Changing the World: All-New Tales of Valdemar

“They’re digging graves for the dead.” Rhiannon put the teapot down on the top of the great cast iron stove and crossed the room, pulling Dionne up and holding her. “Your friend, Melony, she’s the first one they actually killed. She got mad when they knocked down the guy you just finished working on. She told the leader off, and they made an example of her.”

It couldn’t be true. Melony should have died of old age, not violence.

Not after being the best teacher for three years running.

Violence shouldn’t happen to old women.

What an irrational thought.

She was a Healer. So was Melony. They knew the world was unfair. But still, Melony’s face swam in Dionne’s imagination as she slumped into her twin’s arms, grateful as always for Rhiannon. She swayed, held up by her sister, feeling as if everyone left in the room was watching them. Rhiannon brushed the hair from her face and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

Rhiannon, of course, knew what to say next, how to drag her into the present and focus her. “They killed two others, and one more fell and cracked his head. They’re all outside digging graves together.”

Dionne shivered, the room suddenly cold and her skin clammy. She swallowed. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t seen and felt death. But she’d so wanted Melony’s help! She glanced toward Lioran, to find him watching her closely, his narrow, pale face a closed book, his eyes almost afraid. “I should go help them dig.” She kept her gaze on Lioran. “We all should.” Although people from nearby towns bartered for singing and healing with strong backs, she hadn’t seen any. This near the end of harvest, there might not be any. They were the three ablest hands left here, and Lioran was the strongest by far in spite of being slight of frame.

The look he gave her was deep with resentment, almost like hatred. It couldn’t be hatred. People with hatred in their hearts didn’t get Chosen, but it was it was an emotion as dark as his eyes and his hair and as unfocused as her own pain. He stalked to the door, threw it open, and headed outside without so much as a word. Dionne took a step to follow him, but Rhiannon’s arm shot out and stopped her. “Not after all that work you just did.” For emphasis, she glanced down at the old man Dionne had just finished with. She led Dionne to an empty overstuffed chair. “You’ll be wanted when they’re ready to bury her. These people are used to digging graves, if usually for different reasons than this. It’s probably familiar salve to their wounds.”

“But Lioran?”

“Can hang himself for all I care.” Rhiannon shook her head. “I don’t mean that. He’s just gotten under my skin. Besides, Mila won’t let him. Hang himself, I mean. If he doesn’t go off into a blue funk, he might even be useful to the diggers.”

He was already in a blue funk. Before Dionne could get even one word out, Rhiannon had covered her with an extra coat, kissed the top if her head, and turned back to the stove and the teapot. No use talking to the Red-headed Queen of any Situation when she was in this mood.

Her next conscious thought was to wonder how the room had gotten so warm. It smelled like black tea and flowers. Rhiannon was humming a soft ditty about working she often sang when they were setting up or taking down camp. Dionne blinked and looked around, her eyes starting out on Rhiannon, who held out a steaming cup. Dionne took the cup, warm in her hands. She sipped, the tea so pungent it opened her sinuses and made room for fresh thoughts in her full head.

Memories came back. Melony. Murder. The bandits.

Maybe she should have skipped the tea. The wounded still lay in the back of the room. One of the two Healers leaned back against the wall with her eyes closed, soft snores indicating she slept. A tired old woman who’d just done too much. She would look like that soon, herself. She and her sister were both getting old.

From the change in angle of the light slanting through the windows, she’d slept at least two marks, maybe more. Funny how it felt like moments. She took another sip of tea and choked some words past the lump in her throat. “Are they done?”

“Soon. That’s why I got you up.”

“Hmmmph.” Dionne handed her the empty tea cup and walked over to the wounded. They still slept, a typical outcome of healing. They all breathed normally, and Dionne adjusted a pillow here and a blanket or coat there before she went to the privy to clean up and wash her face. The cold water did only a little to help her feel refreshed. Surely it was just because she’d spent so much energy healing, but Melony’s death weighed on her mood like a stone, so heavy it was impossible to drag up a welcoming smile as a woman bundled in a warm coat and handmade sheeps-wool scarf came in the door. “Is the Healer here? Dionne?”

“I’m here.”

“Ylia.” The way the woman said her name had a bit of singsong in it. “We’d like you to come out, to say something before we bury them all.”