who?” “Woman by the name of Onata. Ex-candidate, single mother, and pretty poor.” “Even worse,” the Healer woman sighed. “Very well, bring her in, I’ll train her. But it’s not for you, you understand.” “Oh, perfectly well,” As’mir said, feigning cheerfulness. “But anything for that poor girl’s sake. Oh--and she hears dragons.” The eyebrows nearly touched the hairline. “Hears. Dragons.” “All the time, for as long as she can remember. She can’t block it out. They’re a bit loud for her at Moire, actually. She should do well at your little…den.” Baeris rose, hands on the edge of her desk. “You may leave, Rider As’mir.” The dragonhealer’s eyes flashed. “With pleasure, Journeywoman Baeris. Oruchanth and I will find our own way out.” |
| Saro wasn’t sure what she expected, but this tall, brown woman in outlandish garb and with an outlandish dragon wasn’t it. She kept her face in the masklike expression she’d first donned at the age of five, and waited. Baeris—for that must be who it was—extended a hand. “Welcome to the Healing Den, Saroa. This is where you’ll be learning all about dragons. I hope you don’t object to some exceptional charges, because we have a lot of them here. In fact, we’ve got quite a colorful clutch on the Sands right now.” “Saro,” Saro said coolly, unaware of the wall of thorns springing up behind those mismatched eyes. She did not take the proffered hand; Saro despised personal contact, regarding it an invasion of her space. “I am Saro now. And when you are exceptional, Journeywoman Baeris, many other things seem…ordinary. When do classes start?” “Tomorrow,” the Healer replied, her face still serene. “Today you take the tour and get settled in.” |