CHAPTER 21: Healing

The next three days were swallowed up in preparations and meetings for her friends, so Alanna had almost all seventy-two hours to herself. At first, reading sufficed enough to pass the time, but after a morning of staring blandly at black marks on paper, she resorted to aimless ambles down hallways, thinking about nothing.

It was one of these jaunts that finally brought her a craved time-filler, when Duke Gareth strode in the opposite direction as she did at a speed that seemed too rapid for a walk. She paid him no mind because, like everyone else these days, he was probably rushing for some appointment that had started a half an hour earlier.

"You look dismal, Trebond," he observed idly.

Alanna jumped in surprise, and then shrugged casually. "I'm bored, Your Grace."

"Really?" he asked, his tone not changing but a small smile touching the corners of his mouth. "My servant, Timon, is suffering from an overload of work. Go to my office; he'll find something for you to do."

Delighted, Alanna obeyed. She spent the rest of the day shuffling papers, feeling useful.

The next day, the troops were to assemble for the King's inspection. Just for the fun of it and to get out into the fresh air, she saddled Duke Gareth's mount. Stefan chided her for being a workaholic, and offered to fetch a pitchfork for mucking stalls, if she wanted.

The examination worked magnificently. Everything expected and more was ready. Jonathan, riding next to Duke Gareth, looked as regal as ever, the fearless warrior everyone coveted as their Prince. His knight friends were just as calm; their squires suffered from either excited or terrified jitters. However scared she felt for her friends, she was twice as proud.

Finally, they set off, leaving Alanna staring longingly at their vanishing backs.

Three days later, Alanna sat in the library, waiting. Women, children, and the elderly were about to move to the Summer Palace, where Lianne and Roald spent their summers. Some—the priests and scholars, and a few of the healers that hadn't gone off to war, for example—were staying behind, as were Jarinth and Alanna.

Jarinth's healers—who Alanna didn't trust in the least, as she had only ever worked with Duke Baird—hinted that, in a few days, Jarinth would move to the healers' wing.

Finally, the nobles left for the Summer Palace. Alanna left the library and spent the following hours, which slowly turned into days, wandering around the palace. Mostly she fenced. Somehow she felt so peaceful there in the court, all alone with her sword. She made sure to visit Jarinth regularly, which always made her cry. Once a day she took Moonlight out for a refreshing ride.

Then, Eleni expressed a wish to see Jarinth before she passed away. They made plans, and late the next morning, Alanna found herself with both George—who wore a wig for the occasion—and Eleni in the healers' wing, standing around Jarinth's bed. Jarinth looked worse than ever, her skin clinging to her bones like silk.

Alanna sighed and fiddled with her ember-stone for comfort, a new habit formed over the past few days.

A thick orange mist surrounded Jarinth like a mold. Alanna gasped and abruptly dropped the ember-stone. The mist vanished.

What did you see? Faithful demanded, jumping onto Jarinth's night table.

"It was—it was a light…," she answered, leaning over Jarinth to examine her quizzically. Slowly, she grabbed her stone again. The mist reappeared. She looked up at Eleni, a crude suspicion forming in her mind. "What does magic look like?" she asked testily.

Eleni's eyebrows snapped together. "You're seeing magic on Jarinth?"

It usually looks like mist, if you can see it. Often one can't, unless the mage doesn't attempt or isn't able for some reason to hide it. The color changes between mages. Yours is purple, Faithful replied crisply. Are you seeing magic?

"Yes," Alanna answered. "I think I am." She frowned and glanced around. A candle sat on Jarinth's nightstand. Holding her ember-stone, she reached out to light the wick. To her shock, purple fire flicked from her fingers. She was not supposed to see that magic.

She had learned long ago that gifts from gods were rarely normal. Apparently this one was no exception.

"Yes," she repeated breathlessly. "I am. It's the ember-stone. It lets me see magic. This magic is orange."

Biting her lip and with one hand clamped to the stone, she reached with the other towards the magic. Her fingers passed through unchallenged. Then, she probed it with her own magic. Violet light brushed orange, and, suddenly, a streak of bloody red flashed, then nothing but constant orange.

Alanna gasped. "It's eating my Gift!"

Maybe that's why the healers can't heal her.

Alanna's jaw dropped. She hadn't thought of that. If this were a spell to keep Jarinth from being healed, then, perhaps, if the spell could be destroyed, she could be healed. Perhaps she was not inrepairingly damaged; it was just magic!

"But how do I get rid of a spell that absorbs my Gift when they touch?" she asked with a frown. "It's like being stuck with only a sword when the enemy's shooting at you with arrows. You're helpless."

Well, wise one, get a stupid arrow and shoot back. Absorb this guy's Gift with your own.

She tried this, but only a moment had passed before she realized her power was no match for the orange. She was too weak. A skim around the room for help brought her to a shelf lined with collections of herbs. One of the few she recognized was vervain.

She had to get more strength, and vervain could help. A fireplace already set with logs for when the room grew cool that evening nestled in the wall at the end of the room. With the plant in hand, she knelt before the hearth and set it ablaze. Hesitantly, as she had never done this before, she tossed a few leaves in. Maude, Jarinth, and Ali had all taught her about this trick, but, at the same time, forbade her to use it. Disagreeable things happened to mortals who called on the gods for help without a good reason.

She took a deep breath and began calling upon the Greater Powers. Steadily, the blaze turned purple, the color of her magic. Her stomach clenching from nerves, she reached into the fire.

Her Gift whipped around inside her in attempt to flood from her hands into the flames. She gasped, and only just managed to grab it before completely losing control. Inside her it still fought wildly, taking many minutes to be forced back under her command. Only when assured it had calmed did she begin the spell: "Dark Goddess, Great Mother, show me the way. Open the gates to me—"

Before her, one after another, doors and gates swung open. Fire flung up around them and roared thunderously. Any pain she might have felt from the heat of the flames was undermined terribly as raw magic blasted through her palms and into her body. She bit back a shriek and fought to keep still as her flesh glowed purple. If her Gift had been chaotic before, it was nothing compared to now as burning raw magic fought for space beneathe her fragile, mortal skin. It was like a speeding heart on verge of bursting. It was next to impossible to hold on.

Suddenly, a grand, powerful voice spoke, a voice never meant for a human to hear. Alanna screamed. "Call her back. I am here. Call her back."

Her entire body rebelled, now, and she fought violently to gain control again. She was overwhelmed and prone to giving up and letting the fire, magic, and memory of that horrible voice eat her alive.

Come on, Alanna, she urged herself furiously. Come on! You've battled Ysandir; you can do this! It's not that hard! You're acting like a soft lady, treating this like it's such a big deal. Just do it and get it done with. You can do this. You're a warrior.

Or are you? Are you a soft lady, worrying about breaking a nail? Maybe that's it. You can't save Jarinth because you're too small, too weak, too girly—

I AM NOT! she shrieked to herself, terrified. She wasn't too girly, was she? No, no, no; she shook her head firmly. She was a warrior. She could do this.

Alanna stood up and walked to Jarinth's bed. The woman lay there, as limp as a corpse. With instinct as her guide, she placed one hand down firmly on Jarinth's chest and, with the other, grasped the ember-stone. Slowly and cautiously, she let a scrap of her magic loose, and it ignited the orange magic in a flash of red. Suddenly, Jarinth thrashed, feeling the fire lick her body, but, still, Alanna didn't stop. Steadily, her Gift flowed from her hand until the entire orange mist blazed red. It disintegrated in seconds until only her own magic remained floating around the now-still body.

Then, she moved her hand to Jarinth's forehead and allowed herself to sink into her teacher's mind—just to find that she couldn't. In a moment of panic, she realized Jarinth had died.

"She has travelled a long way," that same terrible voice told her calmly. "Take her hands. Call her back."

Subconsciously, Alanna noted that the voice was female. She nodded in understanding. Her goddess stood with her. "Thank you." She took Jarinth's hands and called, "Jarinth! Hey, Jarinth, come back. It's time to come home, Jarinth. Jarinth!" Her voice sounded different. Alanna the sixteen-year-old wasn't speaking anymore, but, in her place, some grown woman.

Suddenly, she found herself standing on a well. Darkness surrounded her. Below her, shrieks and moans of the doomed dead wailed loud and disturbingly. She glanced behind her to find George, Eleni, and a group of horrified healers watching her in awe and shock. She was balancing on the ridge between two realms: that of the Living and that of the Dead.

This failed to interest her just then. Instead, she concentrated on Jarinth, who hovered half-way through the well. The blue eyes she stared at her with were terribly clear. "Alanna?" she called. Her voice also wasn't her own; it was of a young woman, though it sounded terribly familiar.

"That's right, Jarinth," she replied in her woman's voice. "Come on up. We have to go back. We're not supposed to be here right now. Let's go. Let's go home."

"I can't, Alanna," she told her apologetically.

"Yes, you can," she insisted, reaching down to her. "Take my hand. I'll bring you back myself."

Jarinth strained to reach her, but just as they almost touched, a shadow passed between them. Alanna recognized it in terror as the Dark God, the Master of all death.

"Excuse me," she apologized shakily. She swallowed, then continued more firmly, "I'm taking Jarinth home. She's coming with me. She's not supposed to be here just now."

The shadow glanced down at Jarinth, and then back at her. To her surprise, he nodded, and then stepped back. Alanna had the oddest feeling that he found her amusing.

She swallowed and asked, "You coming, Jarinth?"

"I'm coming," she replied, smiling. She reached up and caught her hand. "Let's go home."

Their gripped hands shone white, melting the dark well away. Back in the healer's wing, Jarinth smiled, touching her body lying in the bed. "Thank you."

"Bye." She watched as Jarinth sank into her body, and then, suddenly, she herself was back within her own skin. Jarinth slept peacefully in the bed before her. Alanna teetered, and hands caught her as she fell.

"Alanna!" she faintly heard someone cry. "You're alright!"