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The pace of the Wintergarde infirmary's work has a rhythm not unlike that of the tides: A skirmish erupts on the walls or in the village ruins below, and the wounded wash into the healers' tents. The battle subsides, and the injured flow out again.
There is an occasional ripple in this steady tide, a lone swimmer against the flow — a smith's apprentice badly burned at the forge, a rider thrown from a horse, a refugee child with a winter fever — but few of these are dramatic or taxing to the healers' arts.
And then, this morning, Sintha Fallon is brought in dead.
She is being carried by a pair of Alliance soldiers, both of whom are talking at once.
"— only just, not a minute ago —"
"— was breathing on the way and it wasn't till we reached the gate —"
"— neck broke maybe I don't know it was a pit opened up —"
"— acid or something, there's burns and my tabard —"
Sintha herself is white-faced and as still as, you know, death. Her head hangs at an angle that lends some credence to the broken-neck guess, but her hair is matted with a substance not blood, and there are caustic red marks and blisters on the left side of her jaw and throat, the sleeve of her light cloth armor there eaten away in spatters, in a manner that offers equal weight to the acid-or-something hypothesis.
Ismene Hazan turns away from the herbal concoction she was bottling and tries to soak in the chaos. Sometimes it's best to just let it wash over you, leaving bits and pieces of informative detritus in its wake. There's a stutter in her step as she realizes who's being carried in, a blanching of her skin as she pushes the two men toward an empty bed.
"Put her down," she orders. Substance. Acid. Burns. She grabs a dagger and shoves between the men even as they're setting the body down. Not like any bouncing or flopping is going to hurt things, but the acid might. Ismene slices through the cloth of Sintha’s armor and shirt, stripping them with little regard for the woman’s dignity. "Did she fall in it or was it sprayed on her?"
She glances back. "And take your tabard off before you get burns too!"
The soldier immediately begins shucking his tabard as his comrade skips back two steps from both the dead woman and his acid-marked fellow.
"Sprayed," this comrade reports breathlessly. "One of them worm– you know them worms? Big ones, north of here, run under the ice? One of 'em just came busting up and — whomp! And the crevasse and her horse just went — you could see it was no use but I dunno if she thought she could help it or — she should've run, Tigh was hollerin' for her to run" — the soldier struggling with his tabard, who is presumably Tigh, nod-nods vigorously — "but she tried to fight the damn thing and she got a knife in it and there was this spray and then —"
"Thrashed around, slammed her halfway from here to the gates, almost," Tigh continues, dropping his ruined tabard. "It thrashed right back down under the ice and gone, but it was sprayin' and sprayin' blood or… whatever they got, them worms, and we ran in quick to grab her, she was still breathin' then and movin' some but…." He looks despondently at the slim figure on the cot. But.
It probably looks careless, but it's carefully planned. OK, not carefully. But planned. OK, not planned either but it's fast and sure when Ismene plunges a hand into the matted not-blood mess in Sintha's hair. "Water," she snaps, gesturing with her free hand to one of the buckets of clean water that waits a healer's need. Like, say, this healer.
Ismene pauses, assessing the goop against her skin.
The soldier who is not Tigh grabs a bucket of water and lugs it over, sloshing hastily, to await instruction.
Still taking little time for niceties, Ismene dumps half the water on the goop in Sintha's hair, then uses the rest of the water and a pile of bandages to scrub (good thing she's dead) at the acid burned skin, peeling it off in shreds. "No sense bringing back someone still standing in the fire," she excuses herself. Now that her patient is half-naked, soaked, and has part of her skin missing, Ismene grabs Sintha's face and stares into the clouding eyes.
She takes a deep breath, reaching inside for the Light, sending it through her and into Sintha. "Sintha," she breathes, a word that encapsulates everything she knows of the young woman and some of what she guesses. "Sintha Fallon. Come back now. You're safe. I promise. Come back."
Several long seconds draw out; the everyday clamor of Wintergarde Keep continues outside the healers' tent, but within it is a cocoon of silent suspense.
Suddenly, Sintha draws in a shrill, ragged gasp and her eyes fly open.
Ismene breathes, "Oh thank the Light," and grabs a fur off a pile. It's not like the healers aren't prepared to deal with cold patients. She flips the heavy grizzly fur over Sintha, then touches a hand over Sintha's heart and whispers another prayer, this one to complete the healing. "Shh," she says. "Don't try to sit up yet. I'm sorry, I needed you back to heal you entirely."
Sintha doesn't try to sit up; she doesn't move, except for her eyes. They are wide and strained, the whites showing all around her golden irises. She flicks a frantic look toward Ismene. "What…?" She licks her lips and then winces and makes a little spitty face. Mmm, ice worm blood.
"You're in the infirmary in Wintergarde," Ismene says, gentle and soft. "You're all right now, you're fine, I promise. How do you feel?" She turns to pour a glass of water but doesn't yet hand it over.
Sintha focuses on Ismene. She blink-blinks. "Lady… Ismene?" Her voice is still cracked, a shrill whisper, and she winces, turning her head from one side to the other without lifting it from the cot, trying to survey her surroundings. "The infirmary?"
Gosh.
"Mm hmm," Ismene says. "In honor of recognizing me, we'll have you sit up and you can rinse your mouth out, if you wish." She moves to help, if Sintha feels up to the hard task of sitting upright. "Apparently, you stabbed a giant ice worm and it spat on you."
Thus are told the tales of great heroism.
"I definitely did not do that," croaks Sintha with somewhat less dignity than she was aiming at. She shifts uncomfortably, gingerly, and lifts a hand to trace her own cheek and the side of her neck with careful fingertips.
"All better," Ismene promises. "Would you like a mirror? I know sometimes it's hard for the mind to believe. Sometimes people even still feel phantom pain after healing." She waits patiently, still holding the glass of water.
"A mirror? I… oh. Was there something — ?" Sintha struggles abruptly to sit up, wide-eyed again, reaching for her face again. The gesture of a moment ago was an unconscious one, it seems. "What happened? An ice worm?"
"You weren't dead all that long, miss," puts in Tigh helpfully.
Sintha goes very white.
Ismene sighs. So much for hoping to ease Sintha into it. She turns to smile at the two guardsmen. "Thank you," she says, "for bringing her. I didn't mean to keep you from your duties; you should probably go report in."
Turning back to Sintha, she says, "Sorry. It's why I was in a bit of a hurry when you were brought in. Some people don't want to come back, and I didn't want you to go too far before I asked. I know it's something of a shock, but yes, you were dead. You're not now, though!"
Sintha looks down at herself. She looks around the tent, down at herself again, presses her hand against her heart. She looks at Mizzy again, round-eyed and still ghostly. "I don't — remember," she says, in the voice of a child trying to explain what the nightmare was that woke her a moment ago.
Mizzy sinks down on the bed next to Sintha. "I know," she says gently. She sets the glass of water down on the floor and reaches out to smooth hair away from Sintha's face. "Most people don't. You don't have to remember that; do you remember anything at all about today?" Her voice stays low and warm and soothing.
Sintha draws back slightly from Mizzy, still staring bewildered at her. "Today? I was —" Her gaze turns vague as she tries to cast back, and then her expression clouds with fright. "No. I don't — I don't, am I going to be like — Shay, is it going to be trapped in my head?" Her voice is rising to a frantic pitch.
"No," Ismene says. She takes Sintha's face in both her hands and makes the other woman look at her. "No, Sintha. I swear it, no. It was sudden and over just as suddenly. You were gone for barely a heartbeat, and I was here within seconds. I wouldn't have let you go. I've gone and come back myself, and I'm fine." The rest, she files away in the part of her brain for 'Things Healers Hear but Probably Shouldn't Have'.
Sintha's gaze is still childlike with fear, but it's softened a little at Mizzy's touch and words. "I'm… I don't remember it. I'm — I was dead? And then you — and I'm here now. And not dead?"
Abruptly she gives a shrill, slightly hysteric laugh, and in the next moment claps her hand over her mouth. Her eyes fill with tears, but the tremors that ripple through her now seem more like laughter than crying.
Ismene sits back but doesn't rise. She waits for this to run its course, saying only, "Not dead. Alive and well, if slightly damp. You were covered in goo, and it was a little caustic. In fact, we probably ought to wash your hair."
"Oh," says Sintha, and stops laugh-crying as abruptly as she'd started. She reaches up to touch a lock of her hair. "Oh. All right. Can we… do that? Here?"
"If you like," Ismene nods. "If you've a room, we can do it there, too. Normally I wouldn't offer to wash someone's hair, but it might burn your hands a bit and I'd rather be there if that happens. Which would you prefer?"
"I have a room… I have the suite upstairs in the inn. Well, Shay does, but he's not here any longer so I have it all to myself, so we could —"
Sintha stops. "I'm babbling, aren't I? Am I babbling? Stars above."
"Well, you've had quite the day so far. A little babbling is certainly permissible." Ismene stands, and offers a hand to Sintha. "Come on, let's see how you stand. Mind the bear fur, it should wrap around you nicely. When you've got your balance, lead on."
Sintha seems to realize for the first time that all she's wearing over her torso is a bear fur, and she gathers it a little closer around her shoulders like a metaphor for her dignity. She attempts to stand without the aid of Ismene's hand, and immediately loses her dignity (but not the bear fur, which is only a metaphor, and remains in place) by wobbling and then collapsing back down onto the cot with the sort of clumsy flat-bottomed startlement of a toddler just discovering that this walking bullshit is unpredictable.
"Oh," she says.
This time, she reaches for Mizzy's hand, and allows herself to be helped up.
Politely, Ismene says nothing about the failed launch attempt and just tugs Sintha back to her feet. Nor does she let go immediately, not until balance is restored. "At least I left you your boots," she points out cheerfully, letting Sintha decide when they should proceed and how fast.
"Gosh," says Sintha dryly. "Thanks."
It's a little less snarky-sounding than it could be. There is, in fact, a slightly awkward softness behind it that suggests a degree of — gosh — sincerity couched within the sarcasm.
She shuffles forward a step and then another, and then finds her balance and begins to walk, albeit still at a geriatric pace. "Now I know how Shay felt," she says, and then glances at Ismene. "You won't tell him, will you? Oh, gosh, Lady Ismene, please swear you won't say anything to my brother, you mustn't!"
Ismene sets a hand on Sintha's lower back, just for a moment. "Don't fall," she says, "and of course I won't tell him. It's none of his business, except that he does love you. Still, it's over now and it hardly seems worth saying anything since you're better. Why fuss?" So casual about this whole death thing, is Ismene.
Sintha gives Ismene a melting-eyed look. "Thank you," she says. And then she gives a wobbly little laugh. "Gosh, you're so calm about this. I feel rather — it's happened to you, you said?" She sweeps Ismene with an up-and-down look, faintly awed.
"Uh huh," Ismene nods. "I remember it, though, so maybe that's why I never got upset. I was just sort of drifting over my body, watching the combat continue around me. I knew I had to drag myself back, because I saw one of my friends fall and I was the only person who could. The next thing I know, I'm back." She shrugs, taking her hand away from Sintha's back before things get awkward. "Nothing to it. It was quiet and peaceful, except for what I was watching."
"Gosh," says Sintha again. After a moment she observes, "You are just full of surprises, Lady Ismene, aren't you?"
Ismene's cheeks go pink. Maybe from the cold. "Me? No. Any healer could have done the same, gone through the same things. Mostly I'm just an orchard manager who likes healing. If you want surprises, you should talk to my husband, Ben. He's…" She shakes her head and smiles. "He's everything. From a Westfall farmboy to a nobleman, heir to a seat on the council!" She pinches her lips shut, though it's plain she could go on and on. "Where's your suite?"
"Upstairs. The third floor." Sintha considers this prospect grimly, and then visibly steels herself. "And your husband… hm. Shay is quite taken with him, I recall. I can't say I've had the opportunity, really, beyond some pleasantries."
Ismene laughs and leads Sintha to the stairs, hands ready to steady Sintha if necessary. "Ben's fascinated by your brother. He does insist on calling him a pirate, but that's partly my fault. I bought him a book series, back when we were first walking out, about a pirate boy. So I hope neither of you take offense; he doesn't mean real pirates with all the pillaging and murder and whatnot. He means dramatic pirates."
Sintha laughs too, albeit still a little shakily. "Oh, gosh, yes, dramatic is a word for Shay. Do tell your husband not to say pirate in his earshot, if he can help it at all, though. Though I suppose he might indulge Lord Bennarin a little, he is awfully charming and attractive." She cuts a sidelong look at Ismene. "Shay thinks so, I mean. He affords more leeway in such cases." Her tone is a little dry.
"He is, isn't he?" Ismene sighs happily. "I have no idea what someone like him saw in a little shy priestess, but I'm so glad he saw something. But I'll tell him about the pirate bit; it wouldn't do to strain relations with a man who can raise the rents on the apple orchards."
Pause.
"Lord Fallon thinks Ben is attractive?"
"Mm," says Sintha. "He does. Absolutely delicious." She gives Mizzy a wry look. "I wouldn't worry about it, darling. You may take it as a compliment on your good taste. I daresay he finds you attractive as well, but you've hardly spoken two words to the man so he hasn't had a chance to properly flirt. He does tend to avoid the shy ones, out of consideration."
All of that seems to give Mizzy even more pause. "Well," she says finally, "I suppose 'attractive' is better than 'picturesque'."
Sintha's brow does a funny little furrow of chagrin. "Oh, gosh," she says, and is quiet a moment, concentrating on the stairs. "Was it awfully offensive? I am sorry."
"Not offensive," Mizzy assures the woman who can get her brother to raise her rents, "I just wasn't sure how to take it. It makes me sound like a charming country cousin, and I do try so very hard not to be country." She sighs. "My mother would be so disappointed in me if I ever told her." She takes each step as Sintha does, one hand floating behind her.
"I do not know how to say," says Sintha with earnest care, "that you rather are a charming country cousin, and that isn't meant to be an insult, honestly. I suppose in some circles it might be, but — you're charming! And you're from the country! You are not, to the best of my knowledge, my cousin. But I'm sure it would be delightful if you were."
"Well. Thank you," Ismene says. "I suppose it's just that country sounds very unsophisticated and not up to the mode. Backwards. So even a charming country person must feel poorly about herself, you see. Not that I do, mind you! One just doesn't like to be thought of in such a manner."
"There are worse things than being not up to mode, darling," Sintha observes philosophically. "As someone who is rather required to be up to mode professionally, I assure you it gets awfully tedious and silly. I rather think that managing a business and raising people from the dead are more worthwhile uses of one's time."
She laughs again abruptly, with that shrill, slightly off note. "Tides below, sprayed by an ice worm, that is rather not how I'd hoped to do it. But at least it's done, I suppose?"
"And back again, so no harm done," Ismene says, practical and borderline cheerful. "The important part now is that there's rather a lot of goo in you hair. And you smell a bit off, sorry to say."
"Oh, gosh." Sintha laughs again, ordinarily this time. "Speaking of not up to mode."
She pauses on the landing to find her balance or her breath or both, and glances at Mizzy. "Out of curiosity, Lady Ismene, how did you become a priest? How does one… learn to raise the dead?"
"Southshore was attacked, raided by Horde. Just when it seemed we'd be completely overrun, help arrived. After the battle, a man was there healing people and bringing them back from the dead." Ismene shakes her head. "I was so… fascinated and awestruck. Shy as I was, I still managed to strike up a conversation with him. I decided that's what I wanted to do. I wanted to bring peace and comfort to people, I wanted to reunite loved ones who thought all hope was lost."
She grins. "If you knew my mother, you'd be able to imagine her reaction. She was horrified and furious. After listening to her harangue, he gave me coin and plopped me on a gryphon, sending me off to Northshire Abbey. I told them what happened, and… Well, the rest is history."
"A lucky history," Sintha observes, and resumes her progress up the last few stairs. "And what a sweet story. Very sweet of you. And very kind of the priest. Was he a mentor of yours, then? At the Abbey? Are you still in contact?"
Wistfully, Ismene says, "No. I wish I could find him, tell him what became of me. I think he'd be pleased, but like all good heroes, he changed my life then vanished into the world. Almost there!"
Sintha glares briefly at the door ahead. Why isn't it closer? To Ismene, she says, "Well, if you'd like, you can give me his name — do you know his name? — and I shall ask around. We haven't many connections with the Church of the Holy Light, to say the least, but I have many connections of other sorts, and I'm sure someone would know how to find him."
They arrive at the door, and Sintha rummages clumsily beneath the bear fur to find the key in her pants-pocket.
Kindly, Ismene takes the key since she has the dexterity to unlock a door, which she does. "Casker John," she says. "And he had the kindest eyes in such a severe face."
Sintha stops to blink at Ismene. "Oh," she says, and then smiles brightly. "I've found him, then."
Ismene blinks right back. "Do you… see him now?"
Sintha laughs merrily. Mizzy is HI-larious. "Casker John? He works for us. Our family priest. You'd have seen him if you'd come to Shay's wedding. Gosh, what a small world! You must come to Fallon House and visit with him, darling! Honestly he is such a kind man, I am not a bit surprised. And marvelously patient — Shay would try the patience of Faol. He's Kul Tiran, did you know? Casker John that is, not Shay, obviously Shay is."
She leads Mizzy into the suite as she talks, dropping the bear fur unselfconsciously in a heap on the floor as she heads through the sitting room toward the main bedroom.
Ismene follows, jaw open. "You actually know the man who inspired me to become a healer?" She also picks up the bear fur on her way by. "I would love to meet him! Is he at the house now? When can I visit? Oh, don't tell him! I want to surprise him!"
"That is a brilliant idea, gosh, I won't breathe a word, you must come as soon as, and the beach is lovely this time of year. Do you like horses? You should bring your husband, the pair of you take a break from this dreary place and come to Fallon House for a picnic and the beach, and to see Casker John." One would not guess that Sintha had been dead like half an hour ago; she seems to have quite forgotten that fact herself.
"We love horses; I'm sure I can persuade Ben to take a break though I can't say when that could be. Although he can be very kind and agreeable, he's also terribly, well, dutiful." Ismene’s brow knits and she eyes Sintha. "Do you like horses?"
"Gosh, darling, I adore them! I mean, naturally, I'm Kul Tiran — the only thing we like better than horses is ships. Our family in Tiragarde breeds them — horses, not ships — and they're just the most lovely. Well, you recall Greygale, the pony from the Gala, hm?"
Sintha traipses topless through the bedroom and into the bathroom and then stops and looks around as if trying to recall what she's doing here.
Ismene follows her into the bathroom. "Um… I do, yes. We bid on him, actually." She waits, folding the bear fur over her arms, still eyeing Sintha.
"Her," Sintha corrects helpfully, and casts a soft-eyed look over her shoulder at Mizzy. "Did you? Gosh. It was so funny that in the end she just came home again. Do you have a horse?"
Having rememembered, apparently, what it is they're there to do, Sintha goes to the bathtub to draw the water. "Shay was so ill for a little while they wouldn't let him bathe on his own, lest he should sink in the tub and drown, or something. An ignominious end for a sailor, to drown in the bath," she observes cheerfully — and then freezes and begins to shiver violently. It doesn't appear to be from cold, but some belated emotional reaction.
"One," Ismene says. "Not here, of course. Here, I borrow one from the stable. Do… do you have a horse here?"
The question seems to steady Sintha, give her something else to focus on. She takes a breath, shakes her head. "No. No. Mistral — that's my horse, my usual horse —is at home. I just use one from the stables here as w–" She stops abruptly and her expression crumples. "The poor beast, is he all right? Do you know? Did he run away?" She gives Mizzy a stricken look.
"No," Ismene says, trying to conceal a flood of relief. "I'm afraid he died. From what I can gather, he fell into the hole opened by the worm and broke his neck. That's when you attacked with your knife. In retribution, I suppose."
Sintha's eyes fill. "Oh," she says, very small-voiced.
She shakes her head briskly and turns back to the water to test its temperature. "Well," she says, in a bright, brittle voice, "I suppose I shall owe them some money now. What is your horse's name?"
"Runaway," Ismene says ruefully, turning to find something that resembles a shampoo. "Fast horse, but so skittish." She glances over her shoulder at Sintha. "Do you spend much time in combat?" she asks.
"Not as much as I mean to," Sintha says. The bathwater having reached a satisfactory temperature, she begins to shed the rest of her clothing, equally unselfconsciously. Mizzy's a healer. "But Shay would be cross if he know how much time I do already." She hesitates. "Mostly it's just… for training. I haven't seen very much… real combat until — here." She steps gingerly into the bath. "Runaway is a clever name. Is she lovely? Or he?"
"My friend, Halliday, suggested the name. She's beautiful," Ismene says, walking to the tub with a bottle in hand. She sniffs it appreciatively and holds it out for Sintha's approval. "She's gold, with a creamy mane and tail. I'm afraid she got less use once I learned how to ride a gryphon!"
"Oh, a palomino! Lovely," Sintha approves. "We haven't got any of those — we have one golden dun, but the rest of ours are all greys." She settles comfortably into the bath with a sigh and peers at the bottle to consider it. She nods. "Gryphons are awful beasts, in my opinion. So… squawky. There's nothing quite as elegant as a horse. Well, I suppose the kaldorei cats are also elegant."
With a half-smile, Ismene hands the bottle to Sintha. "Let's see how your hands do," she says. "If they don't burn, I'll declare you well and whole and leave you to the rest of your bath. I confess a greater fondness for my gryphon. He's on the smaller side, pure white. I call him Cirrus; he's feisty as anything and loves to do tricks in the air. I've never felt so free as when I fly." She sighs. "Unfortunately, the northern winds are tricky and he's not yet trained to handle so much cold air. They rely on thermals, you know." Stepping away, she waits for the results of the hair washing.
"Cirrus!" Sintha perks up again delightedly. "We have a horse called that! All of our horses, you know, are named for weather and things, weather or stars, Shay is ever so tiresome that way sometimes."
She takes the bottle, slides down in the tub to dip her head back and soak her hair, and then sits up again to tip a judicious quantity of shampoo into her palm. Her hand trembles a little but doesn't appear to give her difficulty otherwise. She sets the shampoo bottle on the edge of the tub rather than handing it back to Ismene, and begins to lather her hair. "I'm not burning," she informs Mizzy solemnly.
Ismene nods. "Give it a minute, in case. Shall I have some food sent up?"
Sintha starts to answer, pauses, looks a little queasy. "Perhaps just… some tea and toast?" she suggests at last, meekly. "If that's all right."
"Whatever you feel," Ismene says, agreeable. She watches for a moment longer. "Do you want me to stay?" she asks quietly.
There is a flash of something vulnerable in Sintha's gaze, a small, uncertain child peeking out at Ismene, and then she turns her face away and resumes lathering. "I will be quite all right, I should think. I mean, I will now, thanks to you." Her hands stop moving for a moment, and then resume. "It was awfully good of you, but I'm sure there must be a hundred other people who could use your help, and I shouldn't like to malinger."
"You've come straight here from healing, gotten cleaned up, and are taking time for a light meal," Ismene counters. "Hardly malingering, I shouldn't think. In fact, I should probably take a break myself. All right if I order up a bit more in the way of food and have it here? Food goes better with company."
Sintha does a tiny, melting expression. "Order absolutely whatever you like, darling. It's all on Fallon's coin. And honestly, just buying you a meal feels like… absolutely the least I can do."
Ismene laughs a little. "Give Casker John a raise, if you must thank me. It's because of him that I was here for you. I'll just step out to get the food. You have a nice cry, then wash your face and come out to tea. All right?"
Sintha blink-blinks and then looks away from Ismene again. Who said she was going to cry? Ugh, perceived. "All right," she says. "And thank you, Lady Ismene."
"My pleasure. And call me Ismene; I think we're close enough for that now." With a slight smile, Ismene turns to go order the promised meal. There's still healing to be done here.