Healer

Osthryn barely pays any heed to Silovar’s chambers as the guards deposit him onto his bed, only barely noticing that they are relatively better furnished than she would have expected. She wastes no time taking up the space at Silovar’s side as the guards retreat.

She places her fingers on his neck, feeling for his pulse – it feels as rapid as the beat of a hummingbird’s wings. Osthryn removes her gloves, placing them on the side-table, and sets to work undoing the intricate lacing of the sash. She notes with relief that Silovar’s weakened diaphragm allows slightly deeper breaths with the pressure of the sash removed.

 Osthryn positions herself to roll Silovar on his side, and a servant appears next to her, taking hold of Silovar's legs. She nods gratefully to the man and shifts her hands to Silovar’s shoulders. Leaning against Silovar to support him, she pulls the untied sash free from under him. They slowly lower Silovar to lie on his back. Osthryn doesn’t skip a beat, moving to unlace the front of his robe. The servant silently takes a step back, standing with his hands behind his back as he watches Osthryn work.

Osthryn traces her fingers along Silovar’s clavicle, coming to rest at his sternum. She takes his wrist in her right hand, placing her index and middle finger on his pulse, which hammers against them. With a deep breath, she closes her eyes in concentration, feeling.

Perfect darkness surrounds her. She focuses her attention on her fingertips, the sensation of Silovar’s pulse, and the rhythm of his breath. Osthryn becomes weightless in her mind, almost as if all that is tangible are the points of contact themselves. Light appears in her mind’s eye, emanating from the contact points and searching through a slowly emerging translucent image of Silovar’s body.

His beating heart appears, jumping between rhythms: frantic, but ineffective. The light dives into the centre, and from it a web explodes. The nerves that wind through every aspect and control every fibre of his being are brought sharply into focus.

His nerves? Now that is interesting. A flicker of activity at the base of his skull draws her attention. It is like a moth caught in a lampshade. Sprites of light shoot out down the web each time the moth bounces against the bounds of its location. With each burst of light, the nerves surrounding his heart pulse, and it jumps to a new rhythm again. Osthryn wonders if this is what had caused the convulsions earlier. This is what silver is when it enters a Dragon’s body. If it triggers a degradation of the Dragon’s human form if exposed externally, how much more would it wreak havoc internally?

“Stil, wees stil," Osthryn murmurs, visualising a sheen of cooling mist coming from the contact point on Silovar’s sternum and traveling down to his heart.

However much she stills the symptoms of the silver with her magic, it would not be enough. As long as the silver remains in his system, it would only be a matter of time before they start up all over again. She needs to get that charcoal, and quickly.

“Ah, here is our patient!"

As if on cue, a burst of activity at the door knocks Osthryn from her deep, concentrated state. She looks around to see a priestess entering the room, a potion bottle swirling with a suspension of charcoal in her hands. The servant that was at her side earlier closes the door behind the priestess, and hurries after her to the bedside.

“My apologies, ma’am, I thought it best not to break your concentration. One must never disturb a mage at work," the servant stammers, his anxious eyes not leaving Silovar’s face.

“No no, there is no need," Osthryn assures him. Her hands rest on Silovar for just a moment longer. Satisfied that Silovar’s pulse begins to slow down, she stands aside.

The priestess takes over where Osthryn left off, placing her hand on Silovar’s neck to feel for his pulse.

“A bit quick, but luckily not arrhythmic. I trust that is your doing?" 

"It won’t last long. Not while the poison is still there," Osthryn replies. She was no stranger to working alongside human healers, sometimes even the occasional folk-witch. However, this is nothing she would have allowed herself to do in the past. Slowing down a heart with calming words and mysterious forces is one thing – stopping a seizure and restoring breathing quite another.

Osthryn watches the priestess work, curious to see what openly practiced healing magic looks like here. She stands as Osthryn did, leaning over Silovar. Unlike Osthryn, her eyes are wide open, and neither is she touching him. Instead, her hands hover a short distance above his body. The "light" that Osthryn only used in her mind's eye openly travels from the priestess' hands and shines through Silovar's skin.

Osthryn crosses her arms as she watches, her shoulders tense and her fingers digging into her bicep. The scales painted on the woman’s face irk her. The way she moves and the way she studies Silovar sets her alert, and something about her magic raises Osthryn’s hackles.

Faint lines etching the priestess’ skin wax and wane in intensity as she works, traveling on her hands down her sleeves and up her neck from her chest. Osthryn looks to the servant. If he had noticed anything out of place with the priestess' appearance, he doesn’t show it. The itch of recognition pulls at her mind again, but she cannot place it. By the time Osthryn looks back to confirm what she sees, however, the lines are gone.

“It seems to be some sort of nerve poison," the priestess concludes, turning to Osthryn. Her skin is now clear and smooth, without blemish.

Osthryn realises she is staring at the priestess, and quickly rights herself.

“That was my suspicion, given the convulsions and how sporadic his heartbeat was."

“The guards did say that he fell into a fit immediately after drinking the wine. It must be a fast-acting poison indeed. Do you have any idea what it could have been?"

Osthryn stands silent, something in the priestess' voice putting her on edge. It might just be her prejudice against the painted scales.

"No," she finally lies, "All I know, as with any poison of this nature, is that he must be given charcoal, and soon. Whatever it is will not allow any healing measures to last long."

"That is the truth," the priestess agrees, looking at Silovar. His face had taken on an uncanny pallor.

She turns back to Osthryn with a reassuring smile, "I have cast a stabilisation spell. The effects should have him wake within the hour. Give him this potion immediately once he does. You were a healer up in Sunderland, weren't you?"

Osthryn pauses, Sunderland? Now is not the time to wonder at or correct assumptions about where she was from.

"I am a folk-witch. Healing is much of what we do."

"Witch, such an archaic term," the priestess scoffs. "Anyway, you clearly know what to do, so I shall leave Silovar in your capable hands" she continues, holding out a Dragonscale pendant cast from silver, "If you need any backup, use this to send me a message. I enchanted it."

Osthryn's eyes inadvertently flash to her now-removed gloves. The priestess smiles at her expectantly. Without a second thought, Osthryn accepts the scale and encloses it fully in her hand.

"Thank you, I will do so," Osthryn smiles, suppressing the rising panic and pain deep within her chest. "I never learned your name, what is it?"

The priestess studied her for a moment longer, her eyes falling to Osthryn's closed fist before returning to her face.

"Levitia," the priestess eventually supplies.

"Levitia, thank you for your help. Now, if you don't mind," Osthryn intones evenly, "I would like to get Silovar as comfortable as possible before he wakes."

Levitia drops in a brief curtsy, "That is no trouble, Osthryn, please take your time."

Osthryn smiles against the cold drop in her stomach. She never told Levitia her name.

Levitia turns to leave, before pausing. "I am sorry for your loss," she says, nodding to the black-edged gloves on the side table and the black trim on Osthryn's dress, "I hope that this does not conjure any unpleasant associations for you."

Osthryn keeps her face as relaxed as possible against the sear of the silver pendant enclosed in her fist. "Thank you, but unlike then, there is now something to save," Osthryn gracefully replies, playing into the widow that she supposedly embodies.

"That there is," Levitia assures, before finally leaving the room, tarrying just a second too long at the door.

The servant immediately bolts the door shut behind Levitia, and rushes over to Osthryn. He grabs Osthryn's wrist, "Let it go, ma'am, you shall burn yourself!"

Osthryn hardly thinks twice, the pain from the scale growing insufferable. She lets the scale fall into the servant's waiting hand, pulling away and grabbing her wrist with a shuddering gasp. It was as if a brand was pressed against the flesh of her palm, and bronze scales spread from the perimeter of the wound.

She looks up at the servant, desperately willing the scales to go away before he can see them. His attention is fixed on the pendant now in his hands.

"How, how did you know it would burn me?"

The servant looks to Silovar, his lips pressed tightly together, "My master is fae. Silver burns him. I keep it away as much as possible."

He looks back down at the silver mock scale pendant in his hands with trepidation, "This pendant has not been enchanted as Priestess Levitia says. I cannot sense anything on it."

"What are you saying?" Osthryn prods, gingerly holding her wounded hand while mentally whispering a healing spell.

The servant looked her in the eyes, "Priestess Levitia must think that you are fae. And if she suspects you, his companion, she must also suspect my master. Tell me, ma'am..."

"Osthryn."

"Tell me, Osthryn, what poison did my master drink?"

Osthryn looks to Silovar, a feeling of helplessness washing over her.

"Silver."