Flamecaster (Shattered Realms, #1)(68)

The infirmary was small, but bright and airy, with a tiled floor and whitewashed walls, and six beds lined up against the walls. Everything looked clean, to Ash’s critical eye. He found most hospitals to be deadly places, to be avoided at all costs.

Only one bed was occupied. Ash could see the bulk of a large man under the blanket, apparently asleep.

The attendant went to find Master Merrill. While they waited, Ash made a wish list for his healer’s kit. It turned out that he had plenty of time. The master, when he finally appeared, was a tall man with thinning hair and a weak chin, clad in the same drab colors as Ash. Although he was not especially heavy, there was something soft and yielding about him, as if he never did any significant physical work. He made no attempt to hide his irritation.

“Now what’s this all about?” Merrill looked them over and chose Marc as the one in charge. “I am in the middle of a complicated extraction, and I don’t care to be interrupted.”

“This is a new healer, Adam Freeman,” Marc said, nodding at Ash.

“Healer! I choose my own apprentices, and I don’t know this boy.” He looked Ash up and down, his face a storm cloud. “Where did you steal those clothes?” Then his gaze fastened on the silver collar, and he made the sign of Malthus. “You’ve brought me a mage?” He poked a finger into DeJardin’s face. “I won’t have your kind in my service. I’m not in need of any more help, anyway. I’ve trouble enough with the apprentices I have.”

“King Gerard has ordered that Freeman be admitted to the Royal Guild of Healers,” DeJardin said evenly. “Do you wish me to carry your objections to His Majesty?”

The commotion had disturbed the patient in the bed. He stirred and sat up, rubbing his eyes. They went wide when they lit on Ash. “Adam! By the Maker, you’re here! I can’t believe what they’ve been telling me.” It was Hamon.

The night baker stretched out his arms toward Ash, and a big tear rolled down his face. “They say I was dead for sure, and you saved my life. They say you rescued me from the fire, and then you healed me. They say it was a miracle. Come here, my boy, so I can feel of you, for surely you were the instrument of Holy Malthus in this.”

Reluctantly, Ash moved to the bedside, and endured the baker’s embrace.

Now that Merrill understood who Ash was, he looked even less happy. “You’re the stable boy!” he snapped, as if it were an accusation.

Hamon was still babbling. “I remember bringing the oil up from the cellar. I must have let it slip. I just don’t remember. But things are going to be different from now on, praise the Maker. I’ve sworn off it, I tell you. I’m a changed man.”

Ash realized that Hamon was blaming himself and his drinking for the fire.

“You’ll be fortunate if His Majesty doesn’t throw you in prison,” Merrill said sourly.

Hamon ignored him. “All day long people have been coming in to see me, to look at my back. I’m famous. And to think I was healed by a stable boy. Wait till they hear that you’re working here.”

Ash was beginning to understand the source of Merrill’s murderous bad humor.

The master fixed Ash with the haughty gaze of a saint confronting a sinner. “From what I heard, it was sorcery.” He pointed a warning finger at the baker. “’Tis a poor bargain if you’ve traded the integrity of your body for the future of your immortal soul.” That was when Ash noticed the emblem of the rising sun of Malthus dangling from a chain about the master’s neck. So the healer was a churchman, a not uncommon wedding of professions in Arden.

“No, no! It was a blessing, Master Merrill!” Hamon insisted. “I have never felt so close to the faith as I do now.”

“It couldn’t have been much of a burn,” Merrill said, scowling. “It is nearly healed.”

“It was monstrous big,” Hamon said, leaning forward. “Rolley, he said I was burnt to the bone. He saw it with his own eyes.”

“His Majesty would like you to put together a kit for Freeman,” Marc said, “and provide a place for him to stay.”

“The boy won’t need a kit,” Merrill grumbled. “He’s not qualified to do any actual healing.”

Ash was accustomed to working with oversized egos from his time with Master Vega in the Fells. “I know you’re busy, Master Merrill,” he said, holding up his list. “I just need a few things to get started. I can put it together myself, if you tell me where things are. And I’ll be happy to do any necessary extractions, as well.”

Merrill snatched the list from Ash. “I don’t want a stable boy mucking around in my formulary.” He scanned the list and looked up, surprised. “How did you . . .”

“My mother taught me about herbs and medicinals. And I had some training at the academy.”

“It will take a while to put this together.” The healer seemed resigned to it. “Wait here.” He disappeared into the rear.

Ash returned to Hamon’s bedside. “As long as I’m here, why don’t I take a look at your back. Are you still in any pain?” He thought it better to examine his patient in Merrill’s absence.

Hamon obligingly lifted up his shirt and turned his back to Ash. “It’s still tender, like a scald, maybe. Not much worse than that.”