They found the old healer in the marketplace, buying healing herbs from an Eandi peddler.
"Pritt," D'Abjan's father called, approaching the man. "You're needed on the road west of the village."
The old man turned slowly at the sound of his voice and stared in their direction, squinting as if to see. "Who is that?"
"It's Laryn, healer. And my boy, D'Abjan."
"Ah, Laryn," the man said, grinning. "Good to see you. What's this about the road?"
"There's a woman there. Eandi. The boy found her," he added, gesturing toward D'Abjan. "She has a head injury and she's unconscious."
The healer frowned. "All right. Can the two of you manage to carry her to my house?"
D'Abjan's father looked at the boy, a question in his pale eyes. "I think so," D'Abjan said.
The healer nodded. "Good. Meet me there."
Pritt started to walk toward his home, and D'Abjan and his father hurried back to where the woman lay.
As it turned out, she was so light that Laryn could carry her by himself, leaving it to D'Abjan to carry her baskets and travel sack. He started to lift one of the blankets to look once more at the baskets she carried, but his father spoke his name sharply, stopping him.
"Those aren't yours to look in" was all he said.
D'Abjan nodded and picked up the woman's things.
The stranger moaned once when Laryn lifted her, her eyes fluttering open briefly. But she didn't stir again before they reached the healer's cabin and laid her on a pallet by his hearth.
The old healer shuffled to her side and bent over her, looking intently at the bruise on her head. After some time, he straightened and clicked his tongue twice.
"Laryn," he said. "Put that kettle on the fire and then fetch me a bowl from the kitchen." He glanced at D'Abjan. "There's a bucket out front, boy. Fetch some fresh water from the stream. Not the well, mind you. The stream. Quickly now."
D'Abjan nodded and ran to do as the healer instructed. It was a long walk to the stream, and longer still on the return, carrying a full bucket of water. By the time he returned, the cabin was redolent with the smells of Pritt's healing herbs: comfrey and borage, betony and lavender.
"Ah, good," the healer said, seeing D'Abjan in the doorway. He beckoned to the boy. "Bring the bucket here. Is the water cold?"
"Freezing," D'Abjan said.
"Excellent." He had placed a poultice on the wound, but now he lifted it off and handed a dry cloth to D'Abjan. "Soak this in the water and lay it on the bruise. Refresh it every few moments. With time it ought to bring the swelling down."
"Yes, healer."
D'Abjan pulled a chair over to the side of the pallet and began to apply the cold cloth as the healer had told him. As he did, Pritt and D'Abjan's father moved off a short distance and began to speak in low voices. D'Abjan had to strain to hear them.
"She's taken quite a blow to the head," the healer said, glancing at the woman, his brow furrowed, a frown on his narrow face. "Someone younger, I wouldn't be too concerned. With time, such a wound will heal. But I'd guess this woman is in her seventies. I just don't know if she can recover the way someone younger would."
"How long until you'll know?"
The old man shrugged, glanced at her again. "By morning certainly. If she hasn't woken by then, she might not at all."
Laryn nodded. "Well, let us know how she's doing."
"Why don't you leave the boy with me?"
D'Abjan had taken care not to let the two men see that he was listening, but now he looked up, making no attempt to mask his eagerness.
"He has work to do," his father said, eyeing D'Abjan and clearly intending his remark for him as well.
"I could use the help," Pritt said. "And he was the one who found her. If she survives, it will be largely because of him."
If D'Abjan himself had asked, Laryn would have refused. The boy was certain of it. But refusing the old healer was another matter, and in the end his father relented.
"Fine, then," he said, trying with only some success to keep his tone light. "Stay with her. I'll return later."
"Thank you, Father."
He nodded once as he let himself out of the house, but he said nothing.
Pritt shuffled over to the pallet and watched D'Abjan as he wet the cloth again, wrung it out, and replaced it on the woman's bruise. "Good," the healer said. "Keep doing that. I've a few things to finish in the marketplace. I'll be back shortly. All right?"
"Yes, healer."
Pritt patted his shoulder and left the house.
D'Abjan continued to press the cloth gently to her wound, refreshing it every few moments with the cold water and watching the woman for any sign that she was waking. Seeing none, he heard again the healer's words, spoken quietly to his father. I just don't know if she can recover…
Bending to wet the cloth yet again, D'Abjan wondered if Pritt possessed healing magic. Was that why he had become a healer in the first place? Was he capable of saving the woman with his magic, if only he were permitted to wield it? D'Abjan knew that people had died in the healer's care. No doubt this happened to healers all the time. But if Pritt did have healing power, how did it make him feel, watching those in his care die, knowing that he might have been able to heal them? Of all Qirsi magics, surely here was one that Qirsar had to have intended for them to use. How could the god want the Y'Qatt to let others suffer, simply so that his children would preserve their V'Tol for another day? Where was the sense in that? Where was the compassion, the justice?
He was still considering this when the woman finally stirred, another low moan escaping her as her eyes opened slowly. She reached a hand up to her head, and D'Abjan removed the cloth.
"Water?" she whispered.
He jumped up. "Yes, of course." He found a cup in Pritt's kitchen and filled it with cold water from the bucket. He started to hand it to her but then realized she was in no condition to drink it on her own. Unsure of what else to do, D'Abjan put his hand behind her head and gently lifted her while holding the cup to her lips. Her hair felt thick and rough, and with her eyes open, staring sightlessly over the rim of the cup, she looked odd, even vaguely frightening. She took a sip or two before nodding that she had drunk enough. He lowered her head once more.
"Thank you," she said softly.
"You're welcome, good lady."
She looked around the cabin. "What happened to me?"
"I don't know. I saw you on the road leading into our village. You were already hurt. You made a noise, and then you fell down. My father and I brought you here."
"And where is here?"
"This is Pritt's home. He's our healer."
A faint smile touched her lips. "I meant what village."
D'Abjan felt his face color. "My pardon. This is Greenrill."
She shook her head and closed her eyes for a moment. "I don't know that name." After a moment she lifted a hand to her head again, and touched the bruise gingerly. "I take it we're waiting for your healer to come."
"No, good lady. He's already seen you." He lifted up the poultice that had been on her wound. "He prepared this."
"But you look Qirsi," she said.
"We are, good lady."
"So then, your healer has refused to tend to me."
Again he felt his face turning red. Why should it fall to him to explain this, when he had just been asking himself the same question? Was this Qirsar's way of punishing him? Was the god testing his faith by making him explain to this woman what it meant to be Y'Qatt?
"It's not our way to use magic, good lady. We are Y'Qatt. We… we believe that the god did not intend for us to use any of our powers."
She watched him with a strange expression-something akin to anger flashed in her dark eyes, and though she said nothing, D'Abjan felt compelled to explain more.
"The more power we use the shorter our lives," he said. "Our V'Tol-that's what we call our magic-it isn't supposed to be used. It's part of our life." He knew he wasn't explaining it well, but still he didn't stop. "We find other ways. We can shape wood with magic, but we use tools instead. We can light fires, but we use a tinder and flint instead. We can heal with magic, but we use herbs and poultices instead." He held up the poultice again, and then the wet cloth he'd been holding to her head. "We haven't neglected you, good lady. We've done our best."