Authors: Unknown
A har dressed in a white robe of soft silk brought him some water and murmured, “Tiahaar, if it's any help, you should know the Tigrina is in the best hands.”
No, it was not much help.
After a couple of hours, Pellaz was conducted to a room on the third floor, where a group of healers sat cross-legged in a ring around a low bed. Each chest emanated a low, soothing tone. A dark-skinned surgeon stood beyond their circle, dressed head to toe in theatre garb of deep blue that did not show the blood. His hair was wound tight upon his head and his expression was not encouraging. When Pellaz entered the room, he bowed and indicated they should speak in private.
“I want to see him first,” Pellaz said.
Taking care not to disturb the circle of healers, Pellaz peered over their heads. Caeru's body was covered in a flaking film of dried blood. His belly was obscured by a sheet, which was draped over a cage of some kind. Black snaking tubes emanated from beneath the sheet, their open ends disappearing into large black glass jars arranged upon the floor. Caeru's eyes were closed, his hair dark and matted and wet. He had been badly beaten about the head.
Pellaz stared for some moments, then turned to the surgeon.
“My office, tiahaar,” murmured the surgeon in a strongly-accented, musical voice. He gestured towards the door.
The surgeon was named Sheeva, and he, like most citizens of Immanion, was not a native Almagabran. A member of his staff brought Pellaz hot coffee spiked with cinnamon, and Sheeva produced from a drawer in his desk a bottle of strong herbal liqueur, with which he suggested the Tigron fortify his drink.
Pellaz did this. He noticed that his left hand was shaking, while the right hand was still. He could taste blood in the back of his throat.
“I will tell you straight,” said Sheeva. “If the Tigrina makes it through tonight, he has a good chance of survival. The worst element, despite appearances, is shock. The head injuries look worse than they actually are. There is no fracture to the skull. However, I'm afraid the peal he was carrying was excised during the attack. Certain internal organs, and not just those associated with reproduction, have been badly damaged, but not beyond my skills of reconstruction. However, Caeru will have to face adjustments. Fortunately, the conception chamber – the cauldron of creation – is relatively intact, for which we should be thankful. I have never treated a har who has lost this organ, and the psychological effects of that could be – unpredictable.”
Pellaz nodded. “It might sound strange, but I know little about these things.” He grimaced. “I don't know how my body works. Why the hell is that?”
Sheeva smiled gently. “Don't worry, few hara do know – yet.”
Pellaz frowned. “Why not? Isn't it the most important thing?”
Sheeva leaned back in his chair, tapped the desk in front of him. Perhaps he didn't want to be giving this lesson. Pellaz didn't blame him, but he wanted his question answered. “Wraeththu had a lot of growing up to do, you know that,” Sheeva said. “For a long time, we were all children, whatever our ages in physical terms. Only now are we rediscovering abandoned yet essential skills and discovering new ones. We are no longer playing in the ruins, tiahaar. The dust has settled, and we are standing around, blinking in the sunlight. Now, we must rebuild. We do not need the kind of medicine that humans had, because our bodies are more efficient at healing themselves. But sometimes, as in Caeru's case, intervention is unavoidable, because so much physical damage has been done. We are learning about our bodies, and how they function. This learning cannot simply be academic, because it is impossible to explain in academic terms exactly how we reproduce. All you need to know for now is that the conception chamber is the main aspect that sets our reproductive method apart from that of human females, whose foetuses were, of course, conceived in the womb that bore them. I, and many other, suspect that this organ has functions beyond mere reproduction, but ultimately there is much we have yet to understand about such matters.”
“Thank you,” Pellaz said. “I appreciate your time in telling me this.”
“You're welcome.”
“How badly is Rue damaged? How is this going to affect him?”
Sheeva breathed in deeply through his nose. “The area in the Tigrina's body that corresponds to an actual womb has suffered great trauma. At some point in the future, he will need further reconstructive surgery. I will do what I can in respect of repairs, but it's doubtful he'll be able to host a pearl again. He should, however, be capable of normal aruna in a soume sense.”
“Do whatever it takes,” Pellaz said.
“Mostly, it's up to him,” said Sheeva. “Caeru has the power to heal himself on mental and emotional levels, which of course affects the physical body. I am simply the mechanic. I repair physical breakdowns.”
“I have been told you are the best.”
Sheeva inclined his head. “I was appointed here because of my reputation, and I will do all in my power to uphold it.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Stay with him tonight, tiahaar. Give him your strength. It is the best medicine.”
Pellaz returned to the room where Caeru lay motionless on his low bed. The healers were still chanting softly, their palms upraised to direct energy into their patient's body. Pellaz stepped inside their circle and knelt on the floor. The chanting trailed off and one of the healers said, “Tiahaar, we respectfully request you allow us to work in peace.”
“Go,” Pellaz said.
“What?”
“Leave this room. All of you. Go.”
The healers were silent, watching him.
“I am Tigron,” Pellaz said. “This is my consort. I will heal him.” He dismissed the other occupants in the room from his attention and sat cross-legged beside the bed. He drew back the sheet that covered the cage over Caeru's body. All the time, a mantra churned in his mind: don't think of Orien, don't think of Orien.
He removed the cage. The chief healer made a protest, but Pellaz only snarled at him. “Get out.”
Pellaz placed his hands, palms down, the tiniest distance above Caeru's savaged flesh. Sheeva had done an exemplary job in patching him up, but it was still a foul mess. Pellaz summoned the power from the centre of creation to flow through him. He directed it into Caeru's body.
For a while, he remembered the time, so long ago, when he'd tried to heal a terrible wound on his friend Cobweb's leg. He remembered the feeling of the energy then and how weak and sporadic it had felt in comparison to what he could achieve now. Images of the past flickered across his mind's eye, but, gradually, the flow of energy took him deep into trance and then he did not think at all.
Late the following morning, Vaysh, the Tigon's aide, came to Caeru's room in the Infirmary, because the staff were concerned that Pellaz would not leave the Tigrina's side. They had summoned Vaysh to reason with Pellaz, who ignored anyhar else who tried to speak with him.
Vaysh's voice, harsh and commanding, at least permeated the fog of trance in Pell's mind. He heard somehar say, “Pellaz, wake up. Come back to Phaonica. Let the hara here do their job. You're in the way.”
Pellaz raised his head and saw Vaysh standing at the door. His red hair looked shocking against the pale colours of the room.
“Pell,” Vaysh said. “Get up.”
Pellaz could no longer feel his hands and arms, although he could sense that the healing energy still coursed through them strongly. At some point during the night, he had actually allowed his fingers to rest on Caeru's wounds. Pellaz remembered, vaguely, that he had been involved in a battle: a fight with Caeru's will, because he had only wanted to die. Pellaz hadn't allowed that to happen. He'd had to work healing on several levels, but it wasn't over yet. Caeru himself was still unconscious. Pellaz dismissed Vaysh from his attention and closed his eyes, concentrating once more on the task in hand.
“Pell.”
He heard Vaysh cross the room, felt a hand upon his shoulder. Pellaz was fizzing with power: it took hardly any effort to use some of it to hurl Vaysh back towards the door. He landed in an undignified heap.
Vaysh scrambled to his feet and spat, “Why are you doing this? Don't tell me you care!”
“Get out,” Pellaz said, in a low voice. To emphasise his displeasure, he hissed like a furious cat.
Vaysh stared at him for some moments, then left the room without another word.
Some time later, Ashmael Aldebaran arrived. Pellaz had lost the capacity to speak, but still locked gazes with Ashmael for what felt like a long time. After this, the general said laconically to somehar unseen behind him, “Leave him. Scoop him up when he passes out.”
This occurred some time in the early evening. Pellaz didn't know what happened, only that he woke up around thirty-six hours later in another room in the Infirmary. He was instantly alert, full of energy. A healer came to his side, offered water.
“Does he live?” Pellaz asked.
The healer nodded. “He is awake, tiahaar.”
Pellaz drank the water in one gulp, then got out of bed.
Long gauzy drapes blew softly in the breeze that came in through the open windows. Wooden chimes tocked rhythmically in the draught. Caeru's eyes were open: he stared at the sky. Pellaz sat on the edge of the bed. They had covered Caeru with a sheet again, and his hands rested on the cage. His fingernails were still crusted with dried blood, as was his hair. The bruises on his face were already fading, because a har heals quickly, but tubes still emanated from beneath the cage, draining out fluid. Some wounds, being fundamental, were slower to heal.
Caeru turned his head slowly on the pillow. “I saw you,” he said. “I saw you with me in the darkness. You were shining.”
Pellaz reached out and touched Caeru's face. “How do you feel?”
Caeru grimaced. “I don't feel anything. I don't hurt. I just
am.
They gave me something to drink. It was bitter. It took all feeling away.”
“Do you want anything?”
“Yes. The truth. They won't tell me. How bad is it?”
“Bad,” Pellaz said softly.
Caeru swallowed. “No more harlings for me, not inside me. That's it, isn't it?”
Pellaz nodded his head slightly. “It seems that way.”