Arc 3: Market Daze

3 – 1

“What's important to understand about community events, such as our very own Market Day, is the purpose they serve: to bring people together and foster a sense of – of, well, community! It must seem – Oh, I say, are those blueberry tarts, Mrs. Knott? Just off the sheet, are they? No, I couldn't possibly, the wife wouldn't...well, alright. Just one.”

Michael Alderwood, Alderman of Valdenwood

- - -

There does, indeed, appear to be a piece of ice in the magi's possession. It's small and round, faceted like the gemstones it holds more value than. Thin bands of silver wrap around and bind it in place to a length of black cloth. In the heart is a spark of deep, dark blue that carries a glint entirely separate from the light it catches from the sun. It's worn high and close to her neck, so that it may shine from the hollow of her throat. Her long, black hair is gathered up into a tail at the back of her head. Her eyes are very, very blue, brighter than the gods' ice she wears like a piece of finery. Between her palms she holds the hand of an old woman, bent and grayed by age beyond even Harlan's years. “That should hold you over until next month,” she says, voice low and holding a faint hoarseness, “but should it return to how it was or worsen before then, you must come to me.”

The old woman nods, “'Course, Miss,” she agrees. The magi releases her hand and she gazes at it, as if unfamiliar. One by one she bends her fingers and a smile spreads across her wrinkled face. “Blessed sunrise to you, Miss,” she says, and the magi smiles in response. For that brief time I find that I forget the pain in my feet and the general discomfort of the last few days. The old woman drops a few coins into the magi's hand and takes her leave.

“And to you,” the magi says to her retreating, stooped back. That smile of hers falters, then fades, and she sighs. What troubles her, I wonder? Is there anything I could do to help? Probably not, yet I should think that I can find a way. She closes her eyes and lets her head bow, as if in prayer. Those gathered around her seem to take this as a dismissal of some kind and leave. Is it? Should I go with them, leave her be, and come back later? If she does wish to be alone, then staying would be rude.

I should leave her be. How bad can it be, down there beneath my boots? As if in answer, the heated burn of those injuries returns with petty glee and pulls a hiss between my bared teeth. The sound draws the magi from her rest, which gives me a small jolt of guilt. She blinks at me, eyelashes fluttering, and asks, “Yes?”

I need to clear my throat before I can answer her. When I do speak, the words sort of tumble free. “I think I've hurt myself badly, and I heard – my friend – Harlan told me that you know how to – that you can help.” It's not the sun that's burning my ears right now.

“I certainly can,” she answers, looking me over from head to toe. That burn gentles into warmth and spreads in the wake of her blue eyes. “Where are you hurt the worst?”

“My feet,” I say, then wince as a lance of hot pain shoots up my leg. “I think they might be infected.”

“Then time is of the essence,” she pushes her chair back from the table and stands. She's just a brow's length shorter than me. “Please,” she waves to now-empty seat, “sit, and remove your boots.”

Taking them off after nearly three days of constant wear feels comes as such a relief I sink back with a groan. The corner of the magi's mout quirks and I look away, back to the task at hand. It's not respite, too easily done, but what they reveal is enough of a distraction. The magi hisses a sharp breath in through her nose. A leaden feeling settles into my stomach. “Moonlit hell,” I curse, voice dropping to a whisper.

I'd been right about the infection. The blisters, too. No surprise they pained me so much.

“You're very lucky,” the magi says, kneeling. “Another day or so and this would be beyond my power to heal.”

Another week and this would be likely to kill me. Slain by my own mistake. What part of my feet that isn't bruised or dirt-stained is an open sore or burst blister. A crust of sickly green and reddened black rings the edges. Angry red lines, so dark as to be nearly black, spread from each oozing wound, curling up past my ankles and into my calves. It is without question the worst injury I've ever borne, and I did it to myself.

The magi cups my ankle in her hand, her palm and fingers cool and soothing on the sickly-hot skin. She traces the lines up with the tip of a finger, then nods to herself. “Very lucky,” she says again. I can only nod, wordless, when she looks up at me. Does she mean to drive home the severity of what we're looking at? She needn't. I see it. “I'm going to begin. You may feel a sense of cold. This is expected. If you feel anything else, you must tell me.”

Without waiting for response, she bends to her work.

- - -

It starts with the ice, with the small star of deep, dark blue at the hollow of her throat. It ignites, coming to light and life. That gleaming light spreads, flowing like water across her shoulders, down her arms, and into her hands. It washes over my skin in a tide. My head rolls back and my eyes close from the sheer relief the cold of it brings. The sound I make is halfway between sigh and groan as icy waves lap gently over the surface of my fevered skin. I feel the wounds closing, healing, and that chill sinking deeper. Tracing soft fingers along those reddened-black lines curling around my ankles. I don't want it to end.

It does. Sudden and unwelcome, the feeling stops. The magi sets my now-healed foot on the ground. Beneath bare skin I feel the dry, itching touch of grass. I open my eyes and lift my head. There's a slight flush across the magi's nose and cheekbones, a slight tremble in the tips of her fingers as she takes my other calf and ankle in hand.

Is she alright? I hope so. Working magic can't be easy. I should probably find some way beyond simple payment for service rendered to show my gratitude. Food, perhaps, or a drink from one of the tables nearby. Maybe a trinket, from one of those talented woodcarvers I saw earlier? No, that won't do. If she wanted something from her own town's market, surely she would have gotten it by now.

“Is everything alright?” she asks, though she has to clear her throat before she does. “Have you felt anything, besides the cold?”

Guilt, I think to say, for taxing you beyond what could tolerate. I don't. For one, it'd be terribly embarassing. For another, I don't know for sure that I have. “No,” I answer, shaking my head. “I mean – yes, I'm alright. No, nothing besides the cold. My name is Zira, by the way.”

“Zira,” the magi repeats my name, as if testing the sound of it. When I nod, her lips quirk upwards. “I'm Clarke.” she offers, and there's something almost shy in the way she says it.

“Well met, Clarke,” I say, and that quirk lengthens and warms into a brief smile.

“Well met,” she echoes. I find myself returning it, if only for the brief moment it lasts before she banishes it in favor of returning to her task. “I'm going to begin again. If you feel anything but the cold, you must tell me at once.”

I can't hide the anticipation, the eagerness, when I promise, “I will.”

The smile returns for just a moment. Then she closes her eyes and the icy star at the hollow of her throat comes back to life. Again the summoned power flows across her shoulders, again down her arms, and once again into my fevered skin. It's even better the second time. Now that I have some experience with the sensations I can luxuriate in them, discover their little nuances. The touch of gentle waves is not only chilling, but somehow burns as it strips the injury from my body. Those soft fingers sink deeply in as they excise the infection from my blood.

This time I don't close my eyes. This time, I want to see every heart's-beat moment of it.

It's over far too soon. “There,” Clarke breathes, setting my foot down, “all's well.”

After so long with standing up being linked to pain, it takes me a moment to muster the will do prove her right. When I do, and she is, I grin widely. For no other reason than to feel the flex of my calves, I rise up onto the balls of my feet. Yes, it aches, but the ache is different and better than the pain of injury. I drop back down and look to Clarke. “That was incredible, Clarke.”

Pleased, she says, “My thanks.”

That being what I am meant to say, I now have no idea how to answer. A strange and heavy silence ensues, one that fills my belly with a heated and unpleasant feeling. I must say something, it doesn't matter what, if only to end it! When I realize I haven't paid her yet, the amount of relief is comparable to the healing she just performed. “How much?!” I blurt.

She startles, eyes wide. I had been louder than I intended, hadn't I? “Pardon?” I don't have time to clarify my intent before she grasps it. “Oh, yes, of course. It's two silver coins. One for each foot.” she offers the last bit with the sly edge of a smile.

It's one I have a strong desire to return as I go to my satchel. It hasn't left my side since Father gave it to me those three days past. Moonlight, has it only been three days? It feels as if it's been longer. The Cobalt-steel knife rests in a bed of mixed coin. I fish out two silvers and hand them over. As I do, I remember that I had intended to offer more than just coin.

But what? What can I offer that would fully show my thanks? What would I give in equal measure to her quite possibly saving my life?

I don't know yet. There must be something.