The Gathering

Chapter 23 Braven

 

Barellian Plains, Strattoria

21th Harvest 506 AG

 

'I've done all I can, Braven. Your herbs have kept the boy alive so far. But my healing powers can't save him.'

Healer Dathar spoke in a low voice, lean face concerned. The boy's parents hovered anxiously beside his bed. A lantern lit the dark tent revealing a pale, unconscious child near death.

'He may be too far gone for even you to save, but you're his only hope.'

Braven nodded and knelt beside the boy's bed, his hands on the child's chest. He felt the arrhythmic beat as blood sloshed through the boy's ruptured heart. Braven concentrated. Power flowed through his hands into the child. Beads of sweat broke out on Braven's forehead as the healing power he drew took its toll on his body.

Dathar wiped Braven's forehead and held a cup of strengthening herbs mixed in water to his mouth. The young healer croaked his thanks. Hours had passed. His power urged the child's body to knit muscle and skin together. Braven shored up the child's weakened state with his own strength, encouraging the boy's body to greater efforts.

Throughout the night and into the morning, Braven kept his vigil. At last he rose from the boy's bedside. The child's breath had eased. Healthy color flushed his cheeks.

'His heart's mended. He needs rest, but he'll recover.'

The mother sobbed in relief. Her husband enfolded her in his arms.

'Thank you. Thank both of you.'

The father's thanks included Dathar, the senior healer but it was Braven his eyes rested upon.

'All thanks are due to Braven.'

Dathar shrugged, acknowledging his own subordination.

'His skills far surpass mine.'

The two healers stepped outside .

'You leave for Dram this afternoon?' the older man asked.

'Aye.'

'And travel on after?'

'Aye, I do.'

'How is it with your father?'

'He's not pleased.' Braven hung his head.

'I'd think not. Leaving the grasslands is not the tribe's way,' Dathar said. 'I visited Dram once when a young man. Once was enough.'

'It's not just the travel. That I'm a healer in itself angers him,' Braven said bitterly.

'He wishes his eldest son to become headman after him. It's natural.'

'Lorcas will make a good headman. My healing is a gift. Even my mother agrees.'

'Your father thinks to bestow an honor on you. You appear thankless when you reject the plans he made since before your birth. Don't think too harshly of him.'

'It isn't I that quarrels.'

Braven stomped homewards, shoulders slumped. His parents knelt outside their tent. Roern, tall and gaunt, gutted freshly cut fish, while his wife, Alma, prepared a sauce to baste them. Braven stood shorter than his father, at average-height, his muscular arms corded from drawing a bow, legs muscled from riding. Braven's broad face held a wide mouth, usually quirked in good-humour, although now his lips thinned in tension. Large, clear eyes shone like melted amber. He had both a hunter's grace and a plainsman's stride.