"Why should I deny your right to serve him, Magister?" I asked, even more confused. "I confess I do not remember aught of last night. You say I would not let you see him? What reason did I give?"
"Nothing very coherent, I fear." He took my wrist to check the progress of my heart and smiled. "Strong again. Good." He looked at me. "I must say, though, it's just as well I have come. As it is I had to work long on you to draw you back from the fever that beset you."
"Fever?" I asked, putting my hand to my forehead. It felt normal.
"No longer, I am glad to say," he said, smiling. "I can only assume that it already had you in its grip when I arrived, else why should you deny me the right to see an old friend who needed my help?"
"Why indeed? I must beg your pardon, Magister." I smiled ruefully. "You say you challenged me? And I accepted? I must have been feverish, I'd never do such a thing in my right mind. I have the greatest respect for your abilities." I tried to reach back for the memory, but there was nothing there. I shook my head, smiling. "I must have fallen like an autumn leaf, I remember nothing about it."
"You were swaying when I had done no more than summon my power to me," he replied. "I barely touched you and suddenly there you were in a heap on the floor." He laughed softly. "You had your revenge in that moment, though. I feared I'd killed you. Never mind, all's well now and the harvest in, as they say. Do you feel well enough to rise?"
I essayed it and found I could stand, though I felt a bit dizzy. I saw that I was in my own chambers—presumably the servants had brought me here when I fell. Berys led me to the table he had placed in my anteroom and he joined me in a light breakfast, as recommended for those who are convalescing from a fever. Now that I was more myself—like most Healers, I make a terrible patient—I could see that he looked better than ever he had before. He glowed with health and looked years younger than he had when last I had seen him.
When I mentioned it, he smiled. "Ah, it is obvious now! Yes, I thank you, I am very well indeed. I have been experimenting with the lansip I acquired from my late venture with the House of Gundar." He leaned closer and whispered con-spiratorially, "Do you knowr I had heard that old tale about an elixir made from the leaves that would bestow youth to the aged, and I thought that since I now had both the need and the wherewithal I would attempt it." He sat back and shook his head slightly. "Alas," he resumed in his normal voice, "the claims were exaggerated, but I certainly feel vastly better than I have in many a year. If it is making a difference to the eye of the beholder, so much the better! I have not been aging gracefully, I fear, and any delay in the process must therefore be a good thing."
He looked at me with his Healer's sight then and seemed content. "You looked recovered. Will you come with me to see our patient?" His eyes twinkled. "Or must I challenge you again?"
We both laughed. "Not until I'm feverish again, if you please," I replied. "I'd prefer to keep as many of my few wits about me as I may, I thank you. Let us see what we may do together for my poor master."
Marik slept lightly in the morning, but he did not wake until I spoke his name. When he was himself he had risen every day before the sun. Even now he seemed to wish to do so but could not. Whether some obscure fear kept him asleep or whether his body was simply trying to heal his mind as it rested, I did not know.
Magister Berys asked me to recount all that had happened to bring Marik to this state. He said he had heard rumors but wanted to hear directly from me all that was known, as I had accompanied Marik. I told him all that I could—all that I had gathered from the mysterious Varien on the journey home—but he seemed none the wiser. I had not been present when Marik was stricken. I was only summoned after the fact to find his mind wandering in some far field where I could not follow.
"Was he injured physically?" asked Berys, gazing at my master. "Had he any wounds, large or small, when you saw him?"
I sighed. "There was a small puncture wound on the middle finger of his left hand, and a number of ragged scratches on his chest. They were all infected, whatever caused them, and grew worse almost as I watched. I managed to make a poultice of lansip leaves to stop the infection spreading. After that I used my own strength, day after day, and fed him on the lan-fruit he had found. At first it did no more than keep him alive, but even that was more than I could have done on my own. I did as much as I might on the journey, but it was not until I returned with him here to Elimar that I could put forth all my strength. And as you see, that has only healed his body. I fear his mind is still adrift."
Berys summoned his power about him and used his Healer's sight to look at Marik. I knew what he was seeing. I had not spoken of it, lest I cloud the Magister's sight with my own interpretation, but the vision haunted my sleep and my waking.
Where a normal mind was full of colour and movement to the healer's sight—bright with pain, or dancing with golden joy, or even shimmering grey with fear—Marik's was a field of dry earth: barren, cracked with heat, hard as bone, brittle, and scorched by a blazing, merciless sun.
We are taught to attempt the healing of the mind (it is far harder than healing the body) by countering the vision with its natural opposite as we open a way for the healing power. A mind full of darkness is to be gently, gently introduced to the dawn—nothing sudden, no flaming sunrise that would overwhelm, just a first slight suggestion of growing fight that heralds the morning. Often the suggestion is not even noticed by the patient, but with time and talk and much hard work, this kind of healing can take place. While we are working, it is as if we are "there," inside the metaphor, and can feel the results of our own work.
I had tried to heal Marik with visions of morning mist, of low soaking cloud, even (in desperation) with a gentle rain—in each case the "water" of my healing disappeared
instantly when I ceased putting forth my power, as if something was drinking it, and the broken brown dust of the vision remained untouched. It was as if he were drinking in all that I could offer but was still dying of thirst, even though I could feel myself getting soaked through as I was working.
This time I drew my power about me—and feeble it looked indeed beside the pulsing blue of Berys's healing mantle—and watched, for we can "see" what is happening even when another Healer is working. The two Healers might not see the same metaphor of the patient's mind, but the effects are mirrored in both.
I was there again, standing on the hard cracked ground of Marik's mind, barren of all life and of all promise of life. I felt Berys stretch forth his strengtli—and there, a cloud was coming over the sun, and a breeze sprang up. I drew in a deep breath and I swear it smelled of rain.
If you have ever been proud of a small skill, one you have worked long and hard for, and then seen a master of the craft surpass your very best work without the slightest effort, you will know how I felt. Over three full moons of work I had managed several times to put an image of gentle dampness in Marik's mind that stayed with him for an hour or so. Berys had called up a thunderstorm upon the instant.
Deep inside myself, I was uneasy—surely this was too sudden, too rough. A broken mind needs to be brought back gently if it is to regain its wholeness, or so I was taught. However, I could hardly argue with the Archimage of Ver-faren. I stood and watched, felt a cold wet wind blow lazily through my cloak, chilling me, and heard thunder far off. The first large drops fell, raising dust as they hit. I could feel them on my skin, cold, heavy, even painful when they struck. They did not immediately change the dryness below my feet, though I could see a few patches of dampness that lasted for an instant before they too fell away.