But no Luap. Aris walked on to the pine grove on the south side of the canyon, and found a child bringing goats back . . . the child had not seen Luap. He came back across the bridge, telling himself that he was being silly, that not seeing Luap for a few hours meant nothing. But his heart hammered; he could hear his own pulse in his ears.
“Aris—you’re needed!” Garin waved at him as he went past the storeroom where the herbal remedies were kept.
“What?” His voice sounded cross to him; he saw by Garin’s surprise that it sounded cross to others. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What is it?”
“A child of Porchai’s has fallen down the rocks—you know they’ve made that new place, the next canyon over—”
“I know it.” And he’d told them to be careful, with three young children, all active climbers.
“A badly broken leg, the word is. The runner came in just after you were here before.”
“I’ll go,” he said. “No, you stay—I’ll take one of the prentices.” He chose the one who had the sense to have a bag packed ready—Kevye, that was—and strode out. He would certainly find Luap when he got back.
The shortest route to the Porchai place lay through a tunnel cut through the fin that separated the two narrow canyons. Aris disliked the tunnel; he had argued against making it, despite the distance it saved those who lived on the far side. But convenience and speed mattered more to most people than his concerns about safety. The tunnel was cleared and lighted by magery; most of those who had need to go from one side-canyon to another used it. Aris rarely did, but could not justify leaving a patient in danger just to satisfy himself. He strode through quickly, hardly noticing the stripes of red and orange in the rocks on either side.
Irieste Porchai met him as he came out, crying so he could hardly understand her. “You said be careful of the dropoff, and we were, I swear it. He was climbing up from the creek, and slipped—turned to look at something, I think.”
“It’s all right. He’s awake? He can see?” But he could hear the child now, fretful whimpers interrupted with screams when anyone came near or tried to move him. He moved quickly to the sound, and found a small child lying twisted on the ground, the bones of his legs sticking out through bloody wounds. He knelt beside the boy, and put his hands on the dark hair. First he must be sure nothing worse had happened.
“Lie still,” Iri Porchai said to the child. “It’s the healer, Lord Aris.” Even at the moment, he wished she had not used that title; he’d never liked it. But he’d never convinced the mageborn not to use it.
The child’s head rested on his palms now . . . he let his fingers feel about through sweat-matted hair. A lump there, and a wince; a small bruise. He felt nothing worse, and his hands already burned with the power he would spend. He let the child’s head down on a folded cloth someone had brought, and ran his hands lightly over the small body. The child looked pale, and was breathing rapidly: pain and fright, Aris thought. All the ribs intact, and no damage to the belly or flank. He looked more closely at the legs. Both were broken, and both breaks split the skin; on the left, one bone stuck out a thumbwidth; on the right, the child’s flailing had drawn the bone ends back inside. With all that dirt on them, Aris thought. This would not be easy, even for magery. Aligning such badly broken bones, healing the ragged tissues . . . he would be here until after sunfall. He looked up at his prentice. “Kev—you’ll have to steady his legs for me; we must be sure the bones are straight.”
“Don’t hurt me!” cried the boy, trying to thrash again.
“It won’t hurt,” Aris said, “if we get them straight in the first place.” He wished he had Gurith’s power of charming the pain away; this would hurt until the healing was well begun. “Come now—we’ll be quick.” He nodded to Kevre and to the adults who would help hold the boy still.
As Kevre moved the boy’s legs to a more normal position, the broken ends of bone disappeared back into the wounds; he yelped but quieted quickly as slight tension kept the ends from wiggling. Aris laid his hands on the boy’s thighs, and let the power take over.
His years of training and experience melded with that power so that now he knew what he had not known in his boyhood: he knew how the broken bones lay, how the thin strands of tendon and ligament had twisted, which of the little blood vessels had torn. He could direct his power more precisely, even into both legs at the same time, working down from the knee-joints, first aligning all the damaged bits of tissue, then forcing them to grow together, to heal as if they had not been broken. The bones were the easiest; they were easy to visualize, and being rigid were more easily controlled. Harder were the blood vessels and tendons, the torn muscles and ripped skin. Hardest of all were the innumerable bits of dirt, any speck of which could cause woundfever. Slowly, methodically, Aris directed the flow of power, concentrating on each minute adjustment. He knew by the boy’s relaxation when the healing had progressed enough to ease the pain, but he was far from finished.
When the power left him, the child lay silent, watching him with bright brown eyes. Dark had come; magelight glowed around him from a dozen watching adults. Aris drew a long breath. He had not quite completed the healing before his power ran out; the bones and other tissues were aligned and firmly knit together, but he had not been able to replace all the lost blood. “Wiggle your toes,” he said to the boy. A frightened look, that said will it hurt? as clearly as words, then both feet moved, and all ten toes wiggled. He looked at Irieste. “He’ll need a lot of your good soup,” he said. “As much liquid as he’ll drink, and good meat to help replace his blood. I’m sorry; my power ended before I could replace that.” He felt dizzy and sick, as usual, but he knew he would be all right. Kev helped him stand; his knees felt as if someone had hammered on them.
“Lord Aris, you need to eat something. . . .”
I need to sleep, he thought. But he could not fall asleep here; he must not worry the family. “We’ll go back, Kevre.” He leaned on Kev’s arm more than he liked, and yet he could walk . . . how was it that he had used all his power, but had not fainted from it? his mind worried at the question, as if it had importance just out of reach. The family followed him into the tunnel, which he suddenly saw as an orifice in the body of some vast animal. Like walking into a blood vessel, or a heart . . . the prick of fear woke him enough to make walking easier. In that light, the red rock streaked with darker red and orange looked entirely too much like something’s insides. He staggered, climbing down to the creek, and Kevre steadied him. In the stronghold, he wanted only a bed. Seri appeared, and started to ask a question, but her face changed.
“Ari! What happened?”
Kevre answered for him. “A healing, Marshal Seri; two broken legs. He’s just tired. . . .”
“He’s more than tired.” Seri’s arms around him renewed his strength; he could lift his head, now, and focus on the faces around him. She helped him to his own room, and pushed him onto his bed.
“I’m better,” he said, smiling at her. She did not smile back; she was chewing her lip.
“You look half-dead,” she said. “Kev says your power ran out before you finished the healing?”
Shame washed over him. “Yes. The boy will be all right; I finished the main part of it, but I couldn’t do it all . . . it was just gone.” Exhaustion clouded his vision; now that he was down, he could not imagine how he had stood and walked so far. “Sorry . . .” he murmured, and let himself slide into blackness.
When he woke, Seri sat curled in the corner of his room, wrapped in blankets. He tried to throw back his own covers, and she woke up and blinked at him. “So—you’re alive after all.”