“What’s next for you?” Gill said.
“I need to contact my commander in Humberland. I’m not convinced our last message got through to him.”
“Back to mage hunting?”
“Perhaps,” dal Ruisseau Noir said. “I think that may be shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted. We’ll have to adapt to the new reality and find a worthwhile role within it.”
“You’ll be telling your commander that?”
“I will. I don’t doubt that there will be plenty more like the Prince Bishop who’ll abuse magic for all it’s worth, but people like Solène can do a lot of good in the world. We could all use a little more of that, I think.”
“A fine sentiment,” Gill said, “and one I agree with.” He took one more reticent look at the stars, then turned. “I’m going to get some sleep. I’m not any use to those inside. Better to be rested for when I will be.”
Solène knew she could put things off no longer. The count’s physician had, sadly, not known nearly so much about the human brain as she had wished, while Pharadon knew far more about magic than she could hope to absorb in a lifetime. One thing was clear, however. Without her intervention, the king would continue as he was until his body weakened to the point that he would fall ill and die. She was the only one who could change that future.
She didn’t want rumours flying around after this was done with, stories of all sorts of horrible magical goings-on. If she performed the healing behind closed doors, she knew that she would be perpetuating all the old fears of sorcery. If there were witnesses, the reality would have a chance of being known. She didn’t like having an audience, but in this case, it was important. Once the king was back on his throne, there might be a chance for her and those like her to play an open, useful role in society. Allowing people to see how innocuous the healing process was could go some way toward helping to create that reality.
The count had called in to get an update from his physician, so the moment seemed ideal. It struck her that it might be important to have someone of his rank present to see what happened.
Solène cleared her throat. “Perhaps, Lord Savin, you might wish to remain for the procedure? Your aides too? Banneret dal Ruisseau Noir, you’re welcome to remain also. All I request is that you keep completely silent. The concentration this will require is enormous. Any distraction could prove disastrous.”
Savin prevaricated for a moment, but in the end gave a short nod. She knew he was uncomfortable being present when magic was shaped, but she valued her own safety far more than his comfort. Dal Ruisseau Noir gave her a nod. It felt odd knowing an Intelligencier would be watching her, but she knew he was as important an observer as could be had, if there were any future recriminations.
Solène was as daunted by what she had to do as she had ever been. She might want it to appear innocuous to those watching, but it would be far from that. While she had drawn on an enormous amount of energy to melt the barrier beneath the palace, there was no finesse involved in that effort; thus, it was less taxing. Here the situation was reversed. The control required would make needlepoint look like the clumsiest of pastimes.
The physician still looked unhappy that magic was going to be used to restore the king. He had suggested a trepanning—cutting a hole in the king’s skull—to let the foul humours out of his head, at which point Solène had ceased to pay attention to him.
Her discussion with Pharadon had been far more enlightening. He told her that magic left a fingerprint and that with time she might become able to identify the shaper of the magic from the traces left behind. For now, though, if she sought out those traces within the king’s brain, she would be able to locate where the damage had been done. If the Prince Bishop had caused the injury by magic, as they suspected, this was her best approach. If it was something physical—apoplexy, some other ailment, the result of a blow—she would have to find another way.
It was a start, but it didn’t change the fact that once she’d located the problem areas, she had to fix them. Might it be as simple as willing them to return to their former state? She could get a sense of that from the areas that weren’t damaged, and even by looking within herself, to develop a picture of what she was trying to achieve. Then there was the precision with which she would have to apply the Fount. It was daunting. Beyond daunting.
Her only comfort was that she really couldn’t make the situation any worse. Even if she caused the king pain, he wasn’t aware enough to feel it. That magic had caused this wounded her. It proved right any person who feared magic, even justified the violence done to her and other mages. If she could heal the king, with others watching, she might be able to change the future for those like her. And she would save the life of a monarch who, in all respects, appeared to be a decent man.
“I’m about to begin,” she said. “Please, complete silence from now on, until I tell you I’m finished.”
Savin had kept back five men, two of them tough-looking bannerets who, Solène feared, might be there to deal with her, should her magical ways prove to be too profane for the count.
“So much as a squeak out of any of you,” Savin said, “and I’ll have the hide off your backs.”
He gave her an authoritative nod. It wasn’t what she would have done in his place, but so long as the result was what she wanted, there was no harm done. Pharadon and the physician stood at the other end of the table. Pharadon gave Solène an encouraging smile, while the physician stared at the king with a consternated expression on his face. All being well, he was about to watch his profession become obsolete.
She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and opened her mind to the Fount. She allowed herself to relax as her mind drifted along the lines of beautiful, glowing blue energy. Feeling more at peace with the Fount than she ever had before, Solène began to focus on the king, his form outlined in blue light. She moved into his head and almost let out a gasp when she saw the traces Pharadon had spoken of. Glowing blue scars, but not the sort of narrow, smooth marks created by a sharp knife. They were rough, as though made with a serrated blade, or a clumsy cut.
After a moment’s study and thought, Solène chose her approach. Rather than will healing, she decided to will the hideous scars away, using the Fount to gently wash them from the king’s flesh, conveying energy into his brain to restore it to its original form.
It was painstaking work. As the tide washes pebbles along the beach, so too did her application of the Fount’s energy sweep across the king’s brain. The danger was she would wash away something that was supposed to be there. She focussed her will to applying tiny, delicate brushstrokes of energy, like a fine artist painting in a subject’s eyelashes. She allowed herself a momentary smile as the first scar began to recede, the edges drawing in, leaving normal flesh behind. She couldn’t be sure the end result would be what they were all looking for, but she was certainly removing the damage the Prince Bishop’s clumsy magic had caused.
On and on she went, one delicate stroke at a time, narrowing her focus to a pinpoint, and regulating the amount of energy she allowed to flow through her, all the while trying to pretend that there weren’t eight other people in the room, watching her stand there with her eyes closed, apparently doing absolutely nothing.