Wails of pain, coughs, silent and loud voices alike came from inside the small wooden structure that stood before Katrina.
It's only sick people. Nothing unusual for you, eh? The guard's words rang inside her mind, repeating themselves over and over again like a strange, reassuring chant.
There were only a few sick people that needed her aid. Nothing more than that. Still, Katrina's knowledge trembled inside her head, and she felt insecure and afraid. Helping these people was something she could not do, and she had to come to terms with herself, both to reassure her faltering resolve and to enforce the power of her deception.
Tricking people was not new to her, and the people that supposedly required help could probably go through their suffering without her. They were not similar to the war victims whose screams of pain were as sharp and vibrant as the blood that oozed from their wounds. They were just sick people who must likely suffered from drinking the bad water mentioned by the guards.
An onrush of choking odor rushed out of the house as soon as the door was opened. Katrina covered her mouth and nose with the fabric of her dress. The gagging sensation was hard to resist, and a single cough could betray her inexperience in curing the sick to those who brought her here. Tears began to accumulate in Katrina's eyes the longer she tried to suppress the coughs, the retching sensation that clawed at her throat It eventually came out, despite her valiant attempts at containing it.
"It smells worse than a gutted pig," Mordo complained between coughs.
Most of the words were lost to Katrina among the noise made by the inhabitants of the wooden house. Focusing on other matters was hardly possible when the need of air was so urgent.
"Use your mouth to breathe," Fran said, clenching his hand on Katrina's shoulder. "You will get used to it."
Katrina winced and grimaced slightly, but the man who moved in front of her shook his head slightly. In order to alleviate his suspicions, Katrina had to stand the smell and pretend to be a real healer. The people of Carvahall shared stories about sick people attacking their own healer to extract vengeance when they could, and some unfortunate villagers even died.
The thought hit her harder than the pungent smell. Katrina could see signs of desperation in the sluggish movement of a man, or hear it in the sick cough of a boy.
"Gather all the herbs and oils you have and bring them to the lady," commanded Fran. "She knows."
"Is she sick?" a rough, manly voice asked.
Katrina clenched her fists when he noticed the menace present in Fran's glare.
"She cures the ones who are sick."
"Healer!" a woman shouted.
"Is… the healer," the frail voice of a young boy joined in.
The cottage surmounted the dreary silence and immediately filled with praise and requests, questions and demands, all directed towards Katrina.
"You've brought hope to them," Fran sneered in Katrina's ear. "Now, don't disregard their pleas."
Katrina felt her legs unsteady. When she glanced downwards, she realized she was shaking. Fortunately for her, the weakness and the nausea that washed over her when she entered the house lessened their strength considerably.
"Come, come," a lady dressed in dirty white rags offered her hand to her. "I take you to the sick."
"I will come," Katrina said after her hand was gripped with alacrity by the impatient woman when she did nothing. She was not much older than Katrina. Her raven hair was showed no gray, the mark of a human's withering, but her worn-out face betrayed the trials and the difficulties she passed through.
"This is my son," she said, leading Katrina to a young boy who took refuge in a corner, his hands clutched around a small, black iron cauldron that dangled on the floor, swishing ominously under the boy's weight . Katrina looked at the cauldron curiously, wondering about its purpose.
"Healer to Gangvar!" A distinctive woman voice shouted. "Gangvar more sick and almost die. In need of cure!"
"Woman, come here."
Katrina looked in the direction from where the weak, raspy voice came from. In a bed situated near the wall of the room, an ebony-skinned man lay in dusty sheets. His right hand – which hanged out of the bed – twitched and trembled as it tried to point towards her.
"NO!"
Katrina felt her hand squished under the force of the grip that held it like a predator would its prey. Turning her head around, the woman looked in Katrina's eyes, desperation present on her face.
"My boy is young and very sick. Help him first!" She said and dragged Katrina towards the boy in the corner without allowing her the freedom of choice.
"No, no!" The other woman screamed and ran towards Katrina, her thunderous pace causing the wooden boards to tremble and shake.
"I cannot cure anyone if you don't tell me what made them sick!" Katrina said angrily, her voice almost being on par with that of the two distressed women.
"It's the water, you damn woman," Fran cut in harshly. "Treat, that's why you are here!"
His loud voice almost caused Katrina's heart to constrict due to fear.
"It may be the war Fran," a low, shaky voice said. "The dead linger on the land still."
Secluded in a corner, with dirty clothes thrown all over them, three elderly men sat on wooden stools. They were not old enough to display the characteristic silvery braids of hair that come with the proper age, but they were older than anyone in the room. Their gnarled faces were a window to their past, and the uncared beards and long mustaches coupled with a few scars were giving them an intimidating appearance.
"Listen not."
Tightening her grip even harder, the woman was determined to bring Katrina to her child.
"I will come! Just release my hand!" Katrina screamed, releasing the squeezing fear inside her through the booming words. The silence that coated the room instilled a sinister sense of calmness in her numb and uncooperative body.
"You are demented," Fran said bitterly, rushing towards the door. "Both you and the healer." After pointing a condemning finger at the old men and Katrina, Fran stormed through the door. The loud smashing sound that followed made the little boy tremble. The cauldron rattled slightly, its round bottom leaning lazily towards left or right, according to the boy's will.
"Rude and stupid fellow," the same old man complained from his resting position. "The dead attack the living. The war never stopped claming lives."
He coughed several times, then continued. "It now wants ours."
"Come!"
Katrina followed the jittery woman to the boy with the cauldron and then motioned her to leave in a manner Gertrude used to get rid of pestering company. Much to her surprise, the woman nodded slowly, fearfully, and turned around, shuffling towards the elder men.
Before continuing, Katrina shook her head to clear her mind of the ominous words and kneeled beside the petite figure.
"I drank much water," he cooed, looking up at her with blurred, bloodshot eyes. "Mother says water is good."
Katrina drew back slightly when she noticed a strange, slimy substance coating his mouth. The foul odor coming from the cauldron made her stomach lurch, and Katrina slyly pulled the texture of the dress to her nose to alleviate the nausea that threatened to take over.
"Maybe not the water." Her words were muffled by the silky material, and Katrina increased her voice instead of crawling away from the source of the smell, no matter the urge her instincts pressed on her.
"The food. It was so good," he sniffled, wiping his mouth with the grime and soggy texture of the linen shirt that covered his body. "I wanted to be a merchant, as kind as the ones who gave us all food."
"You will," Katrina said uncertainly, looking at him compassionately. His dirt caked face was contorted, and no smile brightened his gloomy expression. Unlike the children Katrina met, this boy was the embodiment of pain and suffering.
"You… will."
Suddenly, an idea occurred to her. The boy looked at her as she got up, and then stared back into the cauldron, lost in the vortex of its foul contents.
Katrina tidied her dress and coughed slightly, beckoning at the same woman who brought her here.
"Show me to the kitchen, and bring the herbs," she said with authority, looking at her sternly. "I will concoct a healing poultice for the boy and the rest."
The woman nodded with renewed vigor and grabbed the bundle of herbs. "Riders praise you, healer," she said, pointing at a door that probably led to the kitchen.
Katrina gulped emptily and followed her. She felt no guilt or remorse for what she was doing, but when hope ignited inside the woman that appeared more tattered than a ragged tunic, Katrina felt her stomach knot, her head dizzy due to apprehension. Because of her, the woman regained her smile, and because of her, she was going to lose it forever.
As she shuffled towards the kitchen, Katrina felt herself joining the sick, only that her torment was a mental one. The life she had lived proved to her that sacrifices were necessary. Animals died so her father could provide people with food. Soldiers died to protect the helpless and untrained. Would the sick die because of her deception in order to protect herself and her unborn child?
Roran kills people too, Katrina thought, her fists clutching and wrinkling the dress. Even if the Empire was an enemy, the soldiers that fought for it were still people, just like the ones in Feinster. They all had a choice, and each chose life. Suddenly, something new blossomed inside her. Something he was used to ignore, but never get rid of completely.
Feeling her doubts and worries dissipate, Katrina sighed and signaled the woman out of the kitchen once she placed the bundle of herbs on a wooden table situated on her left. She needed no insightful look to realize that the aromatic herbs, when boiled, would provide her with a strong scented tea that would elude even Fran's suspicion.
Remembering the times when she needed to treat Roran of various injuries, Katrina shuffled through the small kitchen slowly. Once she reached the decrepit oak table, she separated the herbs into smaller bundles belonging to the same kind. The ones with straight stalk, the absence of prominent roots on others or the bulged bulb and the common look of the plants revealed that most of them were gathered from the vicinity of Feinster. Katrina curled the bottom of her lip thoughtfully, teeth pressing on the tender meat forcefully. Most of the plants were used in cooking due to their intense flavor and useful properties. Apart from that, there was nothing that could alleviate pain or cure the sick.
I couldn't cure them before, I can't cure them now.
With a swift brush of her hand, Katrina further separated the herbs by pushing them near the edge of the table. What remained in the middle were a few smaller plants with spiky leaves and the unopened azure buds of another type that Katrina recognized as Sky's tears, a medicinal herb usually found in forested areas. Adding to the herbal bundle was a couple of Thargrim's beard nuts whose aromatic insides were protected by a tough, dull-edged triangle-shaped shell.
Sacrifices, Katrina thought, her puzzled expression indicating the worries that ran down her forehead in the form of slithering sweat beads.
I need to concoct something. Anything that can trick those people.
Katrina's eyes searched endlessly for anything she could make use of before putting her plans into action. Time was of the essence, and she had yet to ignite the flames that would heat the water enough to the point where the plants would surrender their juices and healing nutrients.
There was pacing, talking, and pleading coming from the other room, and it all made Katrina even more nervous than she already was.
They will notice that I am not the healer they thought I am…
With great haste, Katrina picked a bucket placed next to the stove and rushed towards the water barrel, drenching it into the cold liquid. After emptying the whole recipient into a small cauldron, she picked the heavy metal pot, groaning wildly. The wire that served as a handle, combined with the weight of the small cauldron, almost cut through her skin.
I did nothing so far except planning. Ideas won't cure, trick, and save me from their clutches…
Katrina sighed when the pot filled with water was neatly placed on the metallic grid, above the hollow space where numerous branches and wood chunks rested. By using fire oil to lit the lumber, the crackling flame burst alive, heating the water in the iron pot slowly.
It needs to work.
Almost desperate due to the overwhelming shouts coming from the house, Katrina picked all the herbs, nuts and stalks and rushed to the pot, where she emptied the weight that lay in her arms.
Seeing the bulbs go down, the stalks, the herbs and the buds floating while the water churned and hissed brought a disturbing sense of relief to Katrina. The concoction—her miraculous healing poultice—was the inexorable creation of her imagination, or maybe desperation, or lack of acumen. No matter its origin, what boiled in the pot was a flimsy mass of deceit that would eventually give in its poisonous essence. Her poisonous essence.
Belly aches and intense pain. They need a cook, not a healer.
A sudden knock on the door made Katrina shudder violently.
"Lady, we need the healing herbs! There is blood coming out of my son's mouth!" The same woman that dragged her to the young boy earlier stormed inside the kitchen, her eyes sharp and full of churning expectations.
"It almost done!" Katrina shouted, frowning elegantly. "Now leave."
Without saying a word, the woman left and shut the door behind her. Arguing with the one who had the capability of curing her son would do no good—and Katrina knew it.
However, no amount of excuses or clever persuasion would hold the two women from barging in forever.
Stepping away from the door, Katrina inspected the contents of the pot, which now began steaming. The water, which previously held a crystalline purity, now turned into an opaque substance that held the resemblance of muddied grass.
Wading a large wooden spoon through the liquid a few times, Katrina waited until the plants were completely stripped of their color. The sick were dependant on Katrina for a cure, and Katrina was depending on the heat to boil her mixture as fast as possible.
After a while of temporary tranquility, the door rang with the banging of the two women. Unlike before, Katrina did not bother answering. There was nothing she could say besides excuses, and the two women would not have it.
"I don't care if it's ready or not. It's all the same to me," Katrina scoffed silently and wrapped a dirty cloth around her hands before removing the pot from its elevated position.
"Wait with the others!" she shouted with a loud, commanding tone. Katrina barely refrained from smiling inwardly when the repeated, furious knocks stopped as fast as they began thumping. She was powerful. For those people, she was a healer capable of many things, and Katrina was well acquainted with the secret power of one's image and strength of character. Sloan made sure to embed this lesson in her head.
Don't let strangers slice your appearance, he whispered in her head. You are the butcher as long as your words are sharper than their pitiful, slender words.
I won't, she thought reassuringly as she dragged the cauldron near the door slowly, careful not to spill its seething contents. The wooden spoon jerked sideways lazily when she put the pot down, sighing. Although useless and irritating, Katrina needed the two women to help her. After all, it was a potion made for them, and Sloan impregnated his opinion about helping strangers since she was a child.
Meat comes from prey, not predator, he used to say. Humans are predators, but they can become prey just as easily. It's them you have to hunt.
At her call, the two women dashed into the room, displaying their gratitude through kind words and half completed bows. Katrina smiled wryly at their fleeting appreciation, for she was ignored as soon as they picked the pot together.
Katrina followed them silently, aware of all the eyes fixed on her. The room was unusually quiet. Only a retch or a persistent cough eased the dreary, decaying atmosphere. Hailed as a savior in the beginning, Katrina became a forgotten figure as the women, together with Lehmontecte, Mordo and Fran, swooped down on the cauldron with wooden chalices.
"Good," Katrina thought she heard Lehmontecte saying in a low voice.
"Thank you healer." Mardo smiled at her, raising the wooden cup before swallowing its contents.
Such ignorance. Such arrogance. Katrina gritted her teeth and tidied her dress nervously. She was bewildered, saddened, and disappointed by how her meager contribution was ignored. The words of gratitude had been delivered through half parted lips, bowed heads or quick, shy glances. Not one, not even Mardo looked her in the eyes to thank her properly for the way they had abducted her in the marketplace, or the sweat she had poured in the kitchen.
"To our health!" Katrina heard Fran shouting, but couldn't locate him due to all the commotion.
"To your health," she intervened, smiling inwardly.
Whoa, what a chapter. I really like how this is starting to look, and I hope you too are excited about what will happen next, because Katrina is certainly not your usual healer.
Now, there is a possibility that you may consider her actions weird. Before you do so, I ask you to look back on chapter 40 and see how Katrina ended up here. She was almost abducted and forced to visit some sick strangers that could be dangerous too.