Low Port Part 9

Tosher shrugged towards the stairs. "End of the hall," he said. "Mind the hole..."

Rhys nodded and made his way up the stairs. The la.s.s was still at his heels.

"Do you have a name?" he asked.

"Old Nance used to call me Moth," she said.

"Moth?" Rhys repeated.

"On account of she says I flitter about like one." Moth smiled.

"Moth," Rhys said, and remembered the old saying about their attraction to flames. Then pushed it aside.

The upper floor reeked of blood and at the far end, the wretched whimpers and moans of a woman in pain filled the air. Rhys raced towards the end of the hall, mindfully stepping around the aforementioned hole, just as the door opened and women came bustling out. Rhys recognized them as two of Tosher's older wh.o.r.es. They wore worried faces under their thick cowls of greying hair.

"Oh, Brother Rhys," one of them said. "We was starting to wonder where you be. She's not doing well at all, I fear..."

The smell hit Rhys before he even entered the chamber, a certain stench that accompanied infection. Oh Brother, no, he thought and rushed on in. Lena lay on the bed, bolstered by birthing pillows. There was a great deal of blood, but no sign of a child. Two more women clutched Lena's arms, and Lena bit hard on a bit of wood wound with thick leather. She writhed back and forth.

"It don't seem to want to come," the wh.o.r.e added.

Rhys hurried across the room. Blessed Brother! There was no reason for so much blood.

"It's not coming out right," one of the women said.

Indeed. As Rhys examined Lena, he could see toes. Horns, the babe was coming out breach. "How long has she been in labor?" he asked.

"Since midmorning," the oldest wh.o.r.e said.

"Midmorning?" Rhys said and glared. "Why was I not summoned earlier? The child is likely dead!"

"She's never had trouble before ," she retorted. "I birthed her last one myself..."

Rhys shook his head. "Hot water and fresh linens, if you have such a thing," he said, and began to draw herb packets from his satchel. Fretfully, he cleared a s.p.a.ce on a small sideboard and opened each packet in turn. The wh.o.r.es returned with the required items, and after pouring some of the water off into a cracked mug, Rhys washed his hands. He set some of the herbs to brewing in the small cup and hurried over to the bed.

The light was not as good as he would have liked now, but he was certain that the toes on that tiny foot looked blue. With careful fingers, he worked his way around the limb. Lena continued to writhe and moan. Rhys felt like slapping her into silence, but knew it would do no good. So he probed until he was sure the babe was not wrapped in its cord. It was not in a good place for him to turn it around, so he was forced to take hold of the limbs and pull. While the women squawked encouragement at Lena, he dragged the baby free.

A boy and it was not moving. Frantically, Rhys cut the cord, cleared the little mouth and rubbed the small chest. When that did not work, he upended the child, attempting to get the baby to draw a breath... but it would not, and Rhys felt hope abandoning him like a tide.

"Give him to me," Moth said, suddenly at his side.

Rhys looked at her face and saw a peculiar mask of calm. Her eyes were luminous; and dark as eclipses and she held forth her hands, He saw that she had made an attempt to clean them, for water ran tracks through the filth of her arms.

"Please, give him to me," she said.

His instinct was to push her away, but there was something in that look that he could not ignore. Swallowing, he placed the child in her outstretched arms. She drew it to her breast and closed her eyes...

Rhys felt the power of the G.o.d Diancecht as it flowed into the room and bathed both the girl and the child with a golden light. His own breath stopped in his throat as he watched her stroke the newborn's chest. Was that the light, or did those small ribs rise and fall? A pitiful little cough and then an infant's wail filled the room.

The wh.o.r.es rushed forward with cries of joy and took the child to clean it. Lena gasped for air between sobs and laughter.

Only Rhys had yet to breathe. He stared at Moth who looked down at the stains of blood and mucus now mixed with the filth of her robe. Then quietly, she looked up at him. "Was that the right thing to do?" she asked.

Oh, Blessed Brother, the child is a True Healer! Rhys thought. All his life, he had prayed for such power, and been denied, and now here was a wh.o.r.e's daughter blessed with the gift he had coveted for so long.

"Did I do it right?" she asked again. "It felt right... and I stopped being sick when I did it."

"Sick?" he repeated.

"Aye, every time I get around someone who's bad off, I feel sick," she said. "And sometimes, the sickness goes away if I touch them, and they usually get better. Was it right?"

Right? he thought. Of course, it was right you silly little gyte. The Blessed Brotber is telling you there is a need and... But the look on Moth's face a.s.sured him that she would not understand such a tirade. And why should she? The girl had never been trained. He was willing to bet she couldn't read or write.

Rhys sighed and nodded, looking back at the bed. Lena cooed over the lad now wrapped and cleaned, and she smiled and shoved one of her t.i.ts into his mouth. Slowly, Rhys gathered his herbs and glanced at the brewing cup. It had been a sedative for the mother, in case everything went wrong. He picked it up and drained it into the reeds at his feet. Then quietly, he headed for the door.

Moth followed as though not sure what else to do. Rhys climbed down the stairs where noise continued to ring.

"What is it?" Tosher called.

"You have a son," Rhys said and continued on his way. Behind him, congratulations flowed. He left Tosher's Hole, eager for the air of the night.

On the streets, he realized Moth was still following him, but now she looked about with unease at the shadows.

"Aren't you afraid of the Swallowers?" she asked.

"The what?"

"Them black things that come out of the shadows and swallows you," she said.

"They're called Darklings," Rhys said. "They rarely come into cities anymore, and besides, they don't like light." And to prove it, he whispered, "Solus." The warm glow of magelight drove the shadows away. Moth hurried up beside him, looking relieved to have the light. "So where is your home?" he asked.

"Where's yours," she said and ducked her head. "I belong to you now..."

"Child, you don't belong to anyone," Rhys said and started on.

"Can I still come with you?" she ventured. "I've no place else to go."

Rhys merely nodded. He had no intention of leaving her on the streets. Liam would probably find her, and she'd be back under his unworthy thumb.

He took the path back to his shop, drew out a key and unlocked the door. Inside, the smells of the herbs wafted with their familiar odors ... a scent he loved. Moth slipped in behind him as he stood for a moment, breathing the sweet air. Her warm odor overwhelmed his nose.

"You need a bath," he said. "And perhaps some fresh clothes."

"All right," she said, and before he could even close the door, she started to disrobe...

"No! Wait, not here!" he cried and quickly shut the door and drew the shutters. "Go in there!" He pointed towards a curtained niche.

Reluctantly, she obeyed, still stripping off her clothes. Rhys took a deep breath to gather his wits, then rushed about to fetch a few items. Lavender in her bath would make her sweeter. He found some old clothes of his own, still wearable, and thrust those at her, along with a towel. She sat in a comer, wrapped in the towel as he quickly used magic to heat the water of her bath. He threw in the lavender and glanced over at her.

"Now get in and scrub every part of yourself," he said.

He hurried out of the niche. The sound of her easing into the water filled his ears, then the splash of liquid. Rhys busied himself, preparing tea and warming some of the oatcakes one of his customers had left as payment for a poultice. Horns, if I had her skills, I would not have to rely on the herbs and common sense. I could touch them and cure their ills. He shook his head. No good would come of envying this gift.

But it galled him to think that Diancecht would give such a special skill to such an ordinary, filthy...

The niche curtains parted, and she slipped into the room, dressed in one of his old nightshirts. Clean, she had a fair complexion and a face that bore some resemblance to that of a fox. Her hair had a red sheen, telling him that the original color had been dirty. She looked much younger now, but the light he had placed in the bathing niche behind her made her womanly shape visible through the thin linen. Rhys swallowed. Healers did not take vows of chast.i.ty. She's a child, he warned his body and turned away.

"Here. Come have some of these. I'll go up and fix you a bed in the front room."

"I can sleep with you..."

"No," he said. "You ... cannot."

She looked just a little disappointed as she came over and helped herself to the oatcakes and tea he placed on the table. While she fed, he went upstairs to the front room. It was actually an examining room, but there was a pallet in the corner that he used for patients who needed to lie down. He took his time arranging fresh bedding and fluffing a pillow for her. By the time he got back downstairs, she was dozing with her head on his work counter, half an oatcake still clutched in one hand. Nor could she be rousted when he touched her hand and called her name. So in the end, he slipped arms under her thin, budding frame and carried her up the stairs. He placed her on the pallet and drew the covers to her chin. Then he went back downstairs to brood the night away.

"Why her?" he whispered. "Why not me?" What possible motive could the Blessed Brother have to give so precious a gift to a simple child who did not even have a sense of her own value? And why let me find her? The questions bored into his brain, adding to the already heavy conflict he dealt with every day of his life. He had a power he would rather deny, and coveted a power he could never have. Not since the Great Cataclysm when the Old Ones joined their magic blood to that of mortals to produce the mageborn-and possibly True Healers, according to some scholars-had any ever possessed both these gifts.

But magic is not a gift, Rhys thought as he finished his tea and oatcakes and seated himself before the fireplace. It's a curse. Mortalborn viewed mageborn with different eyes after the Last War. The Hound of the Blackthorn saw to that. He showed the world what wickedness could be done with even a little magic, and left a bitter taste on humankind's tongue. Now, only the healers and especially the True Healers were respected.

I am a trained healer and herbalist, but I am not a True Healer. Instead, I am the pariah they fear...

One had only to look at the ruins of Broken Wall to understand why.

Exactly when Rhys fell asleep in the chair, he did not know, but there was a fist on the door, and an old woman's voice calling, "Brother Rhys, come quick."

He pushed himself upright with a moan and stumbled over to the door. The knocking persisted. "All right," he mumbled and fumbled with the locks.

The door opened rather abruptly, catching him in the side of the face and throwing him back. He was aware of bodies, and the sour smell of men who had drunk too much ale. As he tried to get back on his feet and opened his mouth to call a spell, a fist slammed him back down. The blow split his lip and pain temporarily stunned him. Rhys heard Moth cry out, first in anger, then in fright, but he was too busy with the pain to realize that her voice faded with the distance.

Besides, he saw the malicious grin and broken nose of Liam's broad face rear over him. Then something harder than a fist clouted Rhys and made the world disappear for a time.

He opened one eye to a shaft of sunlight and the sight of two urchins crouched warily at the open door of his shop, holding a small dog between them. His face felt like he wore a mask or a mushroom where his left eye once held court, and gentle probing with his fingers revealed that the skin around the cheek was broken and the eye merely matted with a crust of blood. He sat up gingerly, aware of pain and the ringing in his ears.

"Shoo, get back," a woman's voice said. "Brother Rhys? Oh, dear..."

He looked around in time to see the entrance of two Sister Healers from the Temple of Diancecht across the river. Sometimes, they brought charity and supplies to his door. He'd forgotten it was that time of the month again. The oldest of the pair was Sister Helena, and she had looked old when Rhys was a child taken in by the Temple. She had mentored and trained him even after his magesign manifested. Now, she looked positively ancient to him, though she moved with the ease of a spry young la.s.s.

"Well, aren't you a sight," Helena said with a shake of her head. She left her younger companion, Sister Bredda, to deal with the urchins and came over to his side. "What manner of malice brought you to this"

"A very large brute named Liam who thinks I stole his wh.o.r.e child," Rhys said and crawled to his feet. Helena put a hand on his shoulder to steady him when he swayed like an old drunk.

"Did you?" she asked.

"No, she followed me home," Rhys replied and caught his breath when he realized how absurd and juvenile that sounded. Especially when her eyebrows rose to form an arch over her accusing smile. Rhys sighed and shook his head.

"Well, whatever the case, you should sit down and let me deal with that before it gets any worse. What did they hit you with?"

"I have no idea," he said. He was of half a mind to refuse the offer and deal with his own wound. But he rather doubted Helena would allow him to get away with that. Better to surrender to her ministering. Rhys seated himself on the nearest bench and allowed her to clean and dress what turned out to be a rather long cut up under the hairline. He bit his tongue as she st.i.tched it. Helena was not a True Healer either, but she was good and had taught Rhys well. Once she was finished, he willingly took the willow bark tea Sister Bredda brewed. Several sips of it worked quickly to ease his pain.

"So, tell me about this wh.o.r.e child who followed you home?" Helena asked as she put away the rest of the bandages.

"Her name is Moth," Rhys said. He glanced towards the stairs. "I found her at Tosher's Hole. Liam was beating her, and I stopped him..." He hesitated, not sure he wanted Helena to know he had fallen back on magic. "At any rate, she... has the Brother's gift. She revived a newborn infant I gave up for dead."

Helena looked thoughtful as she seated herself. "Why do I get the feeling you are not pleased to know this?"

Rhys looked away. Even she knew how he had longed for this gift himself.

"If what you say is true," she went on. "Then we have a duty to find her and bring her to the Temple to be trained. And since the Brother in his wisdom led you to her first, I think perhaps it is a sign that you are meant to find her."

"Broken Wall is a large place," Rhys said, "and a brute like Liam knows every rat hole in it. It could take me weeks to find her, and by then, Liam is just as apt to have sold her or killed her or..."

Helena's hand touched his forearm, arresting his patter. "You and I both know that you could find her much more quickly."

Rhys felt his face go cold. He could not force the words easily across his lips. "I cannot use magic that way..."

"Cannot?" Helena said. "Or will not?"

Rhys closed his eyes.

Helena sighed and patted his arm as she rose from her seat. "I cannot force you to do what you feel is wrong," she said. "But ask yourself if the Brother would think it right before you choose to let this child's life be wasted, Rhys. Come, Sister Bredda. We've charities to deliver."

He stayed where he was, listening to the footsteps of the two women as they closed the door and walked down the broken cobbles. Horns, he thought, covering his face with his hands. It would have been so easy to drink the willow bark tea, lie down and forget this little incident. To pretend that he had never seen Moth or known of her gift. But Helena knew, and would never allow him to live peacefully with himself.

Helena? he thought. What about my own conscience?

Yes, he was jealous, and yes, he would give anything to have the gift Moth possessed. But in truth, he could not abandon her to Liam and the dark life of a wh.o.r.e's child.

Slowly, he rose and climbed the stairs to the room where she had slept. Her blankets were thrown back as though she had come running when Liam and his cronies broke through the door. Briefly, he stared at the rumpled pallet, and then with a sigh he stretched his hand.

Healer he might claim to be, but it could not change the magic legacy that he so denied. Rhys closed his eyes and stretched mage senses, letting the tendrils of his awareness slip into the very cloth and seek her essence. Everything in the world possessed essence of one sort or another, and human essence was the life force that lived in flesh and bone and blood. He touched the faint woolly essence of the blanket and found Moth's warmth. It shone in his mind's eye like a brilliant flower of silver and gold. The essence of a True Healer.

He tasted it with his senses and memorized it until he could fix his awareness to any tangible hint of its power. Then quietly, he rose, pulling a plain cloak on over his simple clothes and left the room, following the essence like a hound follows spoor. On the stairs, it was stronger. Not unusual, since she had been frightened, and as he made his way to the ground floor, he sensed the terror in her. She had not wanted to leave with Liam. The brute's essence was there too, dark as Arawn's heart and cold as winter on a mountain. Rhys locked onto it as well, knowing where he found one, he was likely to find the other.

Rhys picked up his pace and hurried out onto the street. He wind whispered a spell to make the essences sing to him as he followed them. The path was not so straight as it was sure. Liam's pace had been quick, and Moth had been fighting him all the way. Rhys detected the essence of fire. Liam had carried a torch to keep Darklings at bay.

The path eventually took Rhys into the Quays, the remains of river docks long ago abandoned. The only cargo that came here was of a variety the king would never allow-a.s.suming he knew of it at all. In fact, the sort of men and women who inhabited the Quays made the folks of Broken Wall's darker corners seem right pleasant and charming.

Here, the streets were muddy and one walked on planks to avoid sinking in the sticky mire. Rhys carefully picked his way along. The stench in the air was enough to take one's breath away, and his stomach heaved in protest as he realized all he had in it was the willow bark tea. Rhys pushed on, trying to ignore the odors and his own queasiness. The temptation to turn back was too strong at the moment.

No, he would not abandon Moth. He should have taken her straight to the temple the moment he realized what skill she possessed. Instead, he had given into apathy brought on by his jealousy. Who am I to decide that what the Blessed Brother wills is wrong and unfair. Rhys pushed on.

At last, he found an inn along side an old pier that had once been a thriving port for travelers. Abandoned after the war, it was now a thieves' den. Rhys drew closer, stepping past drunks and wh.o.r.es who stumbled about the narrow boards, having slept off last night's activities. It was a dance to stay out of the muck and the pools left by the river's last spring flood. He managed it though, and still remained focused on the essence of the girl and the man. When he reached the door, he could see broken windows, and smell dirty bodies and badly prepared food and ale that resembled p.i.s.s water.

Rhys slipped inside and found a shadow to stand in for a moment. Mage eyes quickly adjusted to the dark, revealing a number of men and women slumbering on the floors. The innkeeper yawned as he put a small effort into wiping the filth off his counter. Rhys whispered a spell to make the man look elsewhere then stretched mage senses again and followed the tangle of Liam and Moth. It led up the stairs and along narrow halls that Rhys followed with caution in every step until he stood before a door.

There were spells, he was once told by the mageborn who trained him, that could put an entire room of people to sleep. Rhys wished he knew that spell now, but it had been one of those lessons he balked against, not because the spell was useless, but because he had felt the need to rebel at everything that had to do with magic. It had not stopped him from learning what to do with the skill he did possess. But a small part of him wondered if even those skills would be enough.

Liam would, no doubt, expect trouble. And he would do what he could to stop Rhys from casting spells. Rhys had only to touch the swollen edge of his mouth to know the behemoth had been told precisely how to break a mageborn's concentration. Just my luck!