When Phénix came out of her weeks of fevers and drugs, she discovered herself lying in a large bed, with lusciously cool, clean linens. When she opened her eyes, she noticed that the room—much more expansive than any of the cabins she had occupied during the sea voyages—remained quite still. An open window let in a view of sky and trees and the scent of an herb garden.
The whitewashed chamber was sparsely furnished. Her dagger, her headband, and her hair tonic sat on a table just to the side of the bed.
She wore only underdrawers; her upper body, which was everywhere damp with a light sweat, boasted various bandages. Her movements made her aware of areas of soreness. She lay down in the bed, taking inventory of the various dressings around her arm and her chest. What was this knifelike pain under her left breast?
Her memories of the last weeks came only in snatches—painful coughing, gasping for breath; terrifying dreams that haunted her days and nights; cooling poultices laid on her burns; a cup of fish chowder spooned to her one night; and a tonic from a tin cup that left gritty residue in her mouth.
She heard footsteps and tried to compose herself; she could not say why, but she felt guilty for examining her own wounds and embarrassed by her state of undress.
A woman of about forty years old with a quick step entered the room. She wore her hair pulled back into a snood, yet Phénix could tell that her hairline was mostly lavender. Her face was disfigured by a jagged cleft through her upper lip area, pulling the lip up and showing teeth careening in the wrong directions. Trying to be polite, Phénix looked away from the visitor’s face to the tray of food she carried in her hands.
“Good morn to you, Damselle Phénix. I knew it was time to taper off the milk of the poppy. I’m pleased to see you awake.”
“Good morn to you. Have you been the one caring for me?” Phénix struggled to her elbows. “What is your name?”
“My name is ‘Myrnah,’ but you can just call me ‘Healer’; that’s the name I prefer.”
Phénix couldn’t repress a chuckle. “I have a friend who once said something similar to me. In his case, I was to call him ‘Gardener.’”
“Indeed?” said Healer, carefully setting the tray down on the bedside table.
“Yes,” said Phénix. “I miss him terribly.”
Healer changed the subject. “Well, you’ve been through quite an ordeal. Most of your burns became infected, and then your left lung did too. Those who tended you on Misty Caravan worked day and night to keep you alive.”
She helped Phénix into a straighter sitting position, laid a soft shawl around her shoulders for warmth and modesty, and put a large cloth over the younger woman’s lap. “They told me they often despaired. But you just would not slip into the final sleep, the ultimate refuge. Some force or Spirit wants you to live.”
“I barely recall the journey, but I must thank those healers. What are these bandages here and here?” Phénix pointed to the various dressings.
“Scar tissue had grown between your arm and your left side because someone taped your burned arm to your burned side to set the broken bones. Undoubtedly, whoever did this meant well, but he should have wrapped the injured skin to keep it separate.”
Healer gestured from her armpit down her side on her own body. “We had to slice through the scar tissue to free the arm—you have these long gashes that must heal, though they are not very deep. At least the broken bones set well enough, though it will take much work to build back mobility and strength.
“That,” she said, pointing to a spot to the left of her own sternum, “is the incision we made into your chest. We drained out the corruption that had formed an abscess in your lung and pleural cavity. Such a tricky procedure, and we are quite proud we pulled it off! We just closed that hole three days ago, so yes, it is still tender.”
“How long have I been here?”
“Five days since your ship docked and your surgeries.”
“How long…?” Phénix had lost all sense of time.
“Did you sail on Misty Caravan? It takes close to three moons to travel from the Green Isles to here. Today is the fifth day of the moon we call Spring Renewal.” Healer moved the tray onto her patient’s lap.
Phénix eyed the food with appetite, but she also hungered for information.
“The fevers? My coughing?”
“Your fevers are gone. You probably will still cough as the lung dries out more, but less than before.”
“And the burns?”
“You’ve been seriously burned, Damselle,” said Healer. “If I’d had you the first day after your injury I could have mitigated the scarring, but by the time you arrived in Salubriton, ’twas much too late. The burns, which must have been bad enough to begin with, festered and broke repeatedly. Scar tissue has grown to close the wounds, but it is fragile and we will have to watch that it doesn’t break and tear more.”
Phénix closed her hand around the warm cup and averted her face from the older woman. “I hope you don’t think me very vain, but how do I look?”
“Whatever burned you didn’t touch your face. You look gaunt: your cheekbones are pronounced, and your complexion has a grayish tinge. I’d very much like to see more healthy color and roundedness there. As for your hair, we kept up applying your tonic once a week, because even in your fevered state you insisted on it.”
Phénix half expected a scolding or some curiosity about her preoccupation with her hair while she was so ill, but Healer passed over the subject without comment.
“Your eyes…” Healer paused. “Your eyes hold a shadow that distresses me.”
Phénix touched the lizardlike skin on her neck with her fingers. Her arm was wrapped, and she couldn’t reach her back to judge the texture. “My neck? My arm? My back?”
“You will always wear the scars of your accident. Some of the scars are ridged; some discolored.”
“I’d rather know the worst,” said Phénix. “Can you bring me a looking glass?”
“As you wish,” said Healer. “But aren’t you hungry? I really want to get some flesh on your frame; I imagine that, being so undernourished, you’ve lost your courses?”
Phénix nodded. In fact, she couldn’t recall the last time she had had her moon blood—it might have been in Alpetar, before she crossed into Oromondo.
Once she started eating she discovered that, indeed, she was famished. She ate everything on the tray and asked for more, but Healer refused; she wanted to ease her into eating solid food. After the meal, she brought Phénix a night-robe and clogs and bid her rise. Phénix found she could hardly make it the six steps to the window and back. From the window seat she noticed that her bed was oddly constructed—it had curved runners along the bottom, like a rocking chair. She fingered the scars on her neck several times, trying to learn their new texture and ridges and incorporate this change into her self-awareness.
For the next several days, Healer fed her, checked her bandages, and encouraged her to move about as she regained her strength. The older woman reminded her of Nana in her firm but gentle ministrations. Soon she could look the woman in the eyes, no longer even registering her facial disfigurement. Phénix felt safe under her care, as if the touch of her hand or the sound of her voice provided an extra medicine.
When she voiced this thought to Healer, the older woman smiled. “In this Healing Center you are under the protection of Restaurà, Spirit of Rest, Sleep, and Recovery. ’Tis the Spirit that comforts you, not I.” Then she gave the foot of the bed a strong push, and the bed rocked. As Phénix relaxed she began to piece together the similarities between Restaurà’s Healing Center and Vertia’s Garden, and between Healer and Gardener, but these were subjects best not spoken of out loud.
Within two days Phénix had grown strong enough to venture into the corridor. She almost didn’t want to leave her room, which connoted safety to her, but Healer had mentioned a washing room. And there it was, decorated in hand-painted tiles: a small room that, to her amazement, offered water spigots and indoor plumbing like the palace of her long-ago childhood. She wanted to luxuriate in the running stream of water, but a large sign on the door warned “Remember the Drought!”
On the fifth day, Healer brought her two large looking glasses and held one behind her; by moving the front one carefully, she could see that the side of her neck was red, leathery, and creased, but not too unsightly, while the worst-affected area—the left half of her back and the back of her left arm down to the elbow—was puckered with lumpy, angry scar tissue. Phénix let out a long sigh of regret but refused to weep.
A few hours later, she sat by the window. A flock of swallows dipped in wild circles through the gathering evening gloom and then began to gather in a stand of birches that rose outside the herb garden. Their nighttime calls echoed. Phénix yearned to speak to them, and for a long moment she considered reaching out with her Talent. But she feared her Talent had been corrupted, either by direct contact with the Magi’s fireball or by the fevered dreams she suffered on board the ship. The last animal she could recall speaking to had been the ship’s cat.
The sixth day, instead of Healer, a short young woman with brown hair pinned up entered Phénix’s safe cocoon.
“Damselle, I am Betlyna, an apprentice healer. It’s the custom here, when patients are on the mend, to move them to a recovery house where they can profit from being around other patients,” she said. “At present Healer is busy with other, more critical cases; but she sent you her good wishes. The Bread and Balm Recovery House has reported a vacancy. I have been instructed to take you there this morn and get you settled.”
Phénix did not want to leave her sanctuary (and she experienced a twinge of unreasonable jealousy at the thought of anyone else receiving Healer’s attention), but she recognized she had no choice. She reached for the folded clothing that Betlyna proffered. The top was an odd rectangle of cloth with a hole for the neck and then long pieces like sashes sewn on the bottom corners. As these sashes tied around, closing up the sides, Phénix discovered that the shirt would fit people of many sizes and be soft against any injury. Then she pulled on a floor-length, loose skirt that also tied at the waist. Both were of a soft material dyed in different swirls of lilac.
Betlyna held out another garment for Phénix to wear. It was an overcoat constructed of stiff white canvas, loosely falling to knee length. Seeing the puzzled look on her face, the assistant healer explained, “This is a ‘dust-coat,’ damselle. We wear them to keep street dust off our clothing. And here, I’ve got a snood for you.” Phénix tucked her hair into the crocheted netting, but she couldn’t tie the band herself with one arm; Betlyna had to help her.
Betlyna packed up her dagger, jeweled headband, bottle of tonic, nightgown, and night-robe in a satchel. The clogs Phénix had used earlier served as shoes.
An open carriage with a large umbrella affixed on a pole to the rear in order to shade the passenger seats waited outside the door to the infirmary. Phénix was surprised that in the traces stood an animal the likes of which she had never seen before. It had long, spindly legs, a long neck, and a small round face. Its coat—a mustard brown with white spots—looked smooth and silky. Its black tail stretched long enough to switch its face, but it had no mane.
“What’s that?” Phénix asked, agog.
“Oh, never seen a gamel before?” said Betlyna. “We use them for all our carting. Horses, we keep only for leisure riding; gamels’ backs are too high, and though they don’t mind pulling, they won’t tolerate a person sitting on top of them.”
The gamel bent its long neck around and peered closely at Phénix, its odd face assuming a curious expression, almost as if inviting her to talk to it. She reached for it with her mind, and immediately felt a flash of fiery heat throb through her forehead, so fierce she staggered.
The coachman and Betlyna must have ascribed her swaying to her general weakness. The man lifted Phénix by the right elbow and Betlyna by the left waist, careful not to touch her injuries, and aided her up the three steps into the conveyance.
The ride through the streets offered Phénix her first look at Salubriton. She discovered that the infirmary had been situated in a quiet park; as soon as they left the grounds for city streets, bustle and noise rose around her. This city sat on a flat, featureless plain, and few trees provided shade from the sun. Most houses were built of concrete, painted in a variety of gay colors, and all the buildings featured rounded archways rather than rectangular doors. Small scrubby plants and rocks set in intricate patterns provided decoration in islands in the middle of the boulevards and along their sides.
The streets, thronged with gamel vehicles, stretched wider than any Phénix had seen before. Smooth walkways on either side afforded foot travelers a path that kept them safe from the carriages or carts and away from the large piles of gamel droppings. Everywhere Phénix looked, the people, wearing dust-coats, carried extravagantly decorated parasols, some fringed with tassels, some stitched with embroidery; all were a riot of color and pattern.
Such movement and color overwhelmed Phénix. She searched for something familiar and soon realized that she had not spotted a single dog.
“Betlyna, where are the dogs?”
“Dogs? Salubriton does not allow dogs. You needn’t worry about those dirty animals that spread disease and foul the streets. We take precautions to keep our city free of such pests.”
After a lengthy drive they arrived at the Bread and Balm Recovery House, a beige, two-story building with a red tile roof, boasting an ornate and heavy wooden door. The landlady, wearing a little white apron over her loose long skirt, came out to greet the carriage.
“Betlyna, good health to you! I’m real glad you brought me a woman this time, because I need one to sleep with the Ward. I trust she’s an easier guest than the last. Weren’t sorry to see the back of her, you know.”
“And good health to you, Dame Tockymora!” said Betlyna, who exited the carriage and then turned to help Phénix descend. “Now, dame, no gossiping about the guests. Salubriton treats all graciously.”
“Oh, it’s healthy to blow off a little steam. Restaurà don’t mind just a little grumble now and then. What’s your name, damselle?” Tockymora, like all the other Wyes Phénix had met, spoke with an accent that sounded alien to her ears, with more liquid consonants, noticeable particularly in the “r” of “Restaurà.”
Phénix introduced herself and explained how she was a stranger in their land, a refugee from a ship that had burned and sunk.
Dame Tockymora said, “Well, I knew you wasn’t a local, damselle, ’cause if you was, your family would have taken you home. The main folks as come to a recovery house are those from faraway places, or those who don’t have any relations, or those whose relations are hard-hearted. Restaurà will see they suffer from pink eye or piles or pinworm. Well, don’t stand out here in the blazing sun all day. Come in, come in, see the place and meet my other current guests.”
Taking the arm Betlyna offered for support, Phénix entered the house. The interior was laid out like an inn, with large rooms as common spaces and small rooms for sleeping. Dame Tockymora introduced her to half a dozen men (brown hair everywhere, cropped close to the head), but worn out by the stimulation of the carriage ride, other than noticing that one of the men had a wooden leg, Phénix could barely attend. Betlyna assisted Phénix up a steep staircase, taking her to an attic room with two rocking beds and open shutters trying to catch a whiff of breeze.
“There’s a washroom across the hallway,” said Betlyna. “Rest a tick; I am going to check on the progress of the other patients. I’ll stop up to see you before I go.”
Phénix collapsed on the bed; the stairs had made her pant.
Once I climbed a rock cliff into Oromondo. Now I can’t climb a set of stairs. Once my Talent flowed easily. Now I’m afraid to use it. Once Adair found me attractive. Now he would find me hideous. I used to live amongst people who cared for me. Now I’m left alone with people who don’t know me at all.
A few tears wandered down her cheeks, but she was too tired to cry. The bed was lumpy, but the room smelled of the fresh lavender that filled a vase near the window. Although she would have preferred to lie on her uninjured side, she didn’t even have the energy to shift about, so she fell into a half doze in an uncomfortable position.
Noise on the stairs roused her and heralded the arrival of Betlyna with one of the men from downstairs, the one with the wooden leg.
“Damselle Phénix, may I present Syr Damyroth. Syr Damyroth, I’m going to show you how to change her bandages and what to watch for. Sit up, damselle.”
Phénix instinctively grabbed the bow of her sash tie tightly. She did not want to undress in front of a strange man.
Betlyna chuckled. “Oh, I am sorry. No one has explained to you the principle behind the recovery houses. I suppose I am the one who should have done so.
“The point is, you see, that over the centuries we have found that patients recover more quickly if they take over each other’s care. Dame Tockymora isn’t a healer; she’s merely your landlady.
“Each of you must contribute to each other’s recovery; we believe that ‘We are all fingers on one hand.’
“An apprentice healer, like me, will drop by every other day to check on a house’s progress and update routines, but in your case, your bandages still need to be changed frequently, and we’ll give you a salve that needs to be rubbed into your scars so the tissue doesn’t split or crack. So damselle, sit up here”—she patted the side of the bed—“and let me show Syr Damyroth the routine.”
Damyroth’s right trouser leg hung loosely, and a wooden stump hit the floor. He stood tall but so rail thin that his swallow apple protruded from his neck. His eyes were mild, and his short brown hair did nothing to hide an incongruously tiny pair of ears.
“I assure you, damselle,” he said in a deep voice, “that I have no interest in your body, except to the extent I can assuage your injuries. In a recovery house one soon becomes accustomed to human bodies and all their agonies.”
Ashamed of her truculence, Phénix moved forward so that her legs dangled off the bed. Now she saw the efficacy of the way the blouse was constructed: untying the one knot allowed access to a patient’s entire upper body without further disrobing.
Damyroth sat next to Phénix and followed Betlyna’s instructions, unwinding the bandages and inspecting the recent incisions for signs of redness or oozing. His hands were warm and dexterous. He made no comment and refrained from gasping when he saw her burn scars, and for this Phénix felt deeply, absurdly grateful.
Betlyna took a jelly jar of salve from her satchel. “You can start rubbing this on your neck now, damselle. It will moisturize and protect your skin. When the bandages come off in a few days, you’ll want to ask another patient to rub it on your back as well.
“Tomorrow is soon enough for you to participate in caring for your housemates. They will tell you what needs to be done. For the remainder of today, you should just rest and get settled. Dame Tockymora will fetch you your meals. Either I, or another apprentice, will return soon.
“Good health to you, damselle.” She inclined her head over her hands pressed together, the fingers interlaced. And then she and the tall man exited the doorway, leaving Phénix alone in an alien house, in a land far across the seas from Weirandale.
Phénix had been passed about like a parcel ever since the fire. From creature to creature, from boat to boat, and from healer to healer. For moons she had been too sick to take much notice; all her concentration had focused on taking the next breath or swallowing the next medicine offered to her.
Now, on the path to recovery, she fully realized that she had lost everything. The Raiders, her friends, her kin, her looks, her half of the world—even her contact with animals. Oh, how she longed for the closeness and companionship of a dog!
And yet Healer expected her to live and even take on the responsibility of care for others.
As wretched as I was when I was at my sickest, my sense of duty didn’t prod me. If I get better, I have to pick up my burdens again. How can I rebuild my life, much less defeat the usurpers and regain the Nargis Throne?
Casting her gaze morosely around the new room, Phénix spied a ceramic water pitcher and cup near the bed. A drink of water would make her feel better. She reached for the pitcher with her good arm, her right arm, but the vessel turned out to be heavy. She didn’t have the strength to hold it, and she couldn’t swing her left hand to help. In her unsteady grasp, water sloshed all over the tabletop, her own legs, and the floor. And then as she gave up and tried to replace the pitcher on the surface, her fingers slipped on the wet handle and she dropped it to the floor, breaking it and splattering water everywhere.
She stared at the mess, guilty and defeated, wondering if she now had angered Dame Tockymora and if she would be set out on the street.
Phénix lay down and closed her eyes, letting her fatigue wash over her, inventorying all her losses, aches, and miseries, longing for the milk of the poppy or other drugs that had kept her numb during the voyage. She would even have welcomed the fevers that had plagued her for so long, because they made her woozy. Desperately, she reached for the haze of exhaustion that she had fallen into when she first entered the room.
But she had no drugs or any other means of summoning oblivion. She remained beastly conscious, thirsty, with wet knees, lying in an attic room now covered with crockery shards and a wasted puddle of precious water.
Outside she heard the sounds of people, gamels, and carriages on the street. From downstairs she smelled cooking. Life—so pitiless in its demands—went on for her, just as it had for Gentain after he lost his daughters, for Tristo after he lost his arm, or for Thalen after he lost his mother and brother.
And Thalen had risen up from those twin blows to lead the Raiders into Oromondo to free his countrymen.
But I’ve lost more! I’ve lost the most! she wailed in her mind, but even she could hear in those wails the echo of the spoiled princella she had once been. Her lips quirked into a self-mocking smile.
Well, it looks like I am going to live. So the sooner I make some effort, the better.
She heard the clink of dishes and the murmur of voices from downstairs. She was hungry, and she didn’t know when anyone would bring her food. Besides, she didn’t want to be waited on like an invalid.
Sliding to the edge of the bed, she placed her feet on a dry patch of floor and stood. At first her head swam, but after a moment’s pause she recovered sufficient steadiness to proceed. Placing each foot deliberately one after the other, she trod down the stairs, holding on to the wall for balance. Gaining the ground floor without falling had been difficult, but she felt a tiny surge of pride that she managed on her own.
A group of people was gathered around a table covered by an enormous green-and-black-striped parasol in an interior courtyard, passing dishes from one to the other; Damyroth, three other men, and one woman. They paused their conversation when they saw her in the doorway.
“My dear damselle, we would have brought you a tray, but we are delighted you feel strong enough to join us!” said a portly gentleman whose brown coloring was decidedly yellowish. He sprang to his feet, bowed slightly, and came to hold her elbow. “The paving stones of this courtyard are quite uneven; you don’t mind if I escort you to your seat?” He steered her gently but firmly to the open chair; the others had already laid her plate and started to heap it with food by the time she sank down, drained from her exertion.
“Betlyna made brief introductions before, but let me present myself formally. I am Syr Lymbock, a businessman from Arri. I ate some bad shellfish and have presumed upon the kind hospitality of Salubriton for my jaundice for moons.” He nodded to the man beside him. “I believe you’ve met Syr Damyroth?”
“Not socially,” said Syr Damyroth. He too stood and bowed. “I am Damyroth, one-leg amputee from a work accident. Born and bred in Haven, a town far from here, north and east. I was a builder; my boss saved my life by removing me from the stones of a fallen wall and carting me to Salubriton.”
“So pleased to meet you,” answered Phénix, then turned to the next person.
The listless woman sitting next to Damyroth had her hair untidily pushed into another snood; she neither looked up nor spoke.
Lymbock cleared his throat. “Ah, may I present Restaurà’s Ward. We don’t know what her real name is. She suffers from melancholia and will not speak to us. One of us always keeps an eye on her; she’s attempted suicide twice—once before she came to Bread and Balm and once while here. She is your roommate, so you will need to keep watch on her in the nighttime.”
On the other side of the Ward an elderly little man got up and made a small bow. “Damselle, I am Syr Jitneye; I live here in Salubriton. I am recovering from my third heart attack. My wife died last year, and there’s no one at home to watch out for me.”
The last person at the table had bright magenta streaks in his intricately braided hair; he wasn’t sitting in a regular chair, but rather half reclining in a sloped rocker. His own accent was slightly nasal, to her ears, but his syntax sounded stranger. “My name is Sezirō. I be a sailor from Zellia. I was stabbed in a fight. I started it, so my own is the fault. In my belly. Forgive me, I cannot stand. And I cannot eat; I join the table for company. And for favor, damselle, no need to term me ‘Syr.’”
They all looked at Phénix expectantly. She felt bad about lying to such open, gracious people. “My name is Phénix of Sutterdam,” she said. “Sutterdam is a major city in the Alliance of Free States. I was on a ship to the Green Isles, and the galley caught on fire. The captain put me on Misty Caravan to bring me to your Healing Center. Oh yes, my injuries are burns, infections, broken bones, and a lung abscess.”
She looked down at her still-damp knees, which the other guests had failed to notice. She confessed, “I just broke the pitcher in my room, and I couldn’t even clean it up.”
“Oh, don’t bother about that. I will see to it after our meal,” said Syr Jitneye.
The sympathy around the table undid her. Phénix added, very softly, staring at her plate, “And, on top of these physical hurts, I am so very homesick!”
“Of course you are,” said Syr Damyroth. “Low spirits accompany all our ailments. They take just as much time to heal.”
Syr Jitneye beamed at her. “You are very welcome to share our table and our house, damselle.” He removed the cover from a dish. “May I serve you a bite of this? Dame Tockymora is a wonderful cook. If any of us recover, it shall be because of her fricassee.”