Chapter 20

20

- Anter’az -

The gates slam shut behind me and I lean up against them, closing my eyes.

She’ll be going now. Back to her village. Surely this grief is too much for one man to bear.

Conscious of the guards eyeing me, I straighten and walk back to the Hill.

Fabur’iz, the old healer who is now blind, is waiting to hear what happened.

“I told her to leave,” I say as I sit down heavily in his old chair. “As you recommended. I’ll never see her again now.”

“Never is a long time,” Fabur’iz creaks. “Stranger things have happened. But you know she’s not safe while on Krast turf. All it would take to kill her would be one spear accurately thrown from inside our walls or from a hidden bush. There are too many here who want her gone. Even you can’t protect her without locking you both up in your cave.”

“I shall go and get her,” I fret. “We’ll go back to Vral’s Cave. We’ll live there for the rest of our lives.”

Fabur’iz chuckles. “You’d be bored after a few more days there. What is the use of being a healer if you have nobody to heal? And you can bet Alba would want her friends around. No, Vral’s Cave is not a place to live for long at a time.”

I sigh, knowing he’s right. “I’ll cast myself out of the tribe. I’ll ask to be accepted into one of hers.”

Fabur’iz blindly fills a mug with frit and holds it out to me. “Now you’re being childish. It’s unseemly for a man to speak otherwise than he thinks.”

I gently take the mug and bring it to my lips. “I know, Fabur’iz. The Krast is my tribe, and it always will be.” The frit burns pleasantly down my throat. “Her hand was so hot. It was too dark to see, but I wonder if she doesn’t have a fever.”

“From the wound?” Fabur’iz asks, leaning up against his table. “If so, it must be festering.”

“She says that aliens heal slower than we do.”

“They are different. Perhaps having a fever is normal for them when injured.”

I glance up at the shelves of his cave, where dozens of little pots are lined up. “The wound smelled of something. I can’t place the smell, except that it made me think of your cave. As if this is the only place I’ve smelled it before.”

Fabur’iz scratches his gray head. “You think the spear had something on it? A poison?”

“What could make it heal slowly, or turn it to festering?”

The old man turns and cranes his neck, as if he’s looking at the shelf with his blind eyes. “There are several possibilities. Let me see…” Without hesitation, he reaches up and picks four small pots off the shelf as surely as if he had working eyes. “All these could be possible.” With unsteady hands, he places them on the table.

Getting to my feet, I grab one and open it. Inside is a black, sticky-looking mass. “This black fersal smells strongly, but it’s not the one.” I grab another pot. “Nor is it this powder with the blue tinge. Old hekasit, I think.”

“Those poisons are both on the less harmful side,” Fabur’iz reminds me. “The two that remain are worse.”

I open the third. They’re small yellow crystals. “This looks like pieces of hardened sap. It’s not that smell.”

“The mix of batab tree and hekasit venom. Then there’s only one left. I fear that’s bad news.”

I’ve barely uncorked the last pot when I recognize the smell. “This is it. Her wound smelled like this.” It’s a green sludge with brown particles in it.

“Close it back up,” Fabur’iz urges me. “I don’t want that stench in here.”

I do as he says. “What is it?”

“I only call it sneak-wood. It’s from the rotten core of a certain tree. I’ve only come across it twice. I tried it on myself.” The old man lifts one foot into the light from his fire. “Can you guess where?” His foot has a big, wrinkled patch with white streaks which is obviously a scar. I’ve seen it before without asking what exactly it’s from. All tribesmen have many scars, but this one is nastier than most.

“ That’s from this?” I ask, aghast.

“I made a small cut and put the sneak-wood in it. Just a small amount, you see, the way we usually do it. It was not very painful. But it smelled and it festered.”

“Bacteria,” I state. “Alba told me about it. Invisible Tinies that cause illness and festering.”

“Ah,” the old healer says with interest. “That makes a strange kind of sense. I can imagine small Tinies feasting on dirty flesh and causing it.”

“How did you heal it?”

He absentmindedly touches the scar. “I tried all my herbs, which is my preference. When nothing worked, I had to try the venoms. Ah, I just remembered something. A few days ago, I came home from the evening meal and I noticed a faint scent. It was the sneak-wood. I fear I’d had too much frit to really think much about it, but I did wonder.”

“You think someone was in here and got some of it?” I ask.

The old healer takes my place in the chair. “Now it seems likely that Tarat'ex, wanting to kill Alba, came in here, and smeared sneak-wood on his spearhead to make sure that even a glancing blow would kill. He knew I wouldn’t notice except for the smell.”

“How would he know which pot to take— oh, I know. You’ve had that on the shelf for years, and boys would sometimes come in here and ask you to show them the poisons. Tarat’ex just remembered from when he was a child.”

“That must be it,” Fabur’iz sighs. “I should have been more careful about what I told the boys back then. Or at least I should have hidden the poisons better.”

A coldness settles in me. “But the venoms worked to cure your festering cut?”

“I tried all the ones I had. Okeran, voron, klor, fersal. None worked. I started to worry about having to cut my foot off, because the festering was spreading. I was getting feverish. In desperation, I reached for… the special one. The one we all fear. The strongest of them all.”

“I know the one,” I say quietly, feeling colder and colder.

“Old healer Derep’ox had been able to gather a drop of it some years earlier,” Fabur’iz goes on, “and I’d saved it. That was long before your time. Still, I was desperate. I reached for the jar, hoping its contents had evaporated.” The old man shudders at the memory. “I was afraid, too, I don’t mind telling you. There was a small drop left. As clear as water. I diluted it, of course. But not too much. I still needed it to work.”

Only the crackling from the fire can be heard as we both think our own thoughts. I have never heard the full story before, only short pieces of it. That’s how much the otherwise remarkably brave Fabur’iz fears this venom.

“It clearly did work,” I finally state. “How long were you out?”

“Two days, they said. They were barely able to bring me back to life again. That venom is not to be toyed with. But it defeated the sneak-wood and saved my foot and my leg.” He directs his blind eyes at me. “And my life. Nothing else would have. I used it all, I’m afraid. I never gathered more, because…”

He doesn’t need to say more or to tell me to be careful. We both know what will happen now.

I put my hand on his bony old shoulder. “Thank you, Fabur’iz.”

“Four grains, I estimated the weight of that drop,” he says as he fumbles on his shelf and takes down a tiny, red-glazed pot. “Diluted with a third of one small pot of clean water. This size.”

“I will remember,” I assure him.

“The healer’s life is a good life,” he says behind me as I leave his cave. “While it lasts. You’re the best healer our tribe has ever had, Anter’az. Make it last long!”

Inspired by his words, and despite my exhaustion, I walk over to the common table and treat more injured men until the sun starts to rise.

Then I go to my own cave where the boys are all asleep on the ground.

There’s a big stack of swords leaned up against one wall, the signs of at least some tribesmen wanting me to stay.

Pulling the black curtain aside, I enter the secret cave and check if there’s been any change.

There hasn’t. The creature is still in its juvenile form, before the change to its adult shape.

“I can’t use you,” I tell it, disappointed because it would have been so much easier this way. “I will have to get someone else’s help.”

I strap the sword belt to my waist, eat some fruit, and get ready to leave my cave.

“Where are you going?” a bright voice asks, clear eyes looking at me from the floor.

“I will be back before sunset.” I avoid the question. “You can all stay in here if the tribe is still crazy tomorrow.”

Tren’ax eagerly gets up on his knees. “Can I come?”

“You can,” I reply on impulse, because why not. He might prove useful, especially if this fails, as it almost certainly will. “Just be quiet. And bring a long, sharp spear.”

We leave the cave. This time the gatekeepers don’t even talk to me, just open the gates.

Then we’re in the jungle again.