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a burning glass. This was where he had always fallen short, trying to force
that focused will outward. But it leaped forward before he consciously tried
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to project it.
A conduit, a channel he sensed Viridovix' failing body as if it were his own;
sensed the ravages of cold and exposure that froze fingers and cheeks, reached
deep into entrails; sensed the chilled blood in its thick, sluggish motion
through the Gaul's veins.
In that first dizzying rush of perception the Greek was almost swept away,
almost lost himself in the Celt's distress. But his stubborn reason would not
let him be submerged; he knew who he truly was, no matter what sense
impressions his mind was receiving. And the conduit ran both ways in the same
instant he felt Viridovix flood in on him, he was also reaching out to
reverse, repair, revive.
Quicken the heart; send warmth surging into belly, streaming into arms and
legs. Strengthen lungs, and speed them, too they had barely been sipping the
frigid air. More delicate work: feel the damage of frost in fingers, toes,
cheeks, ears, eyelids melt it gently, gradually, let the new flow of blood
work with his power. The poor makeshift words for what he did came later. In
the crisis they meant nothing. The healing went on at a level far below words.
The Celt stirred under his hands like a restless sleeper, muttered some drowsy
protest in his own musical speech. His eyes, green as the Gallic forests, came
open, and there was intelligence in them. Then Gorgidas truly realized what he
had accomplished. Joy leaped in him, joy and as crushing a weariness as he had
ever known: the price of the healer's art.
Viridovix had not thought he would wake again, surely not with this new hot
tide of strength flowing through him. As he stretched and oh, miracle! felt
all his limbs answer him, he thought for a moment he had passed to the
afterworld; he could not imagine feeling so well in this one. The hands gently
touching his face, then, might belong to some immortal maid, to make him glad
through eternity.
But when he looked up, the face he saw was a man's, thin, tense, etched with
lines of triumph and harsh fatigue. "Foosh!" he said. "No lassy you, more's
the pity."
Gorgidas rolled his eyes and laughed. "No need to ask whether you're healed.
By the dog, do you think of nothing else, you satyr?"
Viridovix' sudden flinch of pain made the Greek wonder if he was in fact
healed, but all the Gaul said, very quietly, was, "Aye, betimes I do."
Viridovix struggled to sit. The blood roared in his ears, but he fought his
dizziness down. "Batbaian!" he exclaimed. "Is he after being found?"
Hearing his name, Batbaian hurried over to the Celt, still swaddled in the
thick felt fabric of the tent. He seemed glad for any excuse to sidle away
from the Arshaum, who were eyeing him like a pack of wolves sizing up a stray
hound. Skylitzes and Goudeles crouched by Viridovix, too; the Videssian
officer steadied him with a strong right arm, while the bureaucrat pressed
Gorgidas' hand in congratulation.
"Are you all right, now?" Viridovix said to Batbaian, dropping into the
Khamorth speech. Gorgidas followed it with difficulty; he had not used that
language in months.
"I'm well enough, thanks to this," the nomad answered, shaking snow from the
felt. He looked in wonder at Viridovix. "But how is it you're here to ask me?
You shouldn't be, not after being out in the blizzard with no cover."
"Truth that." There was wonder on Viridovix's face, too, but aimed at
Gorgidas. "He healed me, must be." Almost accusingly, he said to the
physician, "I didna think you could."
"Neither did I." Now that it was done, the Greek longed for nothing so much as
the warm inside of a tent, a deep draught of kavass, and his bedroll to take
him through the long winter night and most of the next day, if he could get
away with it.
But Viridovix was saying, "If it's a druid of leechcraft you are now, Gorgidas
dear, have a look at Batbaian and the eye of him, and see if there's somewhat
to be done for the puir lad."
The Greek sighed, a long, frosty exhalation; no doubt Viridovix was right.
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"I'll do what I can." He leaned toward the young Khamorth, who drew back in
suspicion, still full of mistrust for anyone who had anything to do with the
Arshaum. "Hold still," Gorgidas said in Videssian. Though he hardly spoke the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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