"But without magic."
"Yes." He nodded. "Without magic."
"And what if your herbs and your cloth hadn't helped me?"
He just gaped at her, not knowing how to answer, afraid even to try. For several moments, neither of them spoke, and D'Abjan found himself glancing toward the door, wishing Pritt would return.
"But they did help me, didn't they?" she finally said, smiling at him. He grinned, his relief as welcome as sleep after a long day of work.
"Yes, good lady."
She closed her eyes for a short time, before suddenly opening them again. "Where are my things?"
"Just over there, good lady," D'Abjan said, pointing to her baskets and carry sack, which sat by the wall near the door.
"Ah, good. Good." She closed her eyes again. "What's your name, boy?" she asked.
"D'Abjan, my lady."
"I'm Licaldi."
"Do you live near here?" he asked.
"I told you, I don't know where here is. But I've lived in the highlands all my life." She opened one eye and looked at him. "I'm Mettai." He felt his eyes widen.
"You know what that means?"
D'Abjan nodded. He did know, or at least he thought he did. His father had explained to him once about blood magic and the Eandi conjurers and witches who wielded it. He'd listened as he would to a legend told beside a fire during the Festival Moon, but for a long time he'd wondered if such people truly existed. As he'd grown older he'd come to understand that there was truth to the stories, but until now, he'd never met an Eandi sorcerer.
"You fear me now," she said softly, smiling slightly.
"No, good lady. Forgive me. I merely… I've never met one of your people before."
"Are we Mettai that odd then? Are Eandi sorcerers any stranger from Qirsi who forswear their magic?"
Before he could answer, the door opened, and Pritt stepped into the house.
"Ah!" he said, seeing that her eyes were open. "You're awake! Excellent!"
"This is the healer," D'Abjan said. "Pritt, this is Licaldi."
"Licaldi, is it?" he asked, crossing to the bed. He glanced at D'Abjan, who stood and got out of the healer's way. Pritt sat and examined her wound. "How are you feeling, Licaldi?"
"A bit dizzy," she said. "And my head aches."
"I imagine. Do you remember what happened?"
"No, I-" She stopped, staring at him. "Yes. Yes, I do. There was a man. No, wait. Two men. One in front of me on the road. The other behind me. They took my gold and they hit me with… with something."
"A rock, I'd say, from the look of the wound."
She shook her head, looking like she might cry. "I don't remember. I just know that they took my gold. I've been traveling through the highlands, selling my baskets, living off what I could earn from the trades I made. Now I've nothing again." Her eyes met Pritt's. "I can't pay you, healer. Even without your magic, you've been kind and you've helped me. But I have no gold for you."
Pritt shrugged. "That's all right."
Her face brightened. "But I still have my baskets." She sat up straighter. "Bring me one of those baskets, D'Abjan," she said, motioning for him to hurry.
The healer offered an indulgent smile, even as he shook his head. "Really, there's no need."
D'Abjan carried one of the large baskets to the pallet and laid it on Licaldi's lap. She removed the blanket and started looking through the smaller baskets as if trying to decide which one to give the healer.
Pritt stared at them. "You made all of these?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, not bothering to look up.
D'Abjan stood beside Pritt, also gazing at the treasures in her basket. "They're beautiful."
"Thank you, boy. You can have one, as well. Take it home to your mother and father, and tell them that you earned it with your kindness and good manners."
He smiled. "Yes, good lady." After looking over the baskets for a few moments, D'Abjan selected a deep, oval-shaped one with a braided handle. The rushes from which it had been woven were dyed green and blue-his mother's favorite colors.
"A fine choice," Licaldi said. She looked up at the healer. "And you, healer?"
Pritt shrugged slightly, but then reached for a shallow round basket that had no handle. "This will hold my healing herbs," he said. "And each day I use it, I'll think of you, kind madam."
"You're too kind, healer."
She pushed herself out of the bed and stood.
"What are you doing?" Pritt asked, a frown on his face.
"I have to be on my way. My gold is gone. I can't tarry here earning nothing. I'll stop at your marketplace, and then I'll be on my way."
"But your injury!" the healer said. "You shouldn't be standing, much less wandering the land on your own. At least stay the night. If you're feeling well enough, you can be on your way in the morning."
She smiled at him, as if he were a child and she an indulgent parent. "But, healer, I'm feeling well enough now."
Looking at her, D'Abjan realized that she did look well. Her color had returned, the haze of pain had lifted from her dark eyes, even the swelling at her temple appeared to have gone down. It almost seemed that the god himself had reached down and mended her wound, as if he were determined to prove to D'Abjan that the healer's poultice was enough, and that there was no need to resort to magic.
"Well, I can't keep you here against your will," Pritt told her sourly. "But I fear you're making a terrible mistake."
"I appreciate your concern, healer. If I do myself injury by leaving your care too soon, I'll have no one to blame but myself. You've been clear with your warnings."
"At least let me place a bandage on the wound."
She inclined her head. "I'd be grateful."
It took Pritt only a few moments to bandage her head, and soon the woman was on her way toward the marketplace, her carry sack on her back, one of the great baskets under each arm.
"She's an odd woman," D'Abjan said, standing in the healer's doorway, watching her go.
"She's a fool," the healer muttered. "You'd best get back to your father, boy. Don't forget your basket."
He retrieved his basket from beside the pallet and started back toward Laryn's woodshop. The walk took him through the marketplace and before long he spotted Licaldi. She stood in the middle of the lane, her large baskets resting on the ground as she bartered with at least six peddlers. D'Abjan tried to catch her eye, but she was too intent on her bargaining to notice him. He hurried on, confident that before day's end she would recoup a good deal of the gold she had lost to the road brigands. Within a few days, everyone in Greenrill would have one of the woman's baskets.
As he walked, he couldn't help thinking that by bringing that woman to Greenrill, by allowing D'Abjan to find her as he emerged from the forest, the god had taught him something. Without using magic at all, the healer had saved the old woman's life. More, he had done it with ease. D'Abjan couldn't imagine that magic would work any faster than had the herbs and cold cloth. Surely not all healers could succeed so quickly, but Pritt had been honing his craft for years. And perhaps that was what the god had meant to show him. Of course D'Abjan couldn't expect to be a master craftsman after only three years as his father's apprentice, and yes, right now his magic worked quicker and with greater precision than did his hands. But with time and practice, he could learn to work wood as his father did. Finally he understood why his people refused to squander their V'Tol in order to save time or avoid work. To do so was to reward laziness and ignore the value of mastering a skill.
"I understand, Qirsar," he whispered. And he knew that he had gone to his clearing in the forest for the last time.
It was late when he reached the house. Sunlight angled sharply across the lane, and the air had begun to grow cool. Even from the road, he could hear his father sweeping the floors, a chore Laryn usually left for D'Abjan.