Chapter Text
“Zion, father of the gods, dying, spoke thusly: ‘Be forever vigilant against the wiles of Khepri, the deceiver, the traitor, the enslaver.’ And the King of Blades as though he commanded a great host and not merely a scattered band of those last loyal said, ‘As you will it, so it shall be.’ Since that time before the first dawn, our gods have stood watch against the darkness and kindled in our hearts always the strength to hold our freedom true.”
- An excerpt from Revelations, the principal religious text of the Nine Gods.
A patrol found her lying out in the high desert, and if not for the blessing my goddess had granted me, I would have thought her dead already.
The cavalrymen wished to see me work. They were Isaurans, local auxiliaries pledged to the Fifth Heaven, raised far from Amata’s gentle mysteries which found their roots in greener lands than this. But I bade them leave me, and they did, for the woman - the girl - demanded the fullness of my attention.
She had milk-pale skin, and a tumbling mass of black hair. That alone was strange; I might have marked her for a Jute, or perhaps Inyish, for all they were hundreds of leagues from Isaura. Her garments were equally odd. More so, perhaps. Trousers of a tough blue broadcloth, and a sable tunic, shortened at the waist. I had not seen their like before, nor read of them, and they were regardless wholly unsuited to this province. No imperial woman would wear such a thing, I was sure, and nor the Yscal cultists of the Dancing Sun or any of Khepri’s other slaves.
Focus, Xene: there was a time for curiosity, and this could not be it.
Water was the first necessity. She was not responding to anything so I had to contrive to hold her mouth open and trickle a little in. Only a little. Those who wandered the inhospitable lands might be in desperate need of it, but too much, too swiftly, and they would sicken and die. I had seen it, men drowning on dry land, women vomiting blood or running mad, seeing impossibilities and striking out against friends and comrades.
From there, I removed those strange clothes with the efficiency the priory had trained into me. There were no other injuries; no bruises or broken bones or scars half-healed. That was a relief, indeed. My brothers and sisters who served the goddess in her aspect as Mortifier might disagree, but my creed told true: no one should ever deserve to suffer as she had.
More proper clothes were sent for. With that entrained, I drew forth my needle and took the slightest sampling of her blood. When viewed through the closest lens of my blessing, it was as I had suspected - an overabundance of yellow bile, brought on by intense temperature; at least a day in the sun, if not two; and a failure of phlegm. Her mind would be imperilled by such an imbalance, let alone the rest of her.
Swiftness was imperative.
I replaced her thick broadcloth was a light linen tunic, and went to prop open the window for what breeze could be found, and wrung out cloths soaked in well water, and prayed.
“Our lady of beneficence,” I said, hands ever at work, for she did not demand our supplication but only our industry, “Threefold divine, betrayed and reborn, hear now the words of your humble servant. As you were once, a woman is hurt and alone. See fit, if it is your will, to bend your mind and power to her aid; to use me as your instrument for her salvation; for as it is written, all those injured who fall before the eyes of your heavenly court shall never be left wanting. Soli deos gloria.”
I busied myself for at least an hour seeing to the patient’s comfort until I was content that her humors were stabilising, and that the final move up from slumber was the province of divine will alone.
It proved fortuitous, because at close to noon, Afra called upon me.
“No real reason,” she said, striding into the room, her sword - she never could be parted from it - hanging at her side. She owned the nonchalant handsomeness of a life in the saddle. “Although I did find an excellent Falernian I was hoping to share. You’re not busy, are you?” with a chopped nod towards the cot and the girl upon it.
“Not for now,” I replied, as we settled into chipped chairs shoved hard against the wall - the austerity of Apua’s citadel was a far cry from the luxury of Isca with its dining couches and frescoed atriums, but the honestly appealed - “Although I will need to see to her, every so often.”
“We have our duties.” It was what she always said. We were the only blessed in the garrison - I by the majesty of the Second Heaven, the Red Queen; her by the mistress of the Fifth, she with the swift warning - and she had always understood how the goddess called me to service in a fashion distinct from hers, yet united in praise to the pantheon. Such a view was not always shared.
“Indeed.” I poured a measure of the wine, watered it well, and took a sip. Sublime. “Where under the heavens did you find this?”
“A caravan from Tyria. I wish they’d come with more drink and better news.”
“Oh?”
A sigh, a heavy draught. Her glass clinked as she put it down. “Three more Yscal raids along the road in the last fortnight, and they’re moving north. We don’t have the women or the horses to track them all. For all I know, there could be a warband over the next dune.” Another look to the cot. “Do you think it’s where she came from?”
“Chattel?”
“Yes.”
I looked again at the girl, white skin upon a white tunic. Her hair was far better kept than any farmer or soldier could afford, and she was not a noble for she was found without a retinue. A slave, a servant - what manner of difference was it for westerners, subordinated as they were to Khepri’s tyranny? - kept for the worst tasks. There was a logic to it.
“Perhaps.” I thought aloud; it was a flattering thing that Afra, ten years my senior, a decurion of good standing, would come to me for counsel. “She doesn’t have Yscal colouring. But she has not been touched by the sun at all, and there are no signs of abuse upon her.” Praise the Huntress, defender of maidens, for that mercy, be it however small.
Afra’s face shadowed a moment. “There are cruelties which do not leave a mark.”
Or ones which might be healed, too. Antares’ clerics were as flawed as their patron, after all, and robed in stolen power which could easily be turned to inglorious purpose.
“I won’t know until I speak to her,” was all I said, all, indeed, that I could say.
“You think she will wake?”
“Her humors do not concern me as they did. In the gods’ good time, a recovery is to be hoped for.” Expected, perhaps, but I did not voice it for hubris was ever the enemy of proper care.
“There’s no one better to make sure it happens,” Afra said, and I could hardly help but smile.
We passed some time on other matters. The caravan had brought letters from home, and the garrison was awash with third-hand gossip. For Afra’s part, her brother’s husband had made a fool of himself at a dinner party, and her niece kept hiding in the olive trees because she hated her tutors and would much rather be playing with swords. Her optio had his own stories, and we laughed at those too.
Yet the Yscal threat overshadowed it, seeped into the pauses between sentences, cast darkness on the sun-blessed memories of home - where the bright day was a thing to be rejoiced in, not hidden from amid swirling dust and austere sands. Even when she departed to oversee practice for the new recruits (”They’re fu - completely useless.” “You can curse around me, you know.” “But I don’t want to.”), I could not stop myself from thinking about it.
The empire and the western nations - the Kingdom of Yscalin, the Queendom of Inys, and further distant the Thousandfold Confederation and the city-states of Mendeton - were not at war. We hadn’t been for decades, because they were cowards, and knew that they could not match the legions. But moved by the foulness of Khepri’s will, and the other evils of their cults, they raided nonetheless. Parties of horsewomen and men would slip between watchposts and descend upon villages with fire and sword, for little purpose but the agony of innocents.
Of course, our own soldiers went to their defence; and indeed crossed the border to fight the threat at its source; but it was a difficult task.
I had written to my own order of it, just as Afra had to her superiors. The consul militaris was aware, we had been told, and reinforcements would be sent. That was six months ago, and it was not blasphemy to believe the promise false.
No matter. At the least, I could focus on just the one patient here, now. I made sure that she had enough water, steadily increasing the amount, and took a note of her care until then, and prayed once more for the intercession of the goddess for by her presence all things might be made whole. It was a calmer thing than treating the flame-blackened, blade-slashed survivors of Yscal depredations.
She woke as the sun was beginning to set.
I heard her stirring and was by her side within moments. Her eyes were wide, wild, and she sat up on the cot as though she might need to run from it.
“Who are you? Where am I?”
“Peace,” I said, and it was a mercy I could understand her. “You’re safe. My name is Xene, cleric to the goddess Amata. You are within the fortress at Apua, in the province of Isaura in the Iscan Empire. No harm will come to you.”
Be she righteous or a worshipper of falsity and evil, that was one pledge I would stand by no matter the cost.
I could not account for the expression upon her face. She looked at me like she had never heard of any of that. Even a Jute would know of Isca; they could scarce not.
“Might I have your name?” I asked.
She cleared her throat, a parched, tearing sound despite the water I had given her. Goddess forfend, to have been alone upon the desert for such a time.
“Taylor,” she said, and then, almost abashed, “That’s my name.”
I chanced a smile. “I gathered. Are you Inyish, then? Where do you come from?”
Again that flash of confusion, passing over her features like a wind through the leaves. “I’m sorry. I can’t remember.”
Her humors were not inflamed in that regard, I could tell even without a sample. Yet they dictated only the balance of the body and the soul; a particular injury to the brain would not necessarily be evident.
“What is the last thing you can recall?”
A helpless shrug. “I was walking in the desert. I don’t know why. I’m sorry, I - “
“Do not apologise.” She quailed at that, a flinch back, and I gentled my tone. “I am cleric of Amata, Taylor. My duty is to care for those hurt. I won’t strike you, or cast you out - please do not think for a moment that I will. Would you wish to stay here for a time, until you recover?”
The very faintest smile, for a passing moment, and if it were baffled as much as it was grateful, I would take it as a sign all the same. For as Surinus said, that which you do for the least of our brethren, you do for the gods themselves.