Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [111]
“Listen to me,” she said in a low voice, so as not to disturb the catalyst lying within the room near them. “If you are his friend, you will draw this secret out of him. As a thorn in the flesh poisons the blood, so this secret is poisoning his soul and has very nearly led to his death. That and the fact that he hasn’t been eating well, nor sleeping regularly. I don’t suppose you noticed that, did you?”
Joram could do nothing but stare at the woman grimly.
“I thought not!” The Druidess sniffed. “You young people, wrapped up in your own concerns!”
“What happened to him?” Joram asked, his gaze going to the darkened room. Soothing music, prescribed by the Theldara, was emanating from a harp she had placed in the corner, unseen hands plucking the strings in a rhythm calculated to restore harmony to the discordant vibrations she could sense within her patient.
“It is known among laymen as Almin’s Hand. The peasants believe that the hand of god strikes the victims down. We know, of course,” the Theldara answered crisply, “that it is a drastic upset of the body’s natural flow of fluids, causing the brain to starve. In some cases, this brings on paralysis, an inability to talk, blindness …”
Joram turned to look at the Druidess in alarm. “This hasn’t happened to —” He couldn’t go on.
“To him? “Your friend?” The Theldara was noted for her biting tongue. “No. You can thank the Almin and myself for that. He is a strong man, your friend, or he would have succumbed long ago to the strain of this terrible burden beneath which he labors. His healing energies are good and I was able, with the help of the House Catalyst” — Joram caught a glimpse of Marie, standing in the room near the bed — “to restore him to health. He will be weak for a few days, but he will be fine. As fine as he can be,” the Theldara said, letting loose her hold on Joram, “until that secret is purged from his body, its poisons drained. See to it that he eats and sleeps —”
“Will it happen again?”
“Undoubtedly, if he doesn’t take care of himself. And next time … Well, if there is a next time, there probably won’t be any more times after that. Bring me my cloak,” the Theldara instructed one of the servants, who vanished instantly in search of it.
“I know this secret,” said Joram, his dark brows coming together.
“You do?” The Theldara looked at him in some astonishment.
“Yes,” said Joram. “Why does that surprise you?”
She pondered a moment, considering, then shook her head. “No,” she said firmly, “you may think you know his secret, but you do not. I felt its presence with these hands” — she held them up — “and it is buried deep inside him, so far down that my probing of his thoughts could not touch it.”
Looking at Joram shrewdly, the Theldara’s eyes narrowed. “You mean the secret he keeps that is yours, don’t you? The fact that you are Dead. He may keep that knowledge hidden to the world, but it floats at the top of his thoughts and is easily read to those of us who know how. Oh, don’t be alarmed! We Theldara take an ancient oath to respect our patients’ confidences. It comes from the old world, one of the greatest of our kind named Hippocrates. We must take an oath this binding, who can see so far into the heart and the soul.”
Holding out her arms, she allowed the House Magi to slip the cloak over her shoulders. “Now, go to your friend. Talk to him. He has shared your secret for a long time. Let him know you are prepared to share his.”
“I will,” said Joram gravely. “But I —” He shrugged helplessly. “I can’t imagine what it could be. I know this man very well, or at least I thought I did. Isn’t there a clue?”
The Theldara prepared to leave.
“Just one,” she said,