Aliyah

Healer Saar-Salai’s office was located at the very top of a spiraling tower that, according to the various passageways throughout the corresponding region of the castle—a suspiciously quiet and isolated area, too—didn’t exist.

The scrap of spellpaper in her hand felt warm to the touch. It was a perfectly ordinary piece of spellpaper, with an uneven hole cut through the center. Only the runes scrawled onto its surface lent it its slight aura of power. She held it up, channeled her magic, looked through, and saw a doorway.

It had been a lot more difficult to get to this point than she’d anticipated. She’d first spent an afternoon walking around the castle in abject frustration before she thought to check the cleaning schedules. Then she’d found the address easily enough—all of the Healer offices were listed, albeit in deeply confusing notation—but it was looking as if actually getting there would be the hard part.

Rana had told her it would be so; many Healer offices were enchanted or secluded or both, borderline unreachable for all but those with prior knowledge and prior permission. It worked to keep out the rabble; the ‘rabble’ being lowborns and castle workers desperate for help. People like her.

Still, Saar-Salai hadn’t seemed like the sort of person who would magically deafen her for turning up unannounced. The worst he might do would be to escort her to the door and shut it in her face. Right? Or did she think that because her impressions of him came from being ever-so-slightly loopy from anaesthetic at the time? He was known to work for the upper tiers of court and middling royalty, but in all else, he was a complete mystery.

“This one keeps his head down,” Rana had said, “I haven’t heard anything bad—but I haven’t heard anything good either.”

“You haven’t heard much good about any of them,” she’d pointed out. “I might as well try.”

Her previous, rather unpleasant encounter with Healer Nazeri had occurred in a stairwell, not an office. Perhaps that was the problem, she thought with no small amount of regret: engaging with unknown variables in undesignated locations. Would it have gone better if she’d booked an appointment? Was that even possible? She recalled Nazeri’s ice-cold glare and shivered. No, she doubted it. Not possible for the likes of her.

But now here she was, armed with a minor spell-slip for seeing into corridors and up staircases kept tucked away by illusions. She had worried that it wouldn’t be strong enough, that the hours spent forcing herself to practice casting the spell would not work, would be wasted effort like the first couple of attempts. Like so much of the rest of her life. But the muttered curses and throbbing temples didn’t amount to nothing; it was enough, if only just— and that sent a rush of triumph though her. That, and the beginnings of an immediate headache. All spells had costs; this one could go stuff itself.

The spellpaper started to fray at the edges, falling away in desiccated flakes. She hurried forwards and stepped through the doorway before the whole paper crumbled to nothing.

Stairs spiraled upwards. She started to climb.

It looked like the inside of an ordinary tower well enough; all unremarkable grey stone and hellishly steep stairs faintly glowing with runelight. Every now and then, she would pass a window set into the outer wall and caught glimpses of the mountain river, the mists over the Killing Fields, the glow of the little city below all awash in moonlight. Before long, her legs started to ache. She was starting to wonder what dimensional trickery was going on when doors rose into view ahead. She reached them and stopped, wheezing for breath. The double doors were large, wooden and wide in a way that broke all plausible deniability of the space not being dimensionally-modified. There was an engraved brass handle set into each door, but no knocker. She hesitated, then reached up and knocked against the wood itself.

Nothing happened. A swarm of runes brushed over the surface as she withdrew her hand, but the door did not budge. No one called out from within. That was fine; part of her had expected this. Healers were busy, weren’t they? But surely any mage worth his salt would weave a personal alert into the enchantment of his front door. She was fine with waiting.

Someone coughed softly behind her.

She whirled around, one hand reflexively curling into a fist—to what, exactly? Punch a visiting highborn?

Healer Saar-Salai cleared his throat a second time. “Could you kindly step off to the side?” he asked. His arms occupied by a stack of books, each tome thick enough to kill someone with. “It’s only that I have to open the door.”

“Oh,” she managed. “Sorry. Sure.” She squashed herself against the wall as he swept past.

He muttered something under his breath that made the doors flare to life with red runes. “You’re visiting?” he asked, pushing at a handle with his elbow; the door creaked inwards.

“Yes,” she said. “We’ve met before. A week ago, I—”

“Come in then,” he said, and disappeared into the room, staggering slightly under the weight of the books.

Was he really going to just let her in? She’d been bracing herself for an argument, a sympathetic entreaty nestled ready at the back of her throat. She stepped forwards, past the door left ajar, not sure what to expect—a gloomy lair, perhaps, with birdcages swinging from the ceiling and a cauldron bubbling away in the corner.

The door slid shut behind her and half-spent sun-lamps flickered to life, casting a warm, burnt-orange glow over the room. And what a room—Saar-Salai’s office was impossibly, dimensionally large, brimming over with books. Richly-patterned rugs in shades of red and orange and apricot sprawled haphazardly across the floor. The parts of the walls not host to fashionably arched windows were lined with bookshelves bursting at the seams, overflowing; she spotted an antique chaise lounge and a set of worn-looking set of armchairs piled high with tomes. It was like walking into a friendly, miniature twin of the Higher Library; though she reminded herself that it wasn’t friendly. It was a Healer’s domain, no matter how harmless said Healer might seem on the surface.

There was big wooden desk at the center, overflowing with papers; Saar-Salai dropped his armful of books down with a heavy thump, sending notes scattering.

“Take a seat,” he said, waving one finger absently in a swirling motion. A small mound of papers piled atop a visitor’s chair slid off to land into a pile on the floor.

Were all Healer’s rooms host to such hideous messes, she wondered as she walked warily over. It would make sense, what with no maids being allowed to clean up here. Between the stacks of books and papers on his desk were glass jars full of mysterious pills and powders. Some were labeled in a lazy scrawl—plantain leaf, ether capsules, inheritance powder—but most simply stood as they were, plainly showcasing their enigmatic contents. There was a rat’s skeleton encased within a miniature vitrine, but thankfully, she saw no withered organs or detached eyeballs being displayed in brine.

“So,” said Saar-Salai as he took his own seat. “What brings you here?”

“I need help.” She reached into her pocket and withdrew a heavy pouch of coin; most of what she could spare, converted into golden crowns. “I don’t know if you remember, but after I was taken from the Higher Library—”

“Ahhh— no,” he held up a finger and waggled it reproachfully. “You have no idea how many unskilled little upstarts run around bothering me for so-called small favours. I’ve worked incredibly hard for the easy life of magicking away royal skin blemishes every other day and what pittance you have to offer doesn’t interest me.”

She swallowed hard. He hadn’t even looked into the pouch of money; did the court really pay him so much? What a stupid question. Now that she was in this room, this plush lair of silken cushions and leather-bound books, she could see that of course they did. A single book on his shelves probably cost more than what she earned in a year. She gritted her teeth, swallowing down the unfairness of it all as her thoughts flitted through possible strategies, what to say next…

“The incident with the Higher Library, though,” he continued, oblivious to her dismay, “that’s a little more interesting. It is intriguing, actually, how you managed to screw up in the worst way possible.”

“I—” She bristled even as she choked on the words. “I just tried to…fix something. Clearly, it didn’t work. That’s why I’m here.”

“Hm? In any case, most Healers don’t accept work from unofficial clientele.”

“It’s one thing, and I have—”

“Just one thing?” He shook his head and sighed. “Oldest trick in the book, to ask for one small thing before asking for more small things and then some very large things indeed.” He looked her up and down. “Scionsong, was it? No ailing relatives still alive? Half-siblings? No running back to plead for my poor, compassionate heart to take pity upon you months or years later when you inevitably acquire some new and horrible disease?”

“No. Just this.” When she swallowed, her throat felt tight. She clenched her jaw, gathering her dwindling courage like fistfuls of falling sand. “I will not bother you again, and you can ensure that yourself. Or are the ward-signs crawling over your doorway just for show?”

“Hah. Well my answer is still no; I will not heal you. Not just to be an ass, but because I can’t. It’s not doable.”

“What? But—but you’re a Healer! Surely—”

He held up a hand. “What I saw when I was fixing you, I would only be able fix temporarily. This could be done by removing the endometrial outgrowths—though it’d be difficult and not worth it, it’s not my specialty—but they’d simply regrow back to equilibrium in the following months. A waste of coin, see?”

Was he telling the truth? If he simply wanted to get rid of her, he could have sent his wards aflame and she’d probably tumble headfirst down the tower staircase. It sounded plausible, but maybe he was just being polite. Then again, it hardly mattered now. He wasn’t going to help. Couldn’t or wouldn’t, it was the same result. She felt numb.

“But I do have to ask,“ he said, leaning forwards, chin rested on folded hands, “which book was it, that you used for your attempt at excision?”

“Does it matter? I thought we were going to pretend that didn’t happen.” She paused as a darker thought surfaced. “Or is this blackmail?”

“Are you joking? What could I possibly blackmail you for that I couldn’t get some other, more convenient way?” He sounded almost offended. “I was merely curious as to if the spell was malicious. For interest’s sake, and for practical reasons; much as my apprentices displease me, I would rather steer them away from whatever spectacularly unsafe instruction you followed than to spend an hour stitching them back together again.”

“I don’t know if the spell had a name. Why should I tell you, anyway? It’s not going to help me.” She dropped her gaze and stared numbly at the piles of incomprehensible papers across his desk.

“It might help a few other poor souls from going through what you did.”

She cringed inwardly at the invading memory. The blood, the choking. The pain, white-hot and all-consuming. The daemon, saying ‘I believe in you’ in its false-sugar voice. She never wanted to go through anything like that ever again. She didn’t think she would survive it.

“It was in a book by…Suhail something,” she said. “Something about the reproductive system. About, uh, this size,” she said, sketching an outline into the air with her hands. “Blue-green cover.”

“Really?” he said. “You’re quite sure?”

“As sure as I can be,” she mumbled. True, her memories were eclipsed by the daemon and the agony. But the damned book had stuck itself to a back corner of her mind as well, the mocking vessel from which all of the blood and magic had poured forth. “I left it and everything else that I read somewhere under a pile of rugs in the fifth zone, if you want to check.”

“How very interesting,” he murmured, leaning back. He tapped a finger against his chin. “If it really was just one of old Hadar’s spells, then there shouldn’t have been anything wrong with it. Quite strange, that anything happened at all.”

“Well,” she said, “it happened. As I’m sure you know.”

“Yes,” he said, “I can’t argue with that. Hm. You’re not even a proper mage, are you?”

She glared down at her grey maidservant’s dress and smoothed her hands over her lap. She doubted that making little needles float and stitch counted for anything in his eyes. “Not really.”

“Curious,” he said. “Very curious…” His voice trailed off and a faraway look entered his eyes.

“Are—are you going to tell me why?” she asked. Were all highborns this obtuse? Did they take pleasure in appearing more knowledgeable than those they spoke down to? She tamped down on the frustration clawing up her throat. “I would like to know,” she added. “Please.”

“Some spells backfire like that,” he said, “but Healer magic, hardly ever. If it was a curse that you mistakenly used, then it would be another story. But a failed effort to change something from equilibrium just means that the equilibrium stays.”

She didn’t know where he was going with this theoretical train of thought. Her shoulders slumped. “Look, that’s—that’s very interesting, but I don’t see how that’s going to help me.”

Saar-Salai frowned. “Don’t you understand? You seem to have done the impossible. You tapped into the healing magics without true instruction. You’ve helped yourself well enough—too well, in fact. You didn’t start hemorrhaging blood and magic because you failed the spell, it happened because you succeeded and went too far.”

“So?” she asked. “That doesn’t change anything. Do you want me to try again until I get it right?”

“Where ever did you get that idea?” He frowned. “No, absolutely not. You appear to have a talent for ripping chunks out of your insides and catalysing life-threatening chain reactions within your own organs.”

Was he making a joke of it? His tone was oddly sincere. “That doesn’t sound like a talent,” she said warily.

“No?” He snorted. “If you were an apprentice, they’d love you. Capacity for pushing things too far? Perfect for ripping open your enemies from the inside out.”

“What?” she asked, aghast. She didn’t think she had a talent for injuring people. She’d just been desperate to cure herself. That must be what had pushed too much magic out. Two parts fear to one part awful, awful luck.

“Oh, it’s like this…” He hummed for several moments, seemingly lost in thought. “Common misunderstanding. The word ‘Healer’ is just a polite title for ‘people messing around with the sacks of meat that we call bodies’. And when you do that, it can really go either way.”

“Okay. But what am I supposed to do about my actual problem?” Her voice had taken on a tinge of desperation, she realised with dismay. His waxing on about the theory of magic was starting to set her teeth on edge. She took a deep breath, reminded herself that she was in his territory, that she should really do her best to be polite. “If you can’t help me, then could you please at least advise me on what to do?”

“What makes you think that I’ll give you advice?”

“I—because you’re not horrible like the rest of them, aren’t you?” she blurted out.

“The rest of them?” he asked slowly, raising an eyebrow.

“People say things—Meleph, Octans, the things that they ask for. And Healer Nazeri deafened me after I tried to talk to her.”

Saar-Salai raised an eyebrow. “No comment on the former. But Aida’s just like that. And yet for all you know, I could do the same.”

“Why are you still talking to me, then? Can you help me, or not?” She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. Too hasty, too demanding. But she was so tired of it all. All she wanted was to place her pain onto the ground and walk away. Did it really have to be so hard, and so unfair? “Please,” she added, trying soften her words, to appeal to his ego. “You seem like the only person who can.”

“I am thinking, Miss Scionsong,” he said. “Possibly there is a way that I can help. But it would be long and involved and there are drawbacks. Mostly on my part. I am wondering if it is worth it.”

Was this the part where she was supposed to try to bribe him? Court nuances gave her a headache. She wished that she could consult Rana. “There are thirty-seven crowns in that bag,” she said. “I know it’s not much to you, but—”

He interrupted her with a laugh. It was so startling that the words stuck in her throat.

“Here’s some advice,” he said. “Next time you try to bribe someone, don’t downplay your own offer, especially if trying to elicit sympathy. My colleagues and I already have little regard for poor waifs down on their luck. Not because we are monsters—and yes, that includes even Aida Nazeri—but simply because we are tired of it. I am sorry that you are trapped by the role of a mere maidservant. But to put it plainly: if you were a Healer, or a Magician, or anyone high up enough in court, people will try to worm their way into your circle. And since people like me are old enough to have influence but young enough to seem naive, many assume that I am stupid enough to offer my spine as a step-ladder up the court rankings. I cannot know that you are not the same.”

“How am I supposed to prove that?” she demanded, gripping the corners of her seat. “How? Do you think I planned to bleed out in some goddess-forsaken corner of the fifth zone to get through to you?”

“No. And that’s what got you this far.”

Was that him throwing her a bone? What in the hells did he want from her?

“I’m a maid,” she said. “Thirty seven crowns is—I’m not short-changing you. That’s all I have, unless you want the potted lilacs from my room? Or I could clean your office, if you like.”

“Really,” he replied dryly. “This is as neat as I can get it. I suspect it would be a losing battle.”

Was she supposed to offer a piece of herself, then? A jarful of blood and lymph to decorate his desk with? Five teeth with the roots attached and a slice of liver? She pictured biopsy needles puncturing deep, stealing core slices. Yara’s bitter laughter echoed in her head. Her blood ran cold. No. Molten anger flared in her gut; raging but ineffectual anger, just another useless thing to nestle amongst the stupid, extraneous bloody tissue spearing into her body. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. The Library had taken enough, as it was.

She raised her gaze from the clutter of his desk and looked him in the eye. “I’m not going to offer you pieces of my body,” she said—and there was a quiver in her voice that she hated herself for, but she said it all the same.

He blinked at her. “I,” he said, almost spluttering. “I, ah—you would think I’m like, that? No.”

“So what do you want?”

“I don’t know,” he said, a trace of irritation at the edges of his words. “Hellgods, I do loathe court habits. Don’t try to make it into a game of knives and word-nuance. I was just thinking.”

She pressed her lips together and dropped her gaze back onto the stew of books and papers and bottles of medication on his table. There was an hourglass there, cracked and empty. The seconds trickled by in silence.

“Alright,” he said at length. “Here’s the thing. I can’t heal you, because your equilibrium would simply undo all of my work given time. I am also incredibly unwilling to continuously attend to your medical issues. What I can do though, is I can teach you to fix it yourself.”

She blinked at him, took a moment to replay his words in her head. Her jaw dropped. “…what? Really? I’m not an apprentice.”

“True,” he agreed. “Which is why difficulties present themselves. It is, officially speaking, forbidden for a non-Healer to learn such things. But I suspect that you didn’t care much for that when you broke into the Higher Library and performed a spell with such single-minded desperation that you ended up succeeding and maiming yourself. The small part of your plan that wasn’t stupid—the part where you tried to fix it—I do admire that. I saw some good attempts, considering the circumstances.”

“Thank you” she said cautiously. “So you…you’ll teach me?”

“There are difficulties,” he said. “It will take time—time out of your regular duties and time out of your free hours. I cannot say how quickly you can learn it, either. Six months, a year, more. It will be hard work and whether you ever get there will depend on you. Also, you can’t tell anyone.”

“Anyone?” she asked, thinking of Rana.

He shrugged. “Best not to. The Healers likely won’t care unless you start trying to use it as court leverage or to help other people with the magic—that’s our territory, after all—but the Magicians might, on principle. You can do what you want. Not my head they’d be after, but I wouldn’t risk it. There have been many…less fortunate apprenticelings, in the past. Not mine, but I am aware of the usual story.”

“Okay,” she said, pushing the pouch of coins over to his side of the desk. “Okay. Thank you. I appreciate it, I really do.”

“Keep it,” he said.

“What?” she asked, stunned. “No. No, I’m not stupid. I know that teaching me any bit of healing is worth this, at the very least.”

“True. People have attempted murder in search of an apprenticeship,” he said, lips quirking up at the corners. “I should know. But no, keep it. You need it more than I do.”

“Are you sure?” she demanded. Nothing good ever came this easy. “You’re sure that you’re not going to ask me for a chunk of my liver later on?” Darker possibilities flitted through her mind, curdling her stomach into a tight knot. But saying ‘a chunk of my liver’ as if it were a nonchalant thing kept it at bay, made it feel less real.

“I’m sure.”

“Then what do you get out of this?”

That was what confused her, what nudged at the ever-present, scrabbling paranoia at the base of her skull. Saar-Salai had kept quiet about what she’d done to herself in the Higher Library. He’d let her into his office to speak to him. He hadn’t asked her for blood or organs. He hadn’t cast any hexes onto her, which was already a step above Healer Nazeri. But that still didn’t mean she could trust him entirely.

“I suppose you wouldn’t believe me if I said I wanted to be a decent person.”

She hesitated, one foot on the brink of possibly offending a Healer who had just offered to teach her a piece of that very same locked art, a Healer who was offering a precious way out. But—implied debts, looming over her shoulder.

“Hm,” he said when she didn’t reply quickly enough. “Well then, let’s just say that I dislike and disagree with the conventional methods of teaching Healer apprentices. I’d rather try it my own way and feel less of a monster for it. But alas, can’t do that with real apprentices. Call it a personal vendetta, if you like.” A slight smile touched his lips. “And, it will be entertaining.”

“Okay,” she said. “Well, um, thank you, but that sounds very—quite intangible. Please just take the money.”

He sighed. “Vindictiveness is its own special currency. But perhaps you haven’t spent enough time in courtly circles to fully appreciate that. Very well, if you insist.” He pushed the bag of coins back towards her. “You should pay me after we go through some books on basic principles on what not to do. There is, after all, no benefit to being too trusting.”

“…Right.” She swallowed. “Thank you, Healer Saar-Salai.”

He grinned then, a quick flash of teeth, sharp and sly like a storybook leopard. “No need for any of that court nonsense,” he said. “Zahir is fine.”