The De'Nauguath Chronicles - Book 1: The Summoner's Daughter

Chapter 8: Exile

Brotherhood of the Last Light Monastery, Clare

Devna squeezed the old rag out over the chipped basin and dabbed it on the lad's head. The boy stirred. He opened his mouth when a few drops of water slinked neared his lips. Devna reached for a little cup of tea and brought it to the child's shriveled lips. The boy sputtered.

Devna smiled. "Welcome back," he encouraged with a wink at the dazed eyes staring up at him. He resumed his tedious work on the affected skin. The pustules were no better today and had turned darker, almost to a black color. Devna wasn't sure what he could do for the boy at this stage of the condition.

It was difficult to clean skin when it kept sweating so much. The infirmary let a good breeze in through large windows near the timbered ceiling, but this child's fever was from something else. Constant washing seemed to help the fever, but it wasn't possible for one man to treat a roomful of people every day. Devna had lately resorted to leaving cold compresses on instead, but that wasn't useful when it came time to lance the cysts and boils.

He held his scalpel over the candle flame again and waited several moments for the metal to turn a telltale glow. He made a sad grimace and looked closely at the boy. "You'll have to be brave now. This is going to hurt."

The boy couldn't speak yet, but he nodded lucidly. Devna wondered where to begin. His aim with the blade needed to be exceptional or he would only mutilate the skin. He started on a shoulder. Quick as sparks, he sliced into three or four boils. The boy wrinkled his face for an instant, but was too weak to flinch.

"There now. That wasn't so bad, was it?" The boy shook his head weakly and then rapidly fell asleep again.

Midday's bright light had given way to a pastel sunset by the time he'd finished with the child. The work was never really done. Most of the afflicted needed weeks of treatments, and those who survived often needed to come back in the course of their lives. The presence of the sick never ceased, except perhaps when someone died of their symptoms.

Rokka, a bald and meek slab of a man whose jowls were the only formidable thing about him, watched Devna hurry around to make cursory checks on the other children. After some time, Devna strode across the vast room filled with tired old cots and rusting bed frames. He came to the end of a long hallway that joined the infirmary to the private quarters. With a great sigh, he stepped into the little side room Rokka kept prepared for him.

"Well?" Rokka poured out the last of the hot water into a basin.

Devna dunked his hands deep into the washing bowl and furiously scrubbed his fingers with a lump of soap. "I think he'll go blind soon with all the pressure near his eyes. They're just tumors now."

The old monk shook his head sympathetically. "Why did it take to such a young one? The signs usually need decades."

Devna raised a flushed finger hastily. "We don't know that. We don't know enough to say that." Devna thought at length before he spoke again. His theories were just that: theories, eloquent remarks to cling to but not to be trusted until someone else made a similarly eloquent remark about it.

He moved on to the basin of cold water and rinsed his face thoroughly while he pondered. "I think charnel air's like a sulfur pocket in a cave. Some areas feel the damage more because the air is worse." He wrung his hands dry with the washcloth and flung it down with another loud sigh. "But I wish I knew what shielded some people. I can't hope for a cure until I know how to tell it apart from normal sickness." His clenched hands punched the air as he spoke. "If only people would record the deaths."

"This is how things are."

Devna shot him a sour glance.

"The battles before our time changed things too much, and now we must salvage what's left."