“You’re saying he’s being poisoned?” Haesychya looks hard at Lerial.
“But … no one…” protests Aenslem, still gasping.
“I can’t say that.” For many reasons. “I can say that whatever is in the tumbler and jug is causing him some distress.”
“How can you tell?”
“It’s the same kind of chaos.” Lerial regrets his words immediately. Doing things when you’re tired means you’re not as a careful as you should be.
“Besides being a field healer, you can sense chaos?” asks Haesychya.
“That’s what allows me to be a field healer,” Lerial replies.
“Then do something,” says Haesychya, in a tone that combines plea and demand.
“I’m not a full-fledged healer.” And not anywhere close to full strength. “I’ll do what I can.” He bends over Aenslem again, feeling chaos even in the merchanter’s breath. He extends his fingertips and says, once more, “Pardon me.” He lets the smallest amount of order flow from him, directing it to Aenslem’s lungs and stomach. Then he straightens and waits. He feels just a touch of light-headedness, but he can sense an immediate reduction in the chaos in Aenslem, suggesting most strongly that the merchanter has been poisoned, because if the problem were an illness the chaos would be far more diffuse than it is.
“Well?” asks Haesychya.
“He likely has been poisoned. I may be able to do a little more.” Lerial again bends and extends his fingertips to the base of Aenslem’s neck, willing more order into the merchanter.
As he straightens, Lerial can feel the study spin around him, and he immediately drops into the vacant leather armchair and lowers his head. He feels as though, if he moves at all, he will topple into darkness.
“What…” Haesychya glances around the study.
“He’s injured, Lady,” blurts one of the rankers by the door. “He had to be carried from his mount last night.”
Haesychya looks to Kyedra. “Did you know this?”
“He seemed all right on the ride here.”
Haesychya looks to the ranker. “Injured? How?”
“Saving us, Lady. He … he used order to shield us from chaos.”
Kyedra’s mouth opens, but she does not speak.
“Lager would help, Lady.”
“Kyedra … you stay here. I’ll get it myself.” Haesychya turns and hurries from the study, almost at a run.
Kyedra eases over to stand by Lerial. “I’m sorry … I didn’t realize.”
Even through his light-headedness and his feeling that the study is spinning around him, Lerial can hear the concern in Kyedra’s voice. Somehow … that helps, if not physically.
“Realize what, girl?” While Aenslem’s voice is raspy, it is clearly stronger, although Lerial cannot sense either order or chaos.
“That he was so weak.”
“Exhausted,” declares Aenslem. “Healing takes strength … like fighting.”
Lerial says nothing, fearing that even trying to speak will start the room spinning around him … or send him back into darkness. He can hear Aenslem and Kyedra speaking, but the words make little sense.
After time, how long he does not know, Haesychya is kneeling beside the chair, holding a goblet. “I took this from an untapped cask. That’s why it took longer. I got one that had dust on it.”
Lerial understands. He manages a faint smile before taking a small swallow of the lager. His hands are shaking so much that Haesychya helps him hold the goblet for the first swallows. He slowly drinks, and by the time he is halfway through the goblet he feels steadier. At least, the room has stopped spinning around him, and his hands are no longer shaking. He takes another swallow, realizing, rather belatedly, that careful as he had tried to be, he had used too much order. Because your physical strength exceeded the amount of order you required from your body? Yet another thing he needs to consider.
He takes yet another swallow from the goblet, finishing the lager, and looks up.
“Would you like some more?” Haesychya is sitting in the other chair, with a pitcher on the side table, and Kyedra has pulled a straight-backed chair over beside her mother.
“Yes, please. Perhaps some bread…”
Haesychya rises, glancing at her daughter. Kyedra immediately leaves the study.
As Haesychya refills the goblet, Lerial looks to the merchanter, whose brow is no longer damp with sweat. “Are you feeling better?” Let’s hope so … after this. The moment he thinks that, he feels ashamed of himself. Aenslem didn’t exactly choose to be poisoned.
“Quite a bit. Not up to myself … but much better.”
Lerial then looks to Haesychya, who has reseated herself. “No more of any tonics. Just bread and soup for the next few days … and lager. If he starts to get worse … let me know.”