The truth of Sorin’s words nipped at her heels as Meira flew through the halls of the palace. She ignored the stunned looks of the colorful blurs she passed. Meira clung to her anger at his words and insinuations, ignoring the wailing devastation lurking somewhere behind it. She paused at the end of a corridor, turning to walk back and argue further. The gentle voice in her mind reminded her that he had no reason to lie about Kirsi. She turned around after three steps.

The fitful dance continued until she found herself near the healing center. Kirsi spent most of her days in the darkened rooms after Meira had learned enough Juri’a to get through her lessons alone. In the evenings they would practice Juri’a as the redhead practically burst with energy, telling Meira all she had learned from the masters that day.

The Soul Wielder paused outside of the large arched entry, the truth looming like a growling beast in the shadows beyond. Her steps pulsated with indecision. She knew Kirsi as a bright, intelligent, strong woman. The water wielder probably wanted to learn Khaantul, she told herself. Her hammering heart betrayed the certainty of this notion. Straightening her spine, Meira set fire to the creeping doubt in her mind. Even if it wasn’t exactly what she thought, it couldn’t be as insidious as Sorin insinuated. He was trying to get a rise out of her, that was all. She nodded to herself, building a backbone on the sand of this thought.

Pushing through the gauzy curtains, Meira paused for a few moments as her eyes adjusted to the near darkness of the large room. Though similar in design to the colossal domed space of the central hall, the healer’s space was smaller and centered around an alter to their patron goddess. Spicy incense burned, filling the air with lazy curls of smoke. Narrow beds populated the rest of the room. Most were open in the mid-day calm. In the soft lantern light, the healers moved as welcome shadows. The deep jadite of their uniforms blended into the rest of the room adorned in variegated tapestries of the goddess’ color.

Kirsi’s flaming locks weren’t hard to find, even tucked into a corner as she . She was kneeling down in front of a small child who lay on the simple bed, swallowed up in the light sheets over her body. The child’s mother sat near her head, watching Kirsi closely and holding her daughter’s limp hand fretfully.

The woman looked up as Meira approached, folding her body into a makeshift bow and muttering words of welcome and thanks to the living saint. Kirsi remained focused for a moment longer before removing her hands from the child’s forehead and chest. She turned to look at Meira, face cracking open with a grin.

“Thank the gods you are here! You can help.”

Meira joined Kirsi, kneeling down on the opposite side of the bed. She placed her hand on the child’s feverish skin as the healer instructed. The water tether within her tightened, and she watched as Kirsi’s fingers danced across the patient’s sweat-slicked skin.

Meira was holding her breath, waiting. Unlike the healing she had observed months ago, Kirsi did not use water over the child’s body. Her hands moved similarly, her eyes closed in concentration. The ministrations continued until finally the child let out a deep sigh in her sleep and seemed to relax into the soft mattress. Kirsi took the soft cloth nearby and dabbed the sweat off of the child’s forehead. As she handed the cloth to Meira, the latter realized the child was cooler, no longer a burning ember.

Kirsi talked to the mother, who openly wept as she hugged the healer and kissed her cheeks in thanks. Finally Kirsi extracted herself from the woman’s overtures, pulling Meira with her as they walked to the small sitting area arranged near the alter.

“What was that?” Meira asked as they sat.

“The child had Eirin’e.”

Meira’s brow furrowed at the unfamiliar Juri’a word. They conversed almost exclusively in the regional language now, but there were moment where she realized how much she did not know.

Kirsi continued, “In Khaantul they call it a fever—Rano — Ryon—

“Rionach Fever?” Dread sank into Meira’s core at the mention of the often deadly disease. The one that had taken Caelum’s hearing and most of his eleventh year after he was confined to bed.

Kirsi nodded, and Meira noticed the exhaustion stamped around her companion’s eyes.

“It took many hours, but it would not break. I needed your boost,” Kirsi explained.

The woman grabbed Meira’s hand, squeezing it in thanks. Kirsi leaned back against the sofa where they were situated, letting peace fill her expression in the face of a small but important victory. Meira’s mind flooded with realization.

“Wait—you mean she is going to live? You cured her?”

Kirsi’s brow rose in surprise at her friend’s reaction. “Yes. You amplified my healing.”

Her expression added a was that not obvious? She looked between the stunned Spirit wielder and the child they had left, as if to assure herself that she wasn’t having her own fever dream.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“If you can heal Rionach, why aren’t you doing this all over?” Meira asked passionately. Caelum’s stolen youth flashed across her mind in fragments. “This could help so many people everywhere.”

Any ease Kirsi had slipped away. Her body tightened imperceptibly as she peered at Meira with a wariness she hadn’t displayed for some time.

“As Juri’a, we cannot wield outside of our lands,” she said carefully. Don’t you know that was wordlessly tacked on somewhere at the end.

“Oh. Right.”

Meira didn’t know how to answer the unspoken query, and it pulled Sorin’s accusations to the front of her mind with a pain that surprised her.

Kirsi began talking about her progress, how she was learning to heal the unseen ailments like the fever using the blood and tissues in the body. Green had begun sprouting in her slate wardrobe as she became more comfortable in her new position as an apprentice healer. Meira’s eyes were drawn to the emerald ribbon drawn across Kirsi’s forehead and woven through the rest of her hair. She tried to listen to her friend; tried to shut out Sorin’s dangerous voice and the doubt he was trying to sow.

“Kirsi, can I ask you something?” Meira interrupted the younger woman’s nauseating soliloquy about wielding pus and infections.

“Of course, Meira.”

Her face was open and earnest. Guilt swept through Meira, knowing she was about to destroy the easy happiness her friend felt.

“How did you learn Khaantul?”

The drop was subtle. Kirsi held her wavering smile admirably, but fear reflected in her eyes before she looked away. She pretended to observe the room, but Meira saw how her hands immediately went to the bottom of the thick braid hanging over one shoulder. She twirled the hair roughly as she gathered her thoughts.

“I was a child. But it is lucky I know it so that I could help you, yes?” She jumped up from the sofa, holding out a hand for Meira. The nervous energy fell in waves. “Come, let’s not talk about the past. You can show me your new fire wielding moves!”

Kirsi moved to walk away but remained anchored by her hand, holding Meira’s. She hadn’t moved from the sofa.

“Did you want to learn Khaantul?”

When Kirsi looked back, she swallowed deeply. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out around the chasm of emotion that had opened.

Meira continued, “Or were you forced to learn it by the empire?”

The weight of her past pulled Kirsi back to the sofa heavily, and she stared at her lap, pulling at the ends of the deep green scarf draped around her hips.

“I was from one of the lost villages,” she started.

Meira thought about the small village she had visited eons ago, in the shadows of the Hygeks. The Juri’a who lived within the Empire had stayed in their ancestral lands. Now they were as deep gray as the healer’s outfits: lost to the Juri’a and their protection; lost within the vastness of an Empire who didn’t want them.

“Dusan and my father were gone. Hunting for the village with the other leaders. They knew that when they came,” she continued, focus firmly on her fingers.

Meira sucked in a breath. She didn’t have to ask who.

“They took six of us. Girls and boys, too young to be on the hunt. And they stole my mother.” Meira was paralyzed by the lump in her throat as Kirsi spoke. “She tried to stop them from taking me to the West. She knew we would never return. So they killed her.”

“Where did you go?” Meira asked, voice hollow with emotion for her friend. Kirsi paused long enough for Meira to wonder if she was going to continue.

“They called it a school. They said they were going to teach us so that we could see the world.” she chuckled darkly. “In four years they never let us see the outside of that building, let alone the world they promised us.”

Kirsi pulled up the long sleeve of her tunic, showing her forearm to Meira. Under the deep blues and greens of the tattoos splashed across the surface, a deep red scar traversed the limb.

“I was caught wielding,” she answered the unasked question in Meira’s eyes. “Trying to heal someone after their punishment. The second time would have been the whole hand.”

“How did you escape?”

“Dusan and Lucian saved us.” At her companion’s quirked brow, she elaborated, “Lysandia came about a year after I did. She refused to speak a word of Khaantul.”

The slightest lift tugged at Kirsi’s lips for the first time, and a small snort of fondness bolstered the moment.

“She would only answer in Juri’a, even after she had learned what they were saying in Khaantul,” the redhead said. The levity fell away. “Eventually she just stopped speaking because the punishment was worse than not talking at all.”

The silence wrapped around them, but Meira was surprised by the difference she felt. Perusing Kirsi’s haunted memories with her still felt infinitely warmer than the hour previous. There was none of the icy anger or malcontent Meira had experienced with Sorin or Otsana. Kirsi was carefully prying herself open for examination. The trust and vulnerability were both frightening and stirring.

“Has it been...” Meira trailed off, trying to find the right words, “has it been painful to speak Khaantul with me over the past few months? The memories and all..”

Slanting her head in thought, the redhead paused. Her fingers slowed their tumultuous twisting. Kirsi met her gaze at last. Though the jagged edges of pain still shone in her eyes, it was a shadow; overtaken by her trusting optimism.

“Maybe at first. But for the Spirit Wielder, it was worth it.”

Guilt knocked each rib as it plunged through Meira’s chest.

“How can you say that after everything they did to you? To your family?”

“Because I could help you. And you will help all of us.” Kirsi reached across the space between them, grabbing Meira’s hand once more. “And because you are my friend.”

Tears burned across the back of Meira’s throat. She pulled their joined hands closer and brought the healer in for a searing hug. Ragged breaths mingled as the emotions stretched and shifted. When the women pulled back after a few moments, green and grey shimmered with tears in the lamplight.

“I never want you to do something painful, just for me,” Meira said emphatically. She knew the images Kirsi had painted would plague her. Meira couldn’t change what happened, but she would be damned if she continued the hurt.

Kirsi’s eyes crinkled near shut as she let a genuine smile loose. She let her face fall to a serious expression.

“Then we need to work on your Juri’a a bit more. Your grammar is horrendous.”

Meira’s burst of laughter echoed in the domed space. Her hands clamped over her mouth at the admonishing look from the Head Healer. Kirsi’s snickering continued.

“Come on,” the redhead said, pulling her friend up with their still-clasped hands. “Let’s go read some more of your special books.”

The women walked from the healing center, arms entwined.