Shadows Return

he and Alec watched, Sebrahn pulled the lower end of a tattered blanket away, exposing a foot that was dark and grossly swollen.
    “He wants to heal her, like he did Ilar’s lip,” Alec whispered, moving for the door.
    Seregil grabbed him by the arm and signed,
Stay here. Keep watch. I’ll do the talking.
Making sure his sleeves were well pulled down to hide the slave brand, he stepped inside, hands raised to show he meant no harm.
    “Who are you?” the man demanded in thickly accented Plenimaran as his wife hastily turned away and covered her head with a shawl. He had the curly hair and swarthy skin that spoke of mixed blood, probably Zengati. The little girls had curly hair, too, but were fair-skinned.
    “Just a wayfarer,” Seregil replied, knowing his own Plenimaran spoke of western cities. “We were so glad to see your light. I’m sorry if my companion there has troubled you, but he’s a healer.”
    “That pale little thing?” the man growled. “What does he care about my daughter? How did you come here?”
    “We were lost, up in the highlands.”
    The man remained suspicious, but Seregil pressed on. “My little friend here smells disease and follows it like a hound.” Actually, he suspected that wasn’t much of a lie. “If you’ll allow it, I think he can make her well.”
    The man started to object, but his wife muttered something low and urgent and he softened as he looked over at the dying girl. “Well, I don’t suppose he could do her much harm as she is.”
    “What happened to her?”
    “Rock adder bit her last night as she was bringing in the flock. She screamed most of the night, ’til she wore out. If your little fellow can help her, or give her an easy passing, you can ask of us what you will.”
    “I need a cup of water.”
    “She can’t take none.”
    “I know, but he needs it for the healing.”
    One of the little girls hurried to dip a cracked bowl in a bucket. Seregil took it with a reassuring smile and set it down beside Sebrahn.
    “Give me your hand,” he whispered, drawing his poniard.
    The rhekaro immediately shrank back from him, eyes fixed on the long pointed blade.
    “What are you playing at?” the man demanded, reaching for a cudgel on the floor beside him.
    Alec came in and went to Sebrahn. “Let me do it.”
    The woman peered at them from the folds of her shawl and let out a trembling cry. She uncovered her head and turned her face to the firelight.
    “You’re Aurënfaie,” Seregil said, in that language. Worn and hollow-eyed from hard living, she still had the fine features of his kind. She also had a large bruise under one eye.
    “I was,” she whispered. “I thought you must be, and now I see the boy.” She held out her right forearm, showing them an elaborate, flower-shaped brand mark there, as well as bruises left by rough, large fingers. “I’m a freedwoman. This is my man, Karstus. I’m Tiel. Please, can you really help my girl?”
    “I hope so.” Alec pricked the rhekaro’s finger and let several drops fall into the bowl. Two dark blue flowers floated up. When Sebrahn placed them on the affected foot, they both disappeared as soon as they touched the hot, discolored flesh. He held his finger over the bowl again and made another. This one he placed on her mouth, where the same thing happened, but this time her eyes opened and she looked up at him in sleepy confusion. “Where’s Mama?”
    Her mother let out a happy sob and crawled over to take her daughter’s hand.
    But Sebrahn was still busy, making more flowers and putting them on the girl’s foot and leg. A sweet fragrance filled the air as, one by one, they disappeared.
    Ilar crept in and knelt just inside the door, making the husband a humble bow.
    “How many of you are there?” Karstus growled, suspicious again.
    “That’s all of us,” Seregil replied, shooting Ilar a dark look.
    “Oh, look!” Tiel exclaimed, with no eyes for anyone but her daughter. The swelling was already noticeably lessened, and the angry red streaks that had extended up her shin were fading. “Oh, thank Aura.”
    “Don’t cry, Mama. It doesn’t hurt so much now,” the girl said.
    “By the Flame,” her father grunted, gripping the cudgel in both hands now. “What sort of sorcery is this?”
    “What’s he saying? Why is he still angry?” Alec whispered.
    “Stay calm,” Seregil told him quietly. Then, to the man, “It’s a healing, that’s all. See? Your girl is better. She’ll be up