The Godstone by Violette Malan

Author:Violette Malan [Malan, Violette]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: DAW
Published: 2021-08-03T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

Fenra

I could not hurry. Healing takes its own time, always. But I knew that every minute I spent on my knees in Medlyn’s vault, holding Arlyn’s wrists in my hands, was a minute of danger for Elva. If he was right, and the Godstone rode Metenari—a possibility Arlyn had never mentioned—then anything could happen. I began to hum, and to sing under my breath, in part to support the forrans, and in part to help myself relax.

After what seemed like an eternity, the cuts on Arlyn’s wrists closed and disappeared, leaving only the old marks I had never been able to erase. I had returned most of his blood to him while we were still in his workroom, but until the cuts closed I could not let go of him lest the blood pour out again. Now I was able to set him down on the well-padded sofa, and cover him with a throw woven from silk and linen. I wondered why my old mentor would have had such an item here, but I chased that thought away. I had to concentrate.

Most of his blood wasn’t all of it, and I had to find a more mundane way to replace what was still missing. Using real liquids was fastest and least tiring. Most people do not realize it, but practice is, more often than not, only a part of healing—albeit a large part. The rest is common sense and everyday medicines. I thought I had seen . . . yes, a pitcher and a small tray holding three glasses sat on a table in the corner. If it had ever held liquid, I should be able to call it back again. It’s the nature of jugs to hold liquids, and the nature of liquids to be held by jugs. I took a deep breath and forced myself to let go of Arlyn entirely.

The jug was not only already full, it was cool to the touch. And if I needed any further evidence of the breadth of Medlyn’s practice, the contents smelled like juice, not water or wine. I dipped the tip of a finger into it and tasted. Vegetables, root vegetables to be precise. Carrots, parsnips, and yes, beets. No parsley, salt, celery, nothing to help the flavor. I made a face. Well, I was not the one who had to drink it. I grabbed the jug and a glass and took them to Arlyn.

I propped Arlyn up on the arm of the sofa, using two soft pillows and the folded lap rug. His eyes opened, just slits, but I thought I could see some recognition there. “Drink this,” I said, hoping that he was conscious enough to help me. Pouring liquids into the mouth of an unconscious person is trickier than most people think. I set the edge of the cup against Arlyn’s bottom lip and tilted it slightly. I thought about the many hundreds of times I had done this, with children, with adults old and young, even on occasion with animals, though I rarely used a glass for them.

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