Changing the World: All-New Tales of Valdemar

Dionne made it inside first. A great room full of seats, including extra ones pulled in as for an impromptu meeting. Most of the chairs were full. Shovels and staffs lined the near wall; makeshift and true weapons alike. The conversation stopped, although a woman sobbed softly in the back, where five people had been laid out, blood from wounds staining a thin green rug. At least fifteen other faces turned toward her, and then Rhiannon and Lioran came in behind her and the group’s attention fell on Lioran.

Dionne headed straight for the back where two old Healers bent over the patients. She knelt beside them. “Can I help?”

“Her.” One of the women pointed and went right back to work on a set of deep cuts she’d just finished stitching.

Dionne bent over a shattered wrist, taking a deep breath to ground herself.

Behind her, Rhiannon asked, “What happened?”

Dionne focused on the splintered bone under her palms, whispering, “Hold still,” to the tearful woman she sat beside. “What’s your name?”

“Leidra.”

“Okay, Leidra, this shouldn’t hurt much.”

“I know.” As Dionne drew the earth’s energy to help her work, snatches of the story drifted at her from the lips of old men and woman. “They were strangers. Not from near here.”

“They burned Smiley’s farm before they came here, and who knows what else.”

“They didn’t expect us to fight them.”

“Well, we didn’t, not at first.”

“They didn’t respect who we are!” Petulant, a woman, her voice shaky.

“Were,” someone else snapped, then continued, “We stood our ground, quiet like, wanting our lives more than our stuff, but then they started in on us, saying they were looking for treasure.”

The warmth Dionne had built up in her hands flowed into the woman in front of her. She focused so hard that for a minute she didn’t hear or feel anything but her patient’s need. Only when she’d done all that she could did she listen again to the conversation. “ . . . died, then we fought them. Old Ray . . . he’s the one outside . . . he stabbed one of their horses in the butt with a pitchfork.”

Someone actually laughed. Good. Laughter almost always had healing properties, no matter how ironic or pained. Dionne looked for the next patient, and one of the other two Healers directed her to a man who couldn’t move his leg. She started feeling along it, starting at the foot and working up.

“But then they knocked him down. That got Cherie all mad, and she started throwing stones.”

And, of course, Dionne could fill in the rest. Even though they were old and frail, they had all done their turns in the salle during training, and a few of them would have been on the front lines of various wars and skirmishes. Even though Heralds didn’t tend to retire in Shelter’s End, the assortment of older Bards who didn’t want to teach and retired Healers who wanted the outdoors instead of the noisiness of the city included its own strengths. Melony was that way. She’d been offered a permanent place in Haven. Her answer had been that she’d spent forty years there, and now she was just darn well going to relax and be an old woman.

Melony! Where was she? Her patient groaned, and Dionne returned to the job at hand. Whatever had led him to choose this place for the end of his days, he’d come near them now. Blunt force—probably a fall—had shattered his hip, and he’d have to be really tough to make it out of this alive. The injury under her hands was simply insult added onto the deeper challenges of old age. But she could encourage his body to increase the flow of blood and help it feel less pain. After that, it would be pretty much up to him and how much he still wanted to live. She bent to her task, spending most of her awareness drawing and feeding energy, her lips spilling soft good wishes for the man under her hands, her eyes watching his cragged and lined face and his light green eyes. He stared at the ceiling, barely moving.

His breathing slowed and regulated. His skin began to regain color. His heartbeat was a thin thread. Rest would do him more good than she could now. Her knees hurt from kneeling on the thin rug, and her back screamed that she’d better stretch or find a Healer for herself. As she sat up straight and raised her arms, she came a little more aware of the room around her. There were fewer people; some must have gone off to bed or something. She hadn’t heard the door open or felt the fall chill enter the room. Rhiannon held a teapot in one hand, conferring in low tones with two women. Lioran stood against a wall, an impassive look on his face. Surely he should be outside?

“Where did everyone go?” she asked.

Rhiannon glanced over at her, met her eyes, and the look in them sent a cold fear to settle into Dionne’s chest. “What’s wrong?”