Page 13 of Bound By Blood
"No. He won't."
She nods grimly. "Then we proceed. But understand, if he dies under your hand, his blood-brothers will demand yours in return. That's our way."
Of course, it is.
I begin with the familiar ritual of preparation, washing my hands in the steaming water while reciting the healer's oath my mother taught me.First, do no harm. Second, preserve life above all other considerations. Third, serve regardless of the patient's station or allegiance.
The Orc healers watch with growing interest as I examine my supplies, selecting the tools I'll need. My hands shake slightly with fear and exhaustion taking their toll, but my training holds firm. I've performed this procedure before, though never under such circumstances.
"I need someone to hold him steady," I say, laying out my instruments. "This can't be done alone."
One of the Orc healers, a woman with ritual scars covering half her face, steps forward. "I'll assist."
"What's your name?"
"Nasha. Senior Bone-Mender of the Third Circle."
"Lady Eirian Thorne. Combat medic, House Thorne medical corps."
We exchange nods as professional recognition transcending racial boundaries. In this moment, we're not enemies but colleagues united by a common purpose.
The surgery takes nearly two hours. Working by the ethereal light of bioluminescent moss, I carefully drain the accumulated blood and fluid from Gorak's chest cavity, repair the damaged lung tissue, and restore proper breathing function. Nasha proves remarkably skilled, anticipating my needs and providing exactly the right assistance at critical moments.
"Interesting technique," she murmurs as I suture the final incision. "You use silk threads where we would use sinew."
"Silk dissolves naturally as the tissue heals. Less chance of infection or scarring."
"We must discuss this further. After."
After.Assuming there is an after, assuming I survive whatever tests still await.
Gorak's breathing steadies as the procedure concludes. His color improves from deathly pale to merely unhealthy, and the terrible rasping that marked each breath fades to something approaching normal respiratory rhythm.
"Will he live?" Helka asks.
"If infection doesn't set in, if he rests properly, if the sutures hold..." I wash my hands again, watching pink-tinged water swirl away. "Yes. He should recover fully."
"Should."
"Healing isn't an exact science. I've done everything possible, but the rest depends on his own strength and the care he receives during recovery."
Helka studies me with those storm-cloud eyes, weighing something I can't quite identify. Around us, the other healers tend to Gorak with renewed energy, their movements suggesting cautious optimism.
"Nasha," Helka calls. "Bring water. Clean water, with honey if we have it."
The scarred healer returns with a clay cup that steams gently in the cool air. She offers it to me without hesitation, trust earned through shared purpose, professional respect transcending old hatreds.
I drink gratefully, the warm liquid soothing my parched throat. It tastes of mountain springs and wildflower honey, clean and pure in a way with careful preparation.
"Thank you."
"You saved his life," Nasha says simply. "Honor demands appropriate recognition."
Helka approaches with something in her weathered hands, a small pendant carved from what looks like fossilized wood. The design depicts intertwined branches forming a complex knot, beautiful in its intricacy.
"Do you know what this represents?"
I examine the carving carefully, searching my memory for references in Mother's journals. "The Grove symbol. Representing growth through interconnection, strength through diversity."
