He worked and worked. Sometimes he would stop to stretch and find a cup of water, or a cup of tea, or a bowl of soup just out of his elbow’s reach. He would consume them all, stretch again, and return to his mortar.
As he worked the stale plants, his power over them grew. His Gift passed through the withered stems, leaves, seeds, and flowers as he ground them to fine powder. He drew out their memories of when they were fresh, drinking water and singing their prayers to the gods of plants. There was Mother Sun and Father Rain, both kind and cruel; Soil, without which there was no life; and the Biting Hordes, savaging their flesh when they were not devout enough. Arram carried away their memories of insects devouring them and made them vigorous once more, filled with the substance in each type of plant that would help bring healing to the sick.
Dimly he felt something grip him by a branch and shake him. He didn’t think he had any ripe fruit to drop.
A voice he remembered—Nazaam?—shouted somewhere, “Pox take her, that idiot Hirusy should have pulled him out of the line at dawn. He’s been here hours past….Boy! Boy! What’s his name?”
“Arram.” That coarse voice, he knew it, too. Gieyat. But what was Gieyat grass, or a Nazaam tree?
“Arram. Arram, let go of the pestle. Hekaja Healer, Gieyat, his fingers are like old roots.”
“Let me, Nazaam. When they’ve been fighting awhile, they can’t always tell when the battle’s done. Here you go, youngster. It’s after sunrise. You need to sleep. You’ve been at it all night.”
But sunrise was the time for waking, wasn’t it?
What had he been at all night?
“I swear, I’ll put Hirusy on chamber pot detail. I’ll take his other side. Good thing his Gift is relaxing. Ramasu would never forgive me if I damaged his boy.” Nazaam put one warm hand on his shoulder, so warm, like Mother Sun. Then Nazaam—Master Nazaam—struggled with his hand until she opened his fingers. They hurt! Great Mother, his fingers hurt!
Once Nazaam got her very warm fingers worked between his, the cramps began to ease. She and Gieyat first helped him to straighten, then to walk a little, then found him a bed. He toppled onto it and slept.
—
His sore and swollen mortar hand woke him around noon. He did not want to leave his cot. Staff members dragged him and several other swollen-handed young men outside into a cloth-surrounded enclosure. Once the staff dumped large buckets of very cold water on them, he saw the force of their argument. They made it up to him and his companions, once the young men had pulled on fresh shifts and their sandals, by presenting them with bowls of tea and bread rolled around cubes of lamb or beef, eggs, hot peppers, and yogurt sauce. Arram felt nearly human as he approached his post. Even the sight of piled bags of herbs didn’t daunt him.
The place on Arram’s formerly empty side was filled by a young man who worked his mortar full of herbs diligently. Arram extended a touch of his Gift and sighed enviously. His neighbor had much fresher plants than he did. He risked another glance at the young man before he opened his first bag and poured dry, crackling leaves into his mortar. There was something familiar about him, in the light brown shade of his skin and the length of his nose. He should know who it was….His pestle slipped and struck the edge of his mortar. He ought to pay attention to his work.
He’d begun his third bowl when he heard a quiet—and most definitely familiar—voice inquire, “What, no leftover prince at your side?”
He glanced around a moment before he realized the query had come from his mysterious neighbor. He glared at the young man, about to snap at him, when he recognized the face that was now turned toward him. “Laman?”
“I know, you didn’t recognize me without Diop.” Arram’s former roommate smiled at him. “I scarcely recognized you without your friend. And they told me my neighbor thought he turned into a tree during his first shift.”
Arram looked down. “I forgot myself.”
“If I’d known you were here, I’d have worked it out. Aren’t you young for this?”
Arram scowled. “Aren’t you?”
Laman smiled crookedly. “Everyone who specializes in healing magic starts with chores, I’ll have you know. It was this or peeling. I can mash with both hands, but I can’t peel with both. Here I am. I don’t wear out like single-handed crushers.”
Arram covered his mouth so no one passing would hear him chuckle.
Laman pointed at him. “Ha. You can laugh.”
Arram scowled. “I do it all the time. You’re the one who’s so serious.”
“If you came from my homeland, you would be serious, too.” Laman turned away from Arram, staring down the corridor.
Arram asked, “You’ve always lived in Siraj?”
Sighing, Laman turned back to his mortar and pestle. “Until I came here, yes.”
Arram got back to work. “You see,” he began, letting power flow into his herbs, “I was wondering what happened in the Sirajit highlands during the uprising.”
Laman glared at him.
“I’m not—I’m not trying to offend,” Arram told him. “But all I know is from the history books and the very little Ozorne says.”
The older youth snorted. “Oh, yes, the hero’s son.”
Arram wanted to defend his friend, but he wanted knowledge even more. A tutor had once informed him that his curiosity would be his doom. “Please—I would just like to know about Prince Apodan’s last campaign.”
“Campaign!” Laman caught himself and looked around, as if he thought he might be punished. He inspected Arram, then said, “Never say you heard a word from me. It could ruin my family if—”
“I would never tell,” Arram said quickly. “I swear by Mithros, Minoss, and Shakith.”
Laman blinked. “The gods punish oath breakers.”
“I know.” Arram’s books always had reports of what happened to them.
They returned to their work. “The army’s conquest of Siraj ruined my great-grandfather and grandfather. They owned and sailed ships until the empire commandeered them to pay the expenses of the conquest of Siraj.” His face was bitter. “My father restored the family fortune when he became the imperial governor’s personal healer, and the healer for his family. That was his Gift. My grandfather was so heartbroken he took to the mountains, to my grandmother’s family farm. He herded sheep, and did well at it…or he used to.”
He poured himself a cup of water from his pitcher and drank. “My mother took me to visit Grandfather for my birthday. His place was in a northern valley, just outside what was the town of Medyat. We were there when the army came, so we went to see Prince Apodan and the soldiers as they marched through town. They were going to put down a rebellion farther south. Rebellion! A couple of tribes were feuding, and they had pulled more tribes into it. The prince saw his chance for military glory.” Laman looked at Arram and frowned. “Are you Carthaki?”