Thank you so much, people who left those lovely reviews! I only read most of thme today - still no inernet. I hope this lives up to expectation :)
A/N: This is quite graphic - just a warning. If you don't like blood and that, best to just skim it in the middle, lol. Poor dwarves.
Chapter Forty-Eight.
Healers and Midwifes
The blackness was suffocating, but at least it was safe. Arya followed the small troop of dwarves, holding Eridor's neck to keep herself upright, and wished they could go faster. She dripped blood from various small wounds all over her battered, bruised body; but Eridor was far worse, and his tail was mangled cruelly by the fangs of the Fanghur. Blood and gristle fell from him when he moved, but Arya had no energy to heal him, and he had barely enough to keep walking towards the city.
And, by what Arya considered pure foolishness, the dwarves had not thought to have a Healer ready at the doors; thus, neither Arya nor Eridor would be healed until they reached the city itself. They were walking along a wide, pale-stoned road that wended its way through the outskirts of the massive crater and led straight to the main gates of the city, and it looked terribly long.
She stumbled, and her toe curled back on itself; Arya bit back a curse and continued doggedly on. Eridor breathed heavily, and winced at every movement, while Arya kept her gaze on the road; that way, perhaps, the distance would not seem so great.
After a fashion, it worked. Arya had fallen into a daze, where even her pain was numbed. She did not notice that they had arrived at the huge, golden gates of Tronjheim until the pounding of the mattocks upon the ground beat on her already sore ears.
She looked up in time to see the crier, who stood and announced who was coming, open his mouth. In one quick movement, finding the energy from somewhere, she leaped forward and covered his mouth, hissing so that all the dwarves close by her could hear:
"No one says a word about me and my dragon's arrival! Mention it to anyone, even your closest friend, and you will wish you had not. Do not think we will not know who has done so. Keep you mouths closed!"
The dwarves glared at her, but were suitably awed not to object; she released the crier, and, ignoring his coughs of surprise, turned to one of the gate-wardens.
"Get me a healer, and make haste. We are badly wounded." The warden looked to his chief, who gave a brief nod. The dwarf disappeared into the dark, silent city, and Arya sagged back against Eridor's side, holding her neck: there were gashes in it that she did not remember getting, but they hurt when she moved quickly.
Eridor was too full of agony to speak; Arya lay still, and closed her eyes, trying to even her breathing; soon, over the throbbing in her ears, she heard the panting breaths of a female dwarf. Arya opened her eyes, and saw coming towards her, holding a red were-light that bobbed on a pole, a woman garbed in black lace, and a veil covering her face. In that instant, Arya feared the worst.
"Is she dead?" she gasped out, knowing she sounded unstable but not caring; surely this woman was wearing mourning clothes for her dead queen.
"Is who dead, do you say, Lady?" the woman asked, alarm evident on her open, pink face. Arya tried to pull herself to her feet, but found that it was now impossible to get back up: silencing the crier had taken her last reserve of energy.
"Your Queen - does she live?"
"Kilf protect her - yes she lives still." The woman turned sharply on the warriors and let out a stream of the rough dwarves words. The leader gave her a reply with sounded like an affirmative, and woman looking down at her again.
"Eka friciai ai Varden ac Shurtugal?" she asked keenly. Arya managed to frown at her, annoyed at how she was answering questions to a minion of the king in a away that made her seem a subordinate.
"Greta wiol neu Shurtugal, ai pomnuria Carravior Varden! Yes, I am a friend of the Varden, and I have come to answer the summons Orik sent us to help his wife - I need to get to her, soon!"
The woman stared at her, a shrewd look on her broad features. Then she knelt down by Arya, taking herbs from a bag at her side. "I am the Healer. Where does it hurt?"
Pride stung, Arya tried to draw her legs in nearer to her chest. "Heal Eridor. Heal my dragon first."
"You need energy," the Healer said trying to force a bottle of something that smelt foul into Arya's mouth.
"No." Arya forced herself to turn away, and once again said, "Heal my dragon."
"But you are one and the same! You both need … need …" the Healer ground her teeth, trying to find the right word in the Common Tongue. "Need food!"
Arya closed her eyes, partly through the pain, and partly through anger that she was not strong enough to give clear orders and be obeyed. "I don't want food. Give me … Faelnirv … for energy …"
"What is it?" the dwarf asked, and Arya repressed a groan of frustration. "Lady, we have it not in our remedies."
"It is not a remedy," Arya said, focussing as severely as she could on the woman's face, though it swam about in a funny way. "It is a drink … for stimulating … the body … And I need it … now."
"We have it not. Elvish things we do not keep." The Healer's homely face contorted in consternation as Arya gasped - a loud sound in the stillness - because Eridor's scales were digging into his exposed flesh and he was in pain.
Tell them 'whiskey', he said, trying to speak to her and block the pain from his mind at the same time. It is Faelnirv!
Arya blinked; for a moment the red were-lamp had seemed to flicker purple, and it made her head spin. "Whiskey?" she said, spitting the word out amidst the pain in her ribs. "You have - whiskey?"
"No, Lady! Not for medicine, indeed!" exclaimed the Healer, who was busy with various instruments in her leather bag. But she froze, as, with much ejaculation and streams of dwarvish, one of the waiting warriors barged past his fellows, and took from his ox-hide belt a flask of horn.
"Whiskey!" he said, waving at Arya, who saw three flasks instead of one beneath her nose. "Drinkitt!" he cried in broken words. "Drinkitt, good!"
Go on, Arya! It is safe, I'm sure.
Too tired to argue and too confused to understand what whiskey was, Arya took it and, with cold hands, tipped the whole thing into her mouth.
"Pah!"
She straight away clapped her hand to her mouth, eyes watering and throat blistering. Even Eridor was for a moment distracted from his pain. The whiskey was burningly powerful and so hot! She could feel it tearing a searing path down her throat and it shocked her body and mind into wakefulness again.
"Az barzarg knurla nash kaz!" The dwarf who had given it to her was staring at her, eyes bulging. "Reiz cratz vorzurgha catrazh!"
Arya stared back at him through watering eyes. "What, knurlheim?"
"All!" he said in his oddly-accented voice. "All gone!" An awed look crept into his expression. "Guntera vorz, vanyali -"
"Enough, man," the Healer said sharply. He subsided into wide-eyed silence, and the woman stared instead at Arya. "How you feel, now?"
Arya blinked; it had worked, that whiskey, exactly whatever it may have been. The pounding in her head had subsided, and it was easier to think; her mind felt sharper, and the pain of her cuts and bruises faded. "Better … a lot better … Thank you, knurlheim," she added, inclining her head carefully to the soldier. He gaped wordlessly at her, beard wagging.
"It is not meant to be taken in such big … such big parts," her Healer said. She also seemed a little wary of Arya. "It inebriates, look you …"
"I am not inebriated," Arya said indignantly. Gathering her strength - which was suddenly considerably more - she pulled herself upright by use of the spikes on Eridor's drooping neck, and pointed at him, looking at the Healer sternly. "Heal him."
"But your neck, my Lady … 'tis very bad …"
Arya ignored her. "Heal my dragon now. Do it as best as you possibly can. Do you know the Words of Changing Flesh?"
"I am the most oldest Healer here," the woman replied coldly. "I know all the healing ways."
"Good." Arya gritted her teeth for a moment, as a wave of slight nausea overcame her. She would not be any use until she had some real, true energy in her. But she could not take it from the dwarves, and certainly Eridor had none to spare. But then her tired eyes alighted on the red were-lamps that dotted the silent streets, and she smiled. They were sustained using spells of a clever, though simple kind, and Arya knew that in each was a small portion of energy that kept them burning.
She stretched put her mind, trying not to let Eridor's own anguished one hinder her movements, tempting though it was simply to go and comfort him, and felt for all the lamps on the nearby streets. And then she drew it all to her, absorbing them into her tired body and plunging many alleys into darkness.
The dwarves - but for the stern Healer kneeling at Eridor's side - cried out in surprise and consternation. Arya felt a twinge of guilt - it would make a lot of inconvenient work for somebody, re-casting all the spells on all those lights - but repressed it: it had been necessary.
Joints soothed, energy regained, and much steadier on her feet, Arya turned back to Eridor, watching anxiously as the Healer said the long string of complicated words that would knit the flesh and scales back together.
But the injury was horrible: Arya had not seen it clearly before and it was foul. The long incisors of the Fanghur had driven deep into the delicate muscles that moved Eridor's spiked tail, and the scales that had been such good armours were twisted and some had fallen off; blood and scraps of red gristle floated around the unhurt scales and dropped to the floor. Arya stared in horror at it, and tried to comfort Eridor, soothing his mind and offering words that made no sense but were meant kindly.
" … Reisa jarthruin ashmana palitha niaduen …" Arya gripped Eridor's neck spikes tightly as she watched the last of his flesh being pulled back together. "Bring my bag, warden," the Healer said, and after receiving it started bathing the still-inflamed skin in a oil very much like Arya's tea tree.
Did she do it right? Arya asked, gently probing at Eridor's tired mind.
Yes, she is very good. It feels like new.
Good, Arya said, sagging with relief. I am so glad - I though you would loose too much blood … or something worse.
Not me. Eridor gave quiet laugh. It would take more than a Fanghur to stop us, eh?
Yes, exactly, Arya said, laughing, so relieved it was yet again hard to think. What things we can tell Eragon and Saphira when we get back!
I look forward to it. Eridor, however, still had no energy; and he refused to take Arya's. When he tried to stand, his knees buckled. I am afraid that I will have to stay here a while longer, he said, sounding irritated. But you had better go.
Where? Arya asked, confused. I won't go anywhere without you, Eridor -
No, no! Eridor exclaimed. The queen!
Barzul, Arya said bleakly, angry with herself. I forgot, fool that I am! "Healer, where is your queen? I have the antidote to her poison in my pack."
There were cries of shock and relief amongst the dwarven troops, and many of them made signs of gratitude to their Gods over their broad chests. Arya eyed the healer sternly.
"I hope that it will still work as long as her blood has not fully changed. I have instructions on how to administer it. And I am quite strong enough now."
The Healer - for whom Arya felt a growing respect - looked utterly stunned. "But how, Lady? Orik Konungr sent to the elves with no hope for an answer! And you come, you with your dragon! Guntera blesses us, and Kilf protects us today more than ever." She thumped her hand on her chest in a reverent manner and bowed slightly.
"That is good," Arya said stiffly, uncomfortable as always when they mentioned their Gods. "But take me to her now, as quickly as possible, if you please."
"Yes, Lady." The Healer picked up her leather bag, bowed to Eridor, who looked rather surprised, and then straightened up, though she still only reached Arya's middle. "This way."
They set off through the dark city, taking the stately main roads and presently they came to the main part of the palace; all the guards admitted Arya and her guide without question - the woman was evidently well-known - and soon Arya found herself in a long corridor, adorned with bright tapestries and sculptures in coloured rocks sat in niches in the stone walls. Yellow light spilled from a door at the end, and many different voices drifted to Arya's ears, all tense and worried, and all in the dwarven tongue.
"It is my Queen's chamber," the Healer said, and respectfully drew back to let Arya in first.
For a very short second, all Arya could was the silks and multi-coloured curtains that filled the room; then she blinked, and looked about. Three dwarves - one man and two women - were milling quietly about the chamber, and the man stood at a white porcelain basin, filled with warm water and was washing a rag in it.
But it was the bed that drew Arya's reluctant eyes, and the poor, miserable figure that lay on it. Arya had never had many dealing with Orik's queen, but she had quietly respected her stately manor, and precise way of going about her duties; how, then, could the sweating, wretched figure on the spacious bed be that same woman?
Arya drew nearer, oblivious to the startled, hostile looks of the surrounding dwarves, but stopped at least a few feet from the bed: there was something wrong with the shape of her patient, and a strange swelling …
"Hellfire!"
Only such a considerable shock would have surprised Arya into swearing at the sickbed of a queen; she looked accusingly at the healer who had guided her there.
"Why didn't you tell me she was with child?!"
With out waiting for an answer, Arya took her pack from her back, and, dropping it on the carpeted floor, approached the woman, hands balling into fists.
"Hvedra?"
The dwarf turned her tortured, sweating face to Arya, a look of utter despair and terror on her face. Her firm mouth was hanging slack, the wide forehead creased and hot; she held her swollen belly tightly, agony in every line of her short form. There was no recognition in her blurry gaze, but Arya was not untrained in the ways of a Healer, despite that she rarely worked outside a battlefield. She softened the lines of her faces, and leant down with an air that vaguely reminded her of her mother.
"I am Arya. Your husband sent to me to come and heal you."
Hvedra's eyes widened, but suddenly she convulsed, sinking her head onto her chest, thrashing wildly in an effort to deal with the pain. The Healers around her leapt into action, applying cool towels and trying in vain to comfort their patient. Arya's own Healer turned to her, her brown eyes wide with fear.
"It is always like this. She is quiet, and then explodes! I have it not in my training to deal with the poison."
"How long now?" Arya asked hollowly, her mind working furiously. "How long has it been in her system?"
"Three full days and one night."
Arya closed her eyes for a moment, trying to remember exactly what had been written in that old scroll. Palancar had lived how long after being poisoned …? Her over-worked, worried mind could not recall, and it was important.
Six days, Eridor said obligingly; he had been listening into the conversation, and was quite able to understand. Six days he lived in agony, and died on the seventh night.
There's still time, then, Arya said, relieved but no happier; Hvedra's life depended on Arya's skill as a Healer and Niduen's clear instructions from the Master Healer. She pulled her pack towards her, searching through the layers of clothes and blankets until she found the carefully sealed and warded scroll with the instructions on. Hvedra had fallen silent again, and her rattling breath was the only sound in the room.
"Please get me a pestle and mortar," she said, looking at the man sharply. "Quickly. Tell no one that I am here."
"Yes, Lady," he said in thick tones, and bustled from the room. Arya reached once more into the pack and soon found the small, hexagonal jar that contained the bright powder that was the antidote. The cries of the poisoned woman reverberated around the stone chamber; Arya pulled the scroll apart, and started to read.
Eragon stared at the pink strips of sun that were dying away on the horizon of the Desert, but did not really see it. There had been no signs of anyone, dragon or otherwise, travelling across the Desert, and nowhere had they met Arya and Eridor, collapsed from the heat or wounded my nomads' spears; it was, on the whole, a good thing that they had passed this far seemingly unhurt, but they were only halfway through the Hardarac Desert.
He and Saphira had barely exchanged a worry, though her earlier prickliness had disappeared; they simply kept going, and were united in their worrying. Eragon felt a lump of true anguish in his heart when he thought of Saphira's premonition, and of Arya and Eridor's suffering; and Saphira could not wholly shake it from her mind, and her fear was worse than Eragon's: Eridor was the only other one of her race left and she felt for him as fiercely as Eragon did for Arya, but in a rather different way.
Do you think that Hvedra will still be alive? he asked eventually, as a cluster of spiky cactuses passed underneath them.
I don't know. We didn't even ask the name of the poison. I hope Arya manages to cure her; we will not be able to.
I hope so. Eragon closed his eyes, trying to dispel the images and thoughts that flooded his mind. What if they got there, and found that Arya and Eridor had never arrived, that the dwarves hadn't even known they were coming? What if Hvedra had died; and if Eragon and Saphira were not able to find Arya and Eridor? They were all of them possibilities; and this worrying was a new thing entirely for him and Saphira: even Roran and Nasuada did not incur such repetitive, vivid, heart-stopping worry.
This was more than him alone worrying for just Arya; it was more than the fact that he loved her; it was for Eridor and Arya, for the only other Rider they knew, their closest and most trusted friends: it was for friendship, and only now in the face of such danger did Eragon and Saphira realise quite how much Eridor and Arya meant to them.
Arya dipped a china spoon into the paste she had made with the ground powder, and carefully measured the dose, then turned back to Hvedra, feeling distinctly hot about the neck. "Hold her," she ordered the four Healers, and each one held tightly a foot or hand, for Hvedra was very strong in her paroxysms of pain.
Arya forced open the queen's mouth, pushing firmly on each side of her jaw, and when her teeth were fully exposed, pushed in the spoon, emptying the paste in as quickly as possible.
It was not a nice remedy; it smelt of dead flowers and dust, and so Hvedra objected very much when she felt it in her mouth. Arya quickly dropped the spoon and clapped her hand to Hvedra's mouth so that she could not spit it out, while with other hand she massaged the woman's glands, to encourage her to swallow it.
With one large gulp it went down, and Arya stood back. The queen coughed and retched, but it was done.
"Wash her," she ordered the Healers, who leapt into action with water and towels. As they did so Arya loaded another spoon, and forced it down Hvedra's swollen throat, forcing it down and holding her mouth shut.
"She starts again!" cried the woman by her side. "Hold her!"
Hvedra was thrashing again, knocking the spoon away and rolling around, holding her belly and moaning; Arya leant forward over her body, trying to calm her; but one of Hvedra's flailing hands hit her full across the cheek with the strength that only a desperate person summon, and Arya reeled back, holding a hand to her face. It hurt.
"Stand back," she told them Healers, but they did not obey, and hung onto their charge's limbs still. "Stand back!" she said forcefully, glaring at them. They stood back sullenly, and Arya leant again over the woman.
"Slytha," She placed her hands on Hvedra's wild eyes and carefully entering her mind; the thrashing stopped, and her body went limp.
"What did you do?!" cried the male Healer. He pushed past Arya to the bed. "Elf, what have you done?!"
Arya looked at him with great disdain. "I have given her sleep. It is easier for her and us this was."
"No, no!" He pulled at his hair and beard desperately. "You have put her too deep! She is too ill to pull out now!"
"If you do not listen to me, Healer, she will never recover at all! Do you want my assistance or not?"
"Not, not!" he cried; Arya thought he looked quite deranged. "Dwarves will heal dwarves. We do not need outsiders' help."
Arya frowned at him, very much annoyed. "How well can you guard your mind?"
But she felt his answer in his mind before he said it. "Never mind that! Just leave us, Elf, I beg you!"
She lifted one eyebrow at him; and, quick as she was able to, invaded his mind, overwhelming his defences and speaking aloud, "Slytha."
He slid to the ground in a dead faint. The other three stared at him, eyes wide and scared. Arya felt a slight twinge of regret, but quelled it. "Is there any one else who has any objections to my methods in saving your Queen?"
They said nothing. Arya softened her face a little, for she needed their help, and, glancing down at the man's motionless body, said, "He is only asleep. I did not hurt him. He would not have been useful in what we have to do."
"What is that?" The oldest Healer said, the one who had healed Eridor. "He was a senior Healer, Lady. It was not your right."
Arya didn't bother to argue, and turned away. "I have not the time to debate dwarven rights with you," she said icily. "Will you help me or not?"
"For my Queen, I will help you." The one who had spoken first stood up. "But if she does not recover, then you will answer to the Council."
"Very well," Arya said coolly. "Though it was not I who poisoned her."
The three women came forward, and Arya once more turned back to the jar of orange paste, scooping a level amount onto the china spoon. "Will you please heat water for a bath," she said quietly, so as not to risk alarming the ill woman any more, "and prepare it with plenty bay leaves and vinegar."
Despite that Niduen had suggested it, as it calmed the joints, Arya felt as if she were practicing some kind of obscure rite; it smacked of folklore. As the Healers went about, stoking the fire until it roared and hooking a large cauldron above it, Arya bent over the sleeping Queen. She opened her mouth, and carefully inserted the paste; and before Hvedra could notice, massaged her glands; and down it went, easier that the last time and with much less hassle.
In this way, the rest of the pot was consumed. Hvedra was only just starting to stir when the Healer came to tell her the bath was ready, and that they had moved their male companion's body into the next room. Quickly, before she woke, they undressed Hvedra and settled her in the bath, erecting screens and keeping more hot water at hand; Arya was very pleased, and impressed by their common sense. As she got more and more tired, the three women became brighter and brighter: they thought their beloved Queen was recovering.
Arya hoped so - she thought it might happen. Gone was the nightmare of a few hours ago, in which she had been exhausted, bleeding, and Eridor had been close to falling unconscious upon the stone floor of Tronjheim, while a woman died. Now Eridor was rested, and Hvedra was quite and calm, and had taken all of the antidote. Hope was restored.
With this cheering thought, Arya filled the pot that had contained the antidote with warm water and swilled it around, making sure all the last dregs were stirred. She stepped around the screen, and poured it into the bath with bay leaves; this, Niduen said in her scroll, was so that it would cool her blood completely. Hvedra was still sleeping, but quietly; the healers were holding her still in the large copper bath, and there was a pillow under head.
Arya quietly bent to check her pulse; and instead of the racing, desperate beat she had felt before it was steady and easy. Arya was so relieved that she sat down on a near stool, and sighed; the Healer who had threatened to bring her before the dwarven Council looked up. Her face, red with the heat of the water and fire she had been bending over and the hours she had been awake, was a mirror of Arya's.
"She is better now, is she not?"
"I think so." Arya gazed at the sleeping woman. "I hope so. But we will have to wait and see."
"I think she is better. I have been a senior Healer to the royal family for many years. I was there at Hrothgar's death. I nearly died with him, when the spell hit the wards I had around him …" Arya looked up in surprise, but the Healer was now looking at her charge, face clouded over. "King Orik trusts me. He tells me to look after them - she and the child. I try, but she is poisoned - and I - I do nothing. I know nothing, how to heal it. I told the King to send for help. I did not think it would come in time."
Arya stared at the woman, surprised and quite moved by her words. "The elves have had their … differences with your people - but we all hate Galbatorix. We want him brought down, just as you do. We respect you, and we all fight for the same end."
"That is so, Lady." The Healer nodded, glancing at Arya for a quick moment. "But you are not an elf." Arya jumped, and wondered if lack of sleep and gone to her head.
"Excuse me?"
A small smile lifted the corners of the Healer's firm mouth. "You have the Silver Hand … and you have a dragon."
"Oh … yes." Arya blinked, remembering that she knew about Eridor; what explanation could she give? "He is my dragon, yes. But you must not say anything to anyone! Do not let one word of what you know about us leave this room, do you understand?! Galbatorix must not know of his hatching."
The woman stared at her solemnly. Then, slowly, she thumped her hand on her chest, and bowed a little to Arya. "Vel einradn iet berundal. Upon my word as a Healer of Wounds, I shall not breathe a word, Lady."
Arya said nothing, so overcome and taken aback by this movement that she had nothing to say: the Healer had bound herself in the Ancient Language, sworn by irrevocable vows to be silent. She would never be free of it.
"Why …" Arya stopped as Eridor pushed his way into her mind.
You saved her Queen, and you can see how much she loves Hvedra! She is offering friendship, and a truce … and she wants to show that she respects you.
I suppose so, she said quietly to him, then looked back at the Healer. "What is your name?"
"Lorzhara, of Durgrimst Ingietum." She gave Arya long, clear glance, and then turned back to Hvedra, who was starting to move a little amidst all the steam. She smoothed the wet hair back from the tall forehead with a tender movement. "She is my grandmother's sister's granddaughter. Not very much closeness in blood, but I have always cared for, through all her hard life."
Arya smiled a little, quite moved by that one, small show of affection. "My cousin is always trying to look after me," she said, remembering Niduen's constant, chiding advice. "She is older than me, also."
Lorzhara looked at her with an odd expression. "How old are you?" Arya bristled, not wishing to say anything on that subject, and she made to get up, but Lorzhara caught her sleeve quickly. "Please, I did not mean offence. I cannot tell by your face, you see. I wanted to know if you remembered the Riders before they fell … that is all."
Arya, once more surprised, sat back down with a bump. "I was born three years before the Fall. My father was killed in the battle at Doru Areaba … though it was not merely a battle," she added angrily, hand clenching into fists. "It was a slaughter, and the cursed Forsworn spared no one."
"You do not remember the old Riders, then?" Lorzhara sighed. "I was born five years after the Fall. We were all poor, and ill, and we had little food. The Thirteen Cursed -" Arya knew she meant the Forsworn " - were always attacking Tarnag, and few goods got through the Beors unharmed. Me and my family were always hungry, always tired, and my parents died. Then Brom came, and he made the Varden here, with Hrothgar. Hvedra's family took me in; and when she was born, I became her minder. I have rarely left her side since, and we fought on together."
Arya listened to this, to this miserable tale spoken with such courage, and felt confused. This woman was only a little younger than herself; her life had hardly been better than hers - worse, almost - and yet she seemed happy with her life, and she did not fear to let she, Arya, see that it upset her still. Arya wanted to be able to say that she was sorry for her losses; but could not. It was alien to her, and she did not know how.
"You … you have not failed her, Lorzhara," Arya said hesitantly, knowing how ironic it was that she was offering comfort. "No one could have stopped it happening .. And no one else knew how to cure, either. You saved her by healing Eridor - that is, my dragon - and curing us, the only ones who could have saved her."
"Perhaps that is true." She reached into the bath and poured some water over Hvedra's neck and face to wash all of her body; Arya could not see her face. "But you saved her, whatever else we did."
One of the other women came in, holding a large cauldron with more hot water to top up the levels in the bath. She carefully emptied it in and stopped when it became warm enough. Arya fell silent and the woman with the cauldron turned to Lorzhara, murmuring a few words in dwarfish.
"Yes, she will be better now," the Healer said in reply, with a quick look at Arya. "Are you tired now, Rasha? You and Siliza can go to rest now … make sure you do not mention anything about this evening to anyone until further notice, yes?" she glared severely at the woman, and then looked at Arya. "You can go as well … I can look after her well enough now."
Arya did not even mind being talked to as if she were one of Lorzhara's subordinates, but she was not quite prepared to do as she said. "I do no think that would be right … I should see it through to the end …"
"Vorz, Vorz!" The other woman - Rasha - was pointing at the bath, and pouring out panicked words in dwarfish. "Vorz Hvedra Kashmana!"
Lorzhara sprang to her feet and Arya followed suit. Hvedra had woken up, and was moaning, crying in pain and holding her swollen belly, face screwed up in pain. Arya stared down at her, heart in her mouth.
"Is it the poison?" she asked numbly. Lorzhara did not reply, apparently too surprised to speak. Rasha was gasping excitedly, and the other woman had arrived, twisted her apron in her hands.
"Blazh grayr manwi crazh, Misastra Lorzhara?" she asked, eyes wide with fright. This seemed to raised Lorzhara from her stupefied state.
"Get clean towels and heat some more water, Siliza." The urgency in her voice was unmistakeable. "Rasha, go and get Gerta or Mistress Razhabel if you can find her - Quickly, girl! Go!"
The two Healers scurried away, their homely faces full of fright, but also a strange excitement Arya could not understand. Lorzhara had bent over Hvedra again, but Arya caught her arm swiftly. "Who are these people? Why do you need them?" she demanded sharply.
But at that moment Hvedra gave another sharp cry of pain, and the water sloshed over the sides of the bath. Lorzhara met Arya's eyes defiantly.
"They are midwifes. Hvedra has gone into labour."
Eragon stared. This was ridiculous. So many different types of blood he could not tell which was which. There was the blood of a Fanghur, there of a wolf who had tried its luck on a feed not dead; there, however, was the hot, bright blood of a dragon, and was unmistakeably Eridor's. It had burnt into the stone and wood it had fallen on, directly beside that of the wounded Fanghur.
They were in a small valley, where Saphira had spotted the creature, lying on its back, groaning. Very gingerly they had approached it, but had found it very weak. But amongst its own blood was that of Eridor's. Hearts-in-mouth, Eragon and Saphira had searched the area, but found nothing.
Nothing, Saphira. We'll just have to keep going.
Oh, well … You'd better heal it, she said a little grudgingly, eying the Fanghur severely. They are a rarity here.
And Durgrimst Fanghur would never forgive me, Eragon added grimly. I know.
He said a few words of healing, repairing the rip in its brown wings and repairing the scratches on its side. He got onto Saphira quickly, so that it would not follow them, and she took off. The valley they were leaving was very close to the Lake of Kostha-merna as the crow flew, and Saphira was faster than nay crow. In a few short minutes, the clear blue of the water was visible and Saphira landed by the edge of the river that ran down it.
I hope to the Gods that they are here, he said after he had climbed down from her back; he looked apprehensively at the great wall of water that was thundering down from the cliff. Gods bless.
Come, then, Saphira said, nudging him forward onto the narrow rib of rock that ran around the edge of the lake. We shall see who we are favoured by.
Arya did not at first notice the Healer who approached her with bundle of cloths and soft blankets until it was shoved into her hands by a solemn Siliza.
"What - no -"
The girl poured out a string of words in dwarfish, and hurried off again to the fire, where Hvedra was being attended. The bundle moved, and waved one of its tiny, pink fists. Arya looked down at it, the shape unfamiliar in her arms, more used to a sword than to youngsters.
Hvedra's new son was very small, a premature birth; but his brown eyes were bright and inquisitive in his rumpled, pink face; she could almost imagine the beard on that dimpled, hairless chin and thick hair on the bald head.
He smelt soft and warm, and he was hot in the blankets; Arya did not know the smell of babies, nor the feel of one, nor how a new-born child looked; but she stared down at the tiny dwarf and marvelled.
His hands were so small, his nails perfectly formed, yet miniature; and the tiny feet that kicked, complete with seven toes and heels and ankles and chubby calves; the mouth and wispy eyebrows that already had a look of Orik's; and the way he grinned and gurgled and twisted around in the swathe of blankets.
She jiggled him awkwardly, and lifted him higher to her chest, still staring. Eridor looked at him through her eyes, and chuckled. But Arya saw nothing funny, and although she felt ridiculous, she was quite entranced by the child, and she gently lifted her hand and touched its soft head. He jumped, and started to whimper.
"Oh no - no, hush, hush …"
A little wiser this time, she rocked him gently across her chest, and touched his waving fist; immediately he grabbed it, and squeezed her finger with surprising strength for such a small thing. Arya stroked his head carefully and he waved his hand about, along with her finger.
A smile came onto her face, one that was quite unguarded, and showed that she was quite entranced with the new prince. She did not even hear Lorzhara arrive, nor the door open.
"Vladir barzh kumgagil, dozh ragarz bitz gorv …!"
The rough male voice jolted Arya into awareness of her surroundings. A man had just entered and was kneeling by Hvedra; Arya scowled. Hadn't she told that healer to leave them alone? And he was not allowed to bother her when she was in such a delicate condition. She held the baby closer and marched in high dudgeon to the Healer.
"Didn't I tell you that you were not wanted here?" she said fiercely but quietly to avoid upsetting the child. "I demand that you leave, now -"
"Arya!" For the first time Arya this dwarf's face. She had barely a second to recognise her mistake. "Arya, by the Gods, how is this possible?! And - and the baby -!"
"Orik!"
The King disregarded this, and sprang to his feet, beard wagging. "You blessed woman! You saved my wife - my child -" his dark eyes lit up as he saw the bundle in her arms. "Is that - that -"
Hvedra watched with half-open eyes from where she lay on the soft bed where she had been when Arya had first come, and smiled in a dazed, but pleased way. Arya glanced at her, and then carefully handed the bundle of baby to Orik. He took it, and gazed down at his child.
"Boy or girl?" he asked breathlessly, stroking the little boy's head with utter adoration.
"Boy," Arya said quietly. Orik made a funny cooing noise and hugging the baby tightly, swaying it and rocking it from side to side. Hvedra watched him with absolute absorption and the Healers were busy emptying the bath water away, and folding up the screen.
Arya watched the homely scene in front of her, and despite that it was a triumph, a life saved and new life born healthy and whole, felt rather lonely. She had no other person to share it with but Eridor and she heartily wished it was otherwise. So, when she was sure everyone in the room was occupied she slipped silently through the stone door and away; the joyous dwarves did not notice and she was not missed until much later, by which time she and Eridor were fast asleep in a deserted guard-room on the other side of the city walls.
Lol, I found out to make those line things! Very useful, because OoOoO was really quite annoying. Anywa, hope this wasn't too long a wait - I've been writing an Enlgish assignment by hand, writing this, and starting Biology as well. I'm so glad I haven't come to the tapeworm part yet! Ew ...
:grins: who saw about Lembit Opik and his Cheeky Girl? It's only because they were on All Star Mr and Mrs! He just does it to embarrass us all here, in his own constituency. I can tell you here and now that the Lib Dems will not be in power here after the local elections!
