One’s a curiosity, two’s a conspiracy. That and a dragonborn. Never know what those types are thinking.”
“Yes,” Brin said, shame in his chest. “Well.”
He realized hadn’t apologized for thinking they were devils. What had seemed like an honest mistake turned cruel and thoughtless when he heard the cart owner saying the same. He hadn’t thanked them for saving him either, or for saving the rest of the caravan. Brin turned to help Tam with another man, a farmer with a broken arm, wishing for all the world he was traveling with a pair of devil-children and a dragonborn.
T HE H OUSE OF K NOWLEDGE , N EVERWINTER
10 K YTHORN, THE Y EAR OF THE D ARK C IRCLE ( 1478 DR )
P ATCHES OF BLUE LIGHT SCINTILLATED ALONG THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE sleeping man. The four acolytes arrayed around his cot could not seem to take their eyes off them, nor would they come closer than a few steps from the spellplague-touched man. Rohini pursed her lips.
“Come on,” she coaxed, holding out the cotton bandages. “He doesn’t bite.”
“But …” one of the acolytes, a fair-haired human girl ventured. “Isn’t he contagious?”
“If you are going to care for the victims of the Chasm,” Rohini said, “you are going to have to firm up.” She set the bandages on the table beside her and took up shears to cut the previous dressing loose. “You can’t take on the guardsmen who fall in the river or take a tumble down a pile of rubble and leave all the interesting patients to your colleagues. Now, make certain you don’t bind the dressing too tightly. He needs his blood still.”
The acolytes eyed each other uneasily, still wary of the spellscar. Even in the sunlight streaming down from the many broken windows, the blue light was unmistakable. Rohini risked a glance through the archway and across the corridor. The door was still shut.
“Couldn’t we just cast a healing on him?” a dark-skinned young man asked. “Isn’t that why we’re here? Because we have Oghma’s blessing?”
“You are here,” Rohini said, a little more sternly, “to serve Oghma by assisting Brother Vartan’s studies of the Chasm. And to serveNeverwinter by taking care of her guardsmen.” She wound the clean bandage around the man’s arm. “Neither of which you do by wasting your god-given magic on a flesh wound.”
“But the spellplague—”
Rohini cut him off with a sharp look that held more than the promise of punishment, though she knew from experience that was all the human boy would see. “I trust, Josse, that you don’t believe you can heal the spellscarred when not even the god of knowledge has managed it?” The boy dropped his eyes.
Rohini’s eyes flicked back to the door. Still shut, but there was most definitely a stirring behind it, quiet and easy to dismiss … but more than she’d heard all morning.
“You are all very blessed,” she said, her voice light and sweet again. They all lifted their heads. They wanted to please her. “But you must learn these simpler skills and save your prayers for when they are needed. You will see wounds far more traumatic than this. Far more deadly. Infection. Disease. Poisons. If you have already worn yourself out casting healing magic on a scrape, then where shall you be?”
Definitely a stirring. Vartan’s guest was preparing to leave. She tied the dressing neatly closed, imagining for the barest moment what would happen to the wound if she
had
bound it good and tight—the sickening of the blood, the putrifying wound—and then locked that part of her mind away again. That wasn’t who Rohini was any longer.
“There,” she said. “Now the four of you take care of the rest. The bandages are here, and be certain your hands are clean.”
No sooner had she set them to their task but the door opened and two men came out. Brother Vartan—the head of the researchers and of the makeshift hospital the ancient temple to the god of knowledge housed—waved the shorter human through
“Yes,” Brin said, shame in his chest. “Well.”
He realized hadn’t apologized for thinking they were devils. What had seemed like an honest mistake turned cruel and thoughtless when he heard the cart owner saying the same. He hadn’t thanked them for saving him either, or for saving the rest of the caravan. Brin turned to help Tam with another man, a farmer with a broken arm, wishing for all the world he was traveling with a pair of devil-children and a dragonborn.
T HE H OUSE OF K NOWLEDGE , N EVERWINTER
10 K YTHORN, THE Y EAR OF THE D ARK C IRCLE ( 1478 DR )
P ATCHES OF BLUE LIGHT SCINTILLATED ALONG THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE sleeping man. The four acolytes arrayed around his cot could not seem to take their eyes off them, nor would they come closer than a few steps from the spellplague-touched man. Rohini pursed her lips.
“Come on,” she coaxed, holding out the cotton bandages. “He doesn’t bite.”
“But …” one of the acolytes, a fair-haired human girl ventured. “Isn’t he contagious?”
“If you are going to care for the victims of the Chasm,” Rohini said, “you are going to have to firm up.” She set the bandages on the table beside her and took up shears to cut the previous dressing loose. “You can’t take on the guardsmen who fall in the river or take a tumble down a pile of rubble and leave all the interesting patients to your colleagues. Now, make certain you don’t bind the dressing too tightly. He needs his blood still.”
The acolytes eyed each other uneasily, still wary of the spellscar. Even in the sunlight streaming down from the many broken windows, the blue light was unmistakable. Rohini risked a glance through the archway and across the corridor. The door was still shut.
“Couldn’t we just cast a healing on him?” a dark-skinned young man asked. “Isn’t that why we’re here? Because we have Oghma’s blessing?”
“You are here,” Rohini said, a little more sternly, “to serve Oghma by assisting Brother Vartan’s studies of the Chasm. And to serveNeverwinter by taking care of her guardsmen.” She wound the clean bandage around the man’s arm. “Neither of which you do by wasting your god-given magic on a flesh wound.”
“But the spellplague—”
Rohini cut him off with a sharp look that held more than the promise of punishment, though she knew from experience that was all the human boy would see. “I trust, Josse, that you don’t believe you can heal the spellscarred when not even the god of knowledge has managed it?” The boy dropped his eyes.
Rohini’s eyes flicked back to the door. Still shut, but there was most definitely a stirring behind it, quiet and easy to dismiss … but more than she’d heard all morning.
“You are all very blessed,” she said, her voice light and sweet again. They all lifted their heads. They wanted to please her. “But you must learn these simpler skills and save your prayers for when they are needed. You will see wounds far more traumatic than this. Far more deadly. Infection. Disease. Poisons. If you have already worn yourself out casting healing magic on a scrape, then where shall you be?”
Definitely a stirring. Vartan’s guest was preparing to leave. She tied the dressing neatly closed, imagining for the barest moment what would happen to the wound if she
had
bound it good and tight—the sickening of the blood, the putrifying wound—and then locked that part of her mind away again. That wasn’t who Rohini was any longer.
“There,” she said. “Now the four of you take care of the rest. The bandages are here, and be certain your hands are clean.”
No sooner had she set them to their task but the door opened and two men came out. Brother Vartan—the head of the researchers and of the makeshift hospital the ancient temple to the god of knowledge housed—waved the shorter human through
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