Page 13 of The Elven Healer's Apprentice

“Clear that worktop off,” the healer ordered. “That will be where we place the checked reserves.”

I moved to comply. Before I realized it, he had set a routine to the task. He would take a jar or crock from the shelves and mutter a few words over it. Magic would flare slightly, throwing strange shadows over his angular features and backlighting his eyes in the dimness. Then, he would pass the container to me with a single-word order as to where it should go.

“Shelf,” he ordered, handing me another jar. That meant that the contents were still good to use.

Moments later, he passed me another. “Floor.” Thankfully, only a handful of jars were relegated to the floor.

“Shelf.” He handed me a clear glass container filled with ground yaron root. I warily accepted the vessel. Native to my homeland, the root had potent properties, but I had avoided it due to a childhood sensitivity. I cautiously crossed the floor to the waiting shelf.

In the past year, I had trodden this path so many times. Repeatedly I had evaded the irregularities of the wooden boards, sidestepping, lifting my foot higher, or righting myself when my toe caught on it. But this time, attention acutely focused on my burden, I didn’t remember it. My slipper caught on the wooden lip, and I lost my grip on the jar.

Glass shattered into a million pieces. The air filled with the bitter scent and taste of the ground herb, and I fell to my knees hard in the center of the mess. Pain stung my hands where they landed amid the glass shards and powder. Horrified, I scrambled to rise, but my attempts only drove the glass bits deeper into my palms.

“Be still.” The healer’s sharp order cut through my initial panic. “I am going to lift you. Don’t fight me.” Large, warm hands grasped my middle. One moment I was on the floor and the next, I was being cradled against his chest. I couldn’t smell him. The first sign of a breathing attack.

Clinging to him, I fought against panic as my chest constricted. Agitation only made an attack’s severity worse.

“I am going to put you down on the table while I clean up the mess.” The hard wooden surface pressed against my legs as he scooted me onto the top of the worktable next to the unsorted stores.

“I will replace it,” I protested when he stepped back, retreating as though I had stung him.

However, he didn’t turn away. Assessing me with a sharp scrutiny, his changeable eyes watched my face as a strange mixture of emotions crossed his features: concern, annoyance, and wariness. “How are your hands?”

“They hurt.” I lifted them for his inspection. Just that motion seemed to be too much for my beleaguered lungs. My vision spotted. Dropping my hands to rest in my lap, I fought to keep my breathing even. My chest continued to constrict. I strained to draw in air. A coughing fit tore through me, driving me to double over as agony laced around my ribs.

Suddenly, he was next to me again. His presence, alive with warmth and magic, invaded my narrowing awareness.

Each breath ended in a wheeze. Black encroached further on my vision. A tingling sensation in my feet signaled that I might not be aware much longer if I couldn’t breathe deeper. The heavy weight on my chest intensified as I gasped fruitlessly for air.

I didn’t sense his movement. One moment I strained for breath, the next his hand rested on my back. The vise around my ribs eased slowly as a buzzing tingle of magic permeated my torso.

“Breathe,” the healer ordered, his gravelly voice inches from my ear.

Instinctively, I complied, dragging ever deepening lungfuls of fresh air into my starved body. The tingling dissipated, my vision cleared, and then suddenly, I could smell again. Mint, sage, and an unfamiliar herb assaulted my nose. The bitterness of the yaron no longer filled the room. I lifted my head and blinked. Specks of ground herb still danced in the center of the sunlit room.

“Isolation barrier.” The master healer answered my unasked question. “I use it for procedures with a high risk of infection orcomplication. In this case, it is doing a reasonable job of keeping the irritant away from your lungs.” The buzzing of magic in my chest eased, tapering off to nothingness, but his hand remained between my shoulder blades. Spanning most of the width of my back, it continued supplying steady, comforting pressure to my shoulders. “What other herbs are you sensitive to?”

“What?” I turned toward his voice and just missed hitting my nose on his jaw.

“The yaron root—surely this isn’t the first time you have reacted like this to exposure to it.” He removed his hand from my back. With a wariness in his manner, he stepped away, dark azure eyes assessing my face again.

“When I was a child, my nurse prepared it for my tea. I began wheezing because I had been near it, so she decided it was wise to avoid it.” I eyed him warily. “I can handle the roots as long as I use gloves and work with the windows open.” But doing so made my chest ache. I didn’t want to mention that for fear he would ban me from his work areas. “I am sorry about the jar and the powder. I will—”

He cut me off with a wave. “You shall not be touching yaron again. If it needs to be worked with, I will do it. Better not to risk another attack.” His gaze narrowed, intensifying the brightness of his eyes. “Now stay still while I deal with the mess.”

The moment his back turned, I moved to ease myself off the tabletop, but the angry wounds in the palms of my hands protested painfully to even the slightest brush of pressure.

“Are you trying to make more work for me? Stay,” he ordered with a penetrating glare. “Just sit.” Stepping through the invisible isolation barrier, he massaged his hand distractedly as he assessed the damage.

∞∞∞

Merlon

I massaged my palm as I considered the best way to deal with the mess. Maintaining the isolation spell with barely a thought, I worked the beginning of a collection spell. A version for the herb and another for the glass would work, but I needed to remove the glass shards within the woman’s skin from the pull of the spell somehow. Those required a more cautious approach, and I suspected more time.

With a few words of Elvish, the magic in the room focused, swirling in gentle eddies. As the manufactured breeze urged the ground herb to consolidate, I turned my attention to the glass, which took more care.

“Why not use a broom?” she asked, distracting me. “A matter of moments, and I could scoop it from the floor and carry it out to the burn pile.”

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