Anatolia
Morning couldn’t come too soon. By the time the sun crawled over the eastern hills, Jurian was stiff, cold, and exhausted from a near-sleepless night. As he tried to stretch the aches from his arms and legs, he noticed that Menas seemed bright-eyed enough. Even Mari had more color in her cheeks than the night before, which kindled a little hope in his heart.
They ate a cold meal around the ashes of last night’s fire, and as they finished, Jurian said, “I can’t thank you enough, Menas, for helping us across the river. And for the fish.”
“Nonsense. It was my pleasure.”
Jurian turned to Mari. “Are you ready? We should get started. I don’t know if Casca’s moved his men out yet, but every moment we stay, we risk discovery.”
“Of course.” She clasped Menas’ hands. “Thank you.”
“If I might,” Menas said, and cleared his throat gently. “Perhaps I could travel with you awhile. There may be more rivers on the way. I can take you across all of them…and I wouldn’t mind a change from walking alone.”
Mari’s face lit up, looking so happy that Jurian couldn’t imagine disappointing her.
“I’m sure I couldn’t stop you,” he said with a laugh. “I tried that once already, and see how that worked out.”
“Ah, true,” Menas said, smiling ruefully. “But it’s nicer to be wanted than to tag along like a homeless dog.”
“Of course we’d love you to come,” Mari said. Then, glaring at Jurian, “Wouldn’t we?”
Jurian smiled at her. “You probably know these lands,” he said to Menas. “We’d appreciate a guide…and the company.”
Menas buried the ashes of the fire and they struck off into the woods, veering southwest away from the road. By midmorning, Jurian realized just how grateful he was for Menas’ presence, when Mari suddenly stumbled and Menas, without missing a step, shoved his sarcina into Jurian’s hands and swept Mari into his arms.
As Menas settled Mari’s head against his shoulder, he glanced at Jurian, unmistakable alarm in his eyes. Against Menas’ solid bulk, Mari looked so frail. She reminded Jurian of his mother’s alabaster comb—a piece so thin and delicate that the sunlight shone right through it.
At midday they stopped for a small meal, but Mari refused to eat. She huddled against a tree, coughing uselessly into her cloak, spots of fever red on her cheeks. Jurian’s heart plummeted when he noticed flecks of blood on her chin. He poured some water onto a scrap of cloth and knelt beside her, but she wouldn’t look at him as he dabbed the cloth against her skin.
“It’s no use,” she whispered. “I’m just slowing you down.”
“Why, am I in a hurry?” he teased gently.
“You know we are. If Casca catches us, he’ll murder us both.” She laid a hand against his cheek, and he flinched at the lifeless chill of her touch. “I can’t keep going. I just want to sleep. Oh, saints, is this how Mother felt at the end?”
Jurian glanced at Menas for help, but the giant just met his gaze quietly, his eyes dark with grief. Jurian’s blood simmered with anger. He would never give up on her. He would never let her die. She was still alive, and grief was for the dead.
“We have to be close to a village by now,” he said. “I know it’s not completely uncivilized between Satala and Ancyra.”
“I’ve wandered this region a long time,” Menas said, voice low. “I don’t think there are any towns for another day or so. And not many towns have skilled healers.”
“All right,” Jurian said, getting to his feet. “How long can you carry her?”
Menas smiled at Mari. “She’s no burden at all.”
“Then let’s get going.”
He picked up Menas’ sarcina and settled the shaft of the pole against his shoulder. Menas lifted Mari, cradling her in his arms like a child, and they set off.
Jurian paced ahead, gripping the pole until his fingers ached. Menas had to be wrong; there had to be a town close by. He sharpened his senses, alert to the slightest change in noise or smell. Dusk had just fallen when he suddenly stopped.
“There! Do you smell that?”
Menas turned his nose to the breeze, sniffing around and then shrugging. “I’m not sure I’m smelling what you are.”
“A fire. Peat. Something cooking? Vegetables, probably. I don’t smell meat.”
“What are you, a hound?”
“A hunter.”
“Well? Where is it coming from?” Menas asked.
Jurian turned a slow circle, finally pausing as he faced south. “That way.”
He wove through the trees, grateful for the sparse undergrowth. As they went, the smells grew stronger until even Menas commented on them. Jurian picked up his pace.
“Maybe it’s a village,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Maybe—”
He plowed into something, and stumbled back in surprise as the something grunted in pain. Gradually he distinguished the shape of a man standing in front of him, bent over and rubbing his foot. He was all in dark cloth, even his hood, which made him almost invisible in the dusk.
“What’s wrong?” Menas asked.
The man snapped up with a startled cry. “What are you?”
Jurian recovered. “That’s not very nice.”
“How many are you?” the man whispered. “I’m…I’ve got nothing to tempt you. I have no money. Leave me in peace!”
“Is there a town nearby?” Jurian asked.
“A…a town?” The man bent to massage his foot again. “No, no towns anywhere, not for another day’s walk or so. Was that your foot that maimed me or did you smash it with a club?”
“I’m sorry,” Jurian said. “I didn’t see you at all.”
He glanced at Menas, hoping for a little help, but Menas just chuckled and said nothing.
“Listen, I need a doctor. My sister is very sick and I’m afraid she doesn’t have much longer to live if she doesn’t get help.”
“Where is she? I’ll come with you.”
“You?”
The man gave an exasperated sigh. “You did ask for a doctor, didn’t you? Maybe I can help.”
“She’s right here.”
The man shuffled forward until he almost bumped into Menas. “I think this is a giant, not your sister. Unless your sister is a giant? That would be awkward.”
“The girl’s in my arms,” Menas said, his voice a low rumble. “Haven’t you got a torch or something?”
“Never needed one before. But here, I’ve got some candles…somewhere…”
They listened to him rummaging in his belongings, then he thrust two tawny candles into Jurian’s hands.
“Hold these,” he said.
“I am.”
The man snorted. A moment later they heard the sound of steel striking stone, and a spark danced out over the candles. The first wick caught, then the second, and the man peered at Mari in the fickle light. He was no taller than Jurian, with a thick dark beard and a bald head that glistened in the candlelight under the arch of his hood. His eyes were a startling light grey, surrounded by creases that deepened as he studied Mari.
“Well,” he said. “I suppose you'd better come with me.”
“Where?” Jurian asked.
“My home, of course. You didn’t think I lived out in the woods like a beast, did you?”
“He lives in the woods,” Jurian said, jerking a thumb in Menas’ direction.
The man surveyed Menas head to foot. “He is a beast,” he said, so mildly that it was impossible to take offense. “Come on. No time to waste.”
He shuffled off into the trees with a slight limp that Jurian hoped he hadn’t caused. Jurian and Menas followed him, and the smell of peat smoke grew steadily more powerful. At last Jurian spotted the smoke curling out from a wide cave, the fire inside lighting it up like a glowing scar in the mountainside. The man ushered them in, watching skeptically as Menas had to stoop low to get inside.
Jurian stared around in surprise. The cave was much larger than he had expected, its roof soaring away into the shadows, its farthest wall well beyond the ring of firelight. Besides a crude wooden table there was no furniture, only a few pots for cooking and a scattering of furs over the dusty floor to serve as rugs and a bed. Leaning against the wall was a crude wooden cross almost half as tall as Jurian.
Jurian caught Menas’ gaze and nodded toward it, watching a broad smile fracture the wary look on Menas’ face.
The man noticed them staring and froze in the middle of dragging a fur closer to the fire, alarm stark on his face. Jurian glanced at Menas but the giant was still holding Mari, so, to appease the man, he held his gaze and brushed his thumb over his forehead, down and across.
The man dropped his head and laughed, then finished hauling the fur to the fire.
“And God sends me wanderers in the wilderness,” he said, half to himself. “Fellow travelers.” He beckoned to Menas. “Lay her down on this.”
Menas obeyed, kneeling and gently depositing Mari on the fur. She stirred but didn’t wake. The man lifted her wrist, feeling the prominent bones before searching for her pulse. Either he couldn’t find Mari’s, or what he found he didn’t like, because he frowned and peered at her face. She had coughed up more blood the last few hours, speckling her skin.
The man observed all of it, then sat back on his heels and met Jurian’s gaze quietly.
“I’m sorry. There is no medicine that can heal what she has.”
Jurian winced, though he’d been expecting those words.
“How do you know?” Menas asked. “Are you a doctor?”
The man frowned up at him. “Why, I’m Blasios, of course. You…you knew that, didn’t you? Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“Not exactly,” Jurian said. “We were looking for a town.”
“And something brought you to me instead, of course.” Blasios nodded, as if that made all the sense in the world. “Well, if it’s any comfort, I have been a physician for many years. Recently retired from the world, though I still see my share of patients who come looking for me.”
Jurian sighed and sat by her head, grief and despair threatening to overwhelm him. He was so tired, and he’d put so much hope in finding a doctor who could help…and instead they had met some crazy recluse in the woods who could do nothing but confirm what Jurian had feared all along. Mari was dying, and he couldn’t do anything to save her.
“So you can’t heal her,” he murmured.
Blasios lowered his gaze, his hands quiet on his legs. “I didn’t say that exactly.”
Mari coughed again, blood flecking her hand, but still she didn’t wake. Jurian winced and used the edge of her cloak to wipe the blood gently from her chin.
“Hand me that candle, young man,” Blasios said.
Jurian handed it to him in silence, wondering what he meant to do with it. Burn some herbs and make Mari breathe the smoke? But Blasios just paired the candle with his own and blew them both out. Then, gripping them at right angles to each other, he held them over Mari’s chest, then laid them against her throat, murmuring something under his breath all the while. Jurian tried to listen, but couldn’t make out the words. They didn’t sound like Greek or Latin. He clenched his jaw. It was as he feared—the man was insane.
The air around them brightened, and Jurian glanced at the fire where Menas sat, head bowed, hands folded. It wasn’t until Jurian turned back to Mari and Blasios that he realized that nothing had changed except Blasios’ face, which held a radiance as if the candles were still shining full on him. Suddenly Mari stirred, drawing back with a grimace. Her lips parted and she tipped her head back, and one thin breath hissed through her teeth. And then she was still.
Jurian lurched forward, lifting her up and cradling her against his chest.
“What did you do?” he shouted. “You killed her!” Frantically he smoothed her hair from her face, pressed his lips to her forehead. “Please,” he whispered. “Please, God…let her stay…”
He laid his cheek on her forehead, holding his hand to his face so they wouldn’t see the tears he could no longer suppress.
Menas’ heavy step thundered toward them, and Jurian glanced up to see rage like lightning in his eyes, and Blasios holding up his hands in a desperate gesture for peace.
“Look,” he said. “She isn’t dead!”
Jurian’s heart froze. Mari opened her eyes, blinking drowsily before staring straight up into his worried eyes.
“Jurian?” she said. “Why are you looking at me like that? You’re squeezing me half to death. And…where are we?”