“Thank you. Do you know what kind of rivercraft it is? Or whose?”
“No. We just got a message by fast courier that the healer’s boat had passed the southern river piers and should make the piers west of South Point within the glass. They may have landed already, but they’ll wait for an escort to the palace.”
“I hope we won’t make them wait too long,” worries Lerial.
“It shouldn’t be that long.”
Even so, another third of a glass passes before they ride past South Post and turn onto the paved area that stretches from the base of one pier to the other. After a moment, Lerial spies a sail-galley tied up at the southern stone pier. It is half again as large as the one Lerial had taken to deal with Estheld, making it over fifteen yards from stem to stern, and has a small upper deck that extends some five yards forward from the stern. As he reins up at the base of the pier, Lerial can see several people standing on the pier beside the rivercraft.
Lerial dismounts quickly, followed by Norstaan. Leaving their mounts with the rankers, the two stride out the pier toward the sail-galley.
Lerial immediately recognizes the green head scarf of a Cigoernean healer and the pale green blouse and trousers, not to mention the darkness of order that still suffuses his aunt. She must sense him, because she turns from the man with whom she has been talking, possibly the master of the rivercraft, and steps toward hm.
Lerial’s mouth almost drops open as he sees her, since her hair is no longer silver and red, but entirely red.
“Not a word, Lerial.” She spoils the severity of her tone with a smile. “It’s good to see that you’re hale … and still relatively balanced. I worried about that after the tales that have traveled upriver.”
Lerial’s second surprise is the figure who steps forward to stand beside Emerya.
Fhastal smiles at Lerial. “I thought it might be best if I accompanied the most noted healer in Cigoerne to Swartheld.”
“Just as your rivercraft have carried letters to and from her for years?”
“A mere convenience.” Fhastal shrugs. “I gained far more from it than they have.”
Lerial doesn’t dispute that and nods. “I can see that, but I still appreciate it, and I have no doubts that they have as well. I hope you won’t mind, but we do have a duty to get her to the palace—”
“Please, Nephew, do not speak of me as if I am not here.” Again, her words are humorous—mostly.
Lerial turns and bows excessively deeply. “Honored Healer and Lady, we apologize for the lack of deference and for only being able to supply a mount rather than a carriage.”
Emerya laughs. “I suppose I deserve that.”
“So did I,” Lerial replies.
“I do have two Lancer kit bags.”
“We brought a mount, and not a wagon, but we can put one behind you and one behind me. We’ll be heading directly to the palace.”
“In a moment,” Emerya says, drawing Lerial to one side of the pier, close enough that he can look down at the gentle waves lapping against the stone posts. “Before we go to the palace, I need to know just how bad his injury is.”
“His back was crushed at the bottom of his backbone. His leg was broken. It is healing well. He isn’t pissing himself, but he cannot move his legs. There was a huge chaos-knot around the lower part of his backbone. I managed to reduce that within a glass or two of the time they got him out of the rubble.”
“That soon?”
“Sheer fortune,” Lerial declares. “I mean that it was fortune that I arrived at the palace so soon.”
“You didn’t try to remove all the chaos?”
“No … that didn’t feel right. I would have … it would have taken too much order … That was the way I felt.”
Emerya nods. “You’ve always been more than a field healer. What’s so unusual is that you still have the feel of both a healer and … well, not a chaos-mage, but more like a gray mage.”
“Gray mage? I didn’t know there were such.”
“The Emperor Lorn was probably one. They’re rare. Most mages can’t continually balance order and chaos. We can talk about that later.” She looks directly at Lerial. “Do you expect me to heal him?”
“No. I expect you to do what you can. You know more than I do, and Afrit needs him to rule for years to come, not just a few seasons or a year or two.”
“You’re suggesting I remain in Swartheld?”
“That isn’t my decision. It’s yours.”
“Not your father’s?”
“No. You’ve given Father more than enough. Mother could take your place at the Hall of Healing, and in time I wouldn’t be surprised if Ryalah could … or Amaira, if that is your and her choice.”
“I left her in Cigoerne … obviously.”
“That makes sense.” For now. “He took the miniature and kept it close.”
“I know, although his words were veiled. He wrote almost immediately.”