Secret Sacrament (8 page)

She opened her mouth and turned to the light again, and Salverion applied the mixture with a long thin spatula. “Please don't speak for a while, while that sets,” he said. Then he took the bowl and returned to the table. They heard him stripping leaves from fresh plants, and chopping up roots. A fragrance like lemon permeated the room, stronger than the scent of flowers.

Gabriel noticed a mural on the wall behind the Empress's chair, and he moved forward to examine it. It was a painting of the city of Navora beneath somber, stormy skies, but a shaft of light broke through the clouds and lit the towers and
the highest buildings, bathing them with unearthly radiance. So lost was he in the painting, Gabriel did not notice that he leaned with his hand on the arm of the Empress's chair. He was totally unconscious of everything else in the room, until he felt a hand brush his wrist. Even then, he was not fully aware of it. Only when the fingers traveled lightly up his arm, stroking the inside of his elbow, did he realize what she was doing. He remained motionless, hardly breathing, hardly able to believe what was happening. The fingers moved on, gliding over his skin to the edge of his sleeve, then underneath the linen and on, sliding over the sensitive inner flesh of his upper arm as slowly and sensuously as a snake. He looked at her face and saw that she was watching him, her eyes smiling, teasing. He did not know what to do. To remove his arm would dishonor her; in submitting, he dishonored himself. He remained perfectly still, every nerve taut, his flesh frigid under her touch.

“You have amazing eyes, Gabriel,” she said, her voice very low. “A Visionary's eyes.”

“I don't think so, Your Majesty.”

“You dare to contradict your Empress? People lose their lives for that.” Her voice was light and jocular, but he suspected she was serious.

“People don't lose their lives, Your Majesty.
Their lives are taken from them, or else they lay them down themselves.”

“And which will be your fate, Gabriel?”

“I'll lay mine down, Lady.”

Her eyes narrowed, and a subtle smile played about her mouth. In the increased light, Gabriel saw that she was much older than she had seemed at first. Her face was smothered with heavy makeup, and under it her skin was blemished and lined. Her hair, which had looked so dusky and luxuriant before, was gray at the roots, and he realized it was dyed. And her eyes, instead of being teasing and good-humored, were hard and dangerous now. For a split second he felt as if he were looking not at her, but at something horrifying behind or within her, something evil and predatory and powerful. Gently but firmly he withdrew his arm, then stepped back a pace so she could not reach him.

“That's a marvelous painting, Your Majesty,” he said, looking again at the wall behind her and striving to keep his voice casual.

“Yes, it is,” she replied. “It was done for me by an Amaranian slave. His name is Ferron. You've probably met him; Salverion bought him from me. Well, didn't buy him, exactly; in a moment of extreme gratitude I promised Salverion anything he asked for. He asked for my favorite slave. He
was an exquisite youth, and I always regretted letting him go. But Salverion won't give him back now. He can be very stubborn, your Grand Master, even toward me. I hope you won't imitate him, Gabriel.”

Gabriel kept his gaze fixed on the painting and dared not reply. Fortunately, at that moment Salverion returned.

“I have your medication prepared, Your Majesty,” he said. He was standing a short distance away, on the other side of her chair. A covered bowl was in his hands, and his face was expressionless. “Have your physician put this on your tooth four times a day, Lady,” he said. “It contains lobelia and prickly ash and will alleviate your pain immediately after it's applied. It will also relieve any inflammation about the root.”

“Thank you, my dear Salverion. And thank you for bringing your new disciple. We had an interesting chat. I very much approve of your choice.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Salverion bowed low, and Gabriel bowed with him. As he lifted his head, Gabriel glimpsed the Empress's face. She was smiling at him with a taunting, lascivious smile. He wanted to run as he backed slowly away, his mind and emotions in chaos.

“Our patient is a man with a thyroid tumor,” explained Salverion, as he and Gabriel put on fresh white aprons and scrubbed their hands. They were in the small washing room adjoining one of the large operating rooms at the famous Navora Infirmary. “He's Wymar, thirty-four years old, and has had the tumor since he was fifteen,” went on Salverion. “He's here from Sadira, with his wife and their four children. They're a close family, and I expect Wymar to recover fully and quickly, with his loved ones supporting him. He's well prepared for this surgery, and I talked to him again only this morning. I've also given him some medicine made from the opium poppy.

“The tumor is exceptionally large and already compressing his windpipe. If I block the nerves in his throat so that all feeling is gone, it will further affect his breathing and swallowing reflexes. So I'll relieve what pain I can, but he will feel some sensations. We'll have to be as quick as possible. The operation should be straightforward; the tumor moves freely, and should be easily severed. I'll make a large horizontal incision, and give us plenty of room. You'll be holding back the layers of skin and muscle and other tissues, and tying off the bleeding vessels. Sponge away all the blood; it's vital that all bleeding is controlled. Use the hot oil to seal off the smaller veins. Watch for the
great vessels, especially the two thyroid arteries. We never cut anything unless we're absolutely sure we know what it is.” He added, with gentle amusement, “And please try not to look so apprehensive; you'll panic the patient.”

“Sorry, Master,” said Gabriel. “I'm not sure I'm ready for this.”

“
I'm
sure you are. From what Hevron told me, you've helped with this kind of operation many times. This will be just the same, except that our patient will be peaceful. I have every confidence in you, but if you are unsure about anything, ask. I don't care how insignificant the question seems. Are you ready?”

Gabriel took a few deep breaths and nodded, and they went into the operating room. Built of pale gray stone, the walls and floor of the room were polished and spotless. The furniture and equipment shone. Lamps hung low over the workplaces, and, as in the Citadel, ingeniously placed mirrors reflected sunlight into vital areas. All the windows were glassed to keep out dust and insects. After the impoverished, squalid conditions at the Academy infirmary, the room was superb. But Gabriel had little time to admire it.

Wymar lay waiting on the operation table, his chest raised by a pillow under him, his head tilted back. The tumor in his throat was large, deforming
his neck. Salverion introduced Gabriel and explained that he was going to assist.

“He's young,” whispered Wymar, his breath whistling in his throat.

“So he is,” said Salverion, “and talented as well. I have no doubt that we shall both manage better with his help. How are you feeling this morning?”

“Afraid, Grand Master.”

Patiently, Salverion explained again what he would do, all the while stroking the man's hair as if Wymar were someone especially dear to him. “You have nothing to be afraid of,” Salverion said. “You'll feel only sensations of pressure and pulling as we cut the skin and hold back muscles and tissues, then the release as the tumor is removed. If you feel sick, or the sensations become actual pain, lift your hand with your fingers spread, so I know. I'll relieve your distress immediately. Please don't touch our hands or try to speak. Breathe slowly, and count to five with every breath in and every breath out, as I taught you. Have you any questions?”

The man shook his head. “Then just relax,” murmured Salverion. “Begin your slow breathing. I'll put pressure on certain nerve pathways that will dull the feeling in your neck and throat. Close your eyes if you wish. I shall be touching the back of your neck and your face. You may feel heat and
numbness, but no pain.”

Gently, Salverion placed his hands over Wymar's face.

Other people came in and arranged themselves in a semicircle on the far side of the table. They were student physicians and surgeons from other parts of the Infirmary, here to see the Grand Master at work. Gabriel felt suddenly awkward and inexperienced. But he soon forgot the audience and watched, enthralled, as Salverion's hands moved over Wymar, dulling his feeling. Nothing special was done, it seemed, apart from gentle pressure in certain places; but Wymar visibly relaxed, and his breaths became deep and serene. Salverion removed his hands and for a while stood with his eyes closed, praying.

When the prayer was finished, Salverion said to his disciple, “Forget everyone and everything but what we do. We are simply two healer-priests, you and I, doing our best for a fellow human being in difficulty. Now let us begin.”

A table stood at Gabriel's left, covered with a clean white cloth spread with instruments, silk and tendon threads, needles, and all else necessary. Gabriel picked up a scalpel and handed it to Salverion. The Master divided the skin and the tissues underneath, and Gabriel wiped away the gathering blood. He glanced at the patient's face;
incredibly, the man was tranquil, his lips moving slightly as he counted with each breath. Salverion's knife moved again, slitting muscles, revealing the tumor. Gabriel picked up strong threads for closing off the bigger blood vessels and had them tied before Salverion sliced the vessels with his blade. Sometimes a frown creased Wymar's forehead, or his breathing altered, and Salverion talked to him, his voice calm and gentle.

The world beyond Gabriel's hands ceased to exist. In perfect harmony he worked with Salverion, intuitively knowing what the surgeon wanted and when he wanted it, his motions swift and sure. The Master's skill was breathtaking. Gabriel had thought Hevron was clever, but the movements of Salverion's hands were smooth and unfaltering and beautiful. Watching him work was like witnessing a dance of healing over the wounded throat, and at times Gabriel could have sworn he saw light flowing from the Master's fingertips. He rejoiced to be working with him, to be a part of that healing.

He was almost sorry when it was over, and the wound was closed, the sutures firm and neat. He did not hear Salverion congratulating him or the spontaneous praise of the people who had watched. His eyes were on Wymar as the man lifted his hand and tentatively examined his own
neck, feeling the unfamiliar flatness and normality, the long miraculous scar. Wymar looked astonished, then his face became full of wonder and thankfulness and supreme joy.

The look on Gabriel's face was the same.

Later that day, as their chariot wound upward through the twilit hills on the way back to the Citadel, Salverion said, “I very much enjoyed working with you today, Gabriel. I know it's early yet in your training, but you show an aptitude rare in someone your age. Why did you want to be a healer?”

Glancing at those steely eyes, seeing their discernment and understanding, Gabriel came very close to telling him. But at that moment the chariot bounded over the crest of a hill, and he saw, far below, the wide Shinali lands, and there tore across him a guilt too deep to confess. He looked the other way, toward Navora, and said, “I wanted to do something useful with my life. Also, I've always been interested in anatomy.”

“You enjoyed surgery at the Academy?”

“I hated it, Master. I thought it was brutal, though I knew it was for the ultimate good.”

“You still consider it brutal?” asked Salverion, with a curious smile.

“The way you work can't be compared with
other surgery,” Gabriel replied. “It's not just that your patients have no pain. There's something more to the way you operate. Something powerful and sacred. I'd give my life to be able to heal like that.”

Salverion gave him a tender, solemn look. “You have given it,” he said.

When Gabriel was back in his rooms, he changed into his trousers and went for a run through the Citadel gardens. They were radiant in the evening light, and the grass was warm and lush beneath his bare feet. In the orchards the apple and pear trees were heavy with fruit, and the vines in the walled vineyards drooped with clusters of purple and green grapes. Gardeners were still at work in the vegetable gardens, hoeing in the cool of the evening, their forms wrapped in clouds of shimmering dust. They looked up, surprised, as the lone runner went past. Gabriel waved at them, and they called out greetings and waved back. He ran on through the farms where the animals were kept, past soft-eyed cows in a walled field, and hens foraging in the grass. To his right were the outlying vineyards, where long irrigation canals glinted in the sun.

He ran up a small hill toward the east and stopped on the summit to look across the Shinali lands. The plain and the distant mountains were
purple. On the foothills just before the edge of the plain sheep were gathered, and a Shinali shepherd was with the flock. The Shinali was too far away for Gabriel to see clearly, and he did not know whether it was a man or a woman, or even a child. But he thought of the woman by the river, and the strange Shinali visions that came to him in sleep, the joy and wonder of them mixed with childhood guilt. Suddenly he realized that the shepherd's arm was raised, and the Shinali was waving to him. Gabriel glanced behind him; there was no one else. He looked back at the Shinali. Slowly he raised his hand and waved back. The shepherd waved again, then began driving the sheep down the golden hillside toward home.

Smiling, Gabriel touched the bone carving he wore and watched until the shepherd had gone from sight. Then, astonished by the joy that suddenly swept through him, he turned and jogged back to the Citadel.

The days sped by. Gabriel had never been so satisfied or happy. His mornings were free at first, and he spent them studying in the Great Library, or riding Rebellion in the Citadel hills. In the afternoons he worked with Salverion, discovering a deep unity between himself and the Grand Master that left him feeling humbled and amazed.
In the evenings he went running through the Citadel farmlands and looked out at the Shinali lands, his fingers enfolding the bone amulet about his neck. Afterward he sat in his room near an open window, with moths fluttering about him, his head golden in the lamplight, and wrote long letters home. Every day mail arrived for him: letters from his tutor and friends at the Academy, drawings from Subin and the younger ones at home, lively epistles from Myron, and loving notes from Lena.