his question carefully, aware that much depended upon her answer. She sorted through her memorieS of Keyoke, from the strong hand that lifted her when she fell and scraped her knees as a child, to the sword that had never faltered in defence of her father in the face of his enemies; how greatly the Acoma name depended upon Keyoke's expertise. The reasons she should want him back were myriad, too many to say in one breath. She considered her former Force Commander, for himself, his loyalty and his honour, a shining inspiration to all of the soldiers he had led. She opened her mouth to say that he belonged at the head of her army, but something Kevin had once observed jostled the words from her mind.
Swayed by this markedly foreign concept, Mara blurted something very different from what she had initially intended. 'We wish Keyoke among us because we love him.'
The priest's critical expression broke into a surprised but heartwarming smile. 'Lady, you have answered well and wisely. Love by itself is the healer, not honour, not need, not duty. For love alone will my god Hantukama answer summons, and lend your warrior the strength to live.'
Mara felt weak in the knees. In an overwhelming rush of relief she heard the priest excuse her from the room, that he have solitude to invoke his sacred rituals.
Alone except for his assistant, a boy with shorn hair and a loincloth not so very different from a slave's, the priest of Hantukama set up his brazier. All the while he worked, his voice intoned a chant that rose and fell, like poetry, like music, but not; the guards beyond the closed screen felt the hair prickle at their napes, and they sweated, aware of powers beyond their understanding being summoned beyond the wall.
The priest opened a voluminous satchel and set forth small bundles of herbs, each one painstakingly blessed, and tied with threads spun in a ritual known only to a handful of his brethren who wandered the Empire in Hantukama's service. Each little bundle had a packet attached, labelled with holy symbols and sealed with scented wax. Not even the assistant knew what ingredients made up the fine powders inside. Out of respect, the boy had never dared to ask.
The priest sorted through his sacred remedies, lifting them, weighing them, sensing to the depths the viruses imbued within each. He discarded the ones made for coughs, and others ensorcelled to encourage fruitful childbirth.
He laid others, for blood loss, and infections, and fevers, and proper digestion, in a neat array to one side. To these he added still more, for reinstatement of the spirit, and restoration of circulation, and the knitting of injured bone and sinew. He deliberated a moment, touched Keyoke's hand, and added another, for strength. Over the leg, he clicked his tongue. He could not restore tissue that had been severed and discarded. Had the cut limb been saved in turpentine, he might have managed; but maybe not. The belly wound offered difficulty enough.
'Old warrior,' murmured the priest between invocations, 'let us hope that you love yourself enough to transmute the shame of bearing a crutch into the pride of wearing a badge of honour.'
His wizened hands rearranged the remedies into patterns, and blessed them, again and again; at one point Keyoke's body lay ringed with little bundles of herbs. At another, he wore them in rows down the nerve centres of his torso and abdomen. Then the boy assistant lit the brazier, and one by one, with the appropriate song of praise to Hantukama, the bundles were lit and consumed. The packets of powder were dusted in the air above Keyoke, with murmured exhortations to breathe deep, breathe in the strength of the earth and the regenerative powers of the god.
The last of the herbs went up in smoke, and the chamber swirled with incense. The priest gathered his inner energies into a tight knot and became a channel for the glory of his god. He bent over Keyoke and touched the chilly hands that lay unmoving on the coverlet. 'Old warrior,' he intoned, 'in the name of Hantukama, I ask that you give up your sword arm. Your hands are not yours but my god's, to work for peace and harmony. Give up your striving, and walk in love, and find your strength returned in full measure.'
The priest paused, then, waiting as quietly as a fish in the depths of a noon-heated pool.