'Find your strength,' he murmured, and his voice held a coaxing tone, as though he spoke to a tiny child.
At last, reluctantly, a warming began beneath his fingers.
The sensation grew to a glow that brightened softly yellow.
The priest nodded and set his hands over Keyoke's face.
'Old warrior,' he intoned, 'in the grace of Hantukama, I ask that you give up your senses, vision, hearing, taste, smell, and touch. Your senses are not yours but my god's, for experiencing the glory that is life. Give up your speech, and walk in joy, and find your senses enhanced and fully vital.'
The glow happened more slowly this time.~ The priest fought sagging shoulders, while he moved on and laid dry hands over Keyoke's heart. 'Old warrior, by the will of Hantukama, I ask that you give up your desires. Your spirit is not yours but my god's, for reflecting the perfection that is wholeness. Give up your wants, and live in compassion, and find your being filled in full measure.'
The priest waited, huddled into himself like old stone.
The assistant watched with folded arms and wide eyes. And when the glow came, it crackled and blazed like a new fire and bathed the sick man from head to foot in curtains of impenetrable brilliance.
The priest withdrew his hands, cupped as though they held something inestimably precious. 'Keyoke,' he said gently.
The warrior opened his eyes, stiffened sharply, and cried out at the blinding light that stabbed into his eyes and filled his spirit with awe.
'Keyoke,' repeated the priest. His voice was tired but kindly. 'Fear not. You walk in the warmth of my god, Hantukama the healer. Your Lady has petitioned for your health. If my god grants you life and restored health, how will you serve her?'
Keyoke's eyes stared straight ahead, into the blazing net of healer's spells. 'I serve her, always, as a father does a daughter, for my heart knows her as the child I never had.
Sezu I served for honour; his children I served out of love.'
The priest's weariness fled. 'Live, Keyoke, and heal by the grace of my god.' He opened his hands, and the light flashed intolerably, blindingly bright; then it faded, leaving only the dying embers in the brazier, and the played-out smoke of burnt herbs.
On the mat, Keyoke lay quiet, his eyes closed, and his hands as still as before. But a faint flush of rose showed beneath his skin, and his breathing was long and deep, that of a man in sleep.
The priest sat carefully on the cushion Mara had used earlier for kneeling. 'Fetch the Lady of the Acoma,'he told his young assistant. 'Tell her, with joy, that her warrior is an extraordinary man. Tell her that he will survive.'
The boy started up and ran to do the bidding of his master. By the time he returned with the Lady, the priest had packed up his brazier. The ashes and the coals were mysteriously disposed of, and the little man who had brought them the miracle was curled up in sleep upon the floor.
'The healing was a difficult one,' the boy assistant confided. Then, as Mara's servants attended to the needs of his master and brought dishes of food for the boy, Mara went to the pallet and quietly regarded Keyoke.
'He will sleep for several days, probably,' the boy explained. 'But his wounds will slowly close. Do not expect him to be on his feet too quickly.'
Mara smiled wryly. She could see the changes that indicated a return to vitality, and her heart sang inside with gratitude for the gift of the priest and his god. 'We're going to require a warrior of extraordinary strength and courage to tell this old campaigner that he must keep to his bed. For as I know Keyoke, he's going to wake up asking for his sword.'
The days passed in a rushed flurry of activity. Factors arrived and departed at Jican's direction, settling the sales of needra stock, and incoming shipments of supplies. The sheds that once housed breeding bulls were now half-filled with chests of new armour and swords. Acoma leatherworkers stitched tents for barracks in the desert, and the potters fashioned clay hurricane lamps, pierced in patterns, to cradle oiled rags for torches. Dustari was a barren land, and devoid of trees; the woodworkers fired their ovens to make charcoal.
The bustle was not confined to the craftsmen's compounds.
the practice yard lay under a continual cloud of dust as Lujan drilled his soldiers and green,