Naamah's Kiss - Jacqueline Carey [89]
But it was his face that struck me most of all.
Lo Feng had the most serene, gentle, wise face I'd ever seen on another human being. It was written in every wrinkle, in every crease around his dark, tilted eyes. My diadh-anam flared within me.
"You're a priest," I said without thinking.
"Some say so." He didn't smile, but the creases around his eyes deepened. "I say I am a humble scholar."
The young man behind him made a faint sound.
"Bao," Lo Feng said in gentle reprove.
The surly lad. I glanced at him. Unlike his master, he wore a plain cotton shirt, baggy breeches, and straw sandals. He carried a staff carelessly over one shoulder, a covered iron pot with a handle dangling from it. He met my eyes with fearless disdain, and I felt a mild shock, reminded of home. Not wholly—and yet. There was something about the planes of his cheeks and the feral glint of his eyes beneath an unkempt shock of black hair that put me in mind of the Maghuin Dhonn.
He looked away.
"Forgive me." I collected myself and bowed as Raphael had done. "Well met, Master Lo Feng."
The self-proclaimed humble scholar returned my bow. "It is an auspicious day, Lady Moirin mac Fainche."
The Comte de Thibideau cleared his throat. "If you gentlefolk are done exchanging pleasantries, I've a young son in a good deal of discomfort."
"Of course," Raphael said smoothly, putting one hand between my shoulders. "Pray, lead the way, your lordship."
Marc de Thibideau was ensconced in a cloistered study on the ground floor, reclining on a couch with his injured, splinted leg propped at an angle. He glanced up sharply as we entered, then eyed me and gave a long, low whistle. "So you're Thierry's witch-girl!"
"Oh, am I?" I asked mildly.
"He'd like to think so." He grinned and struggled to raise himself on his elbows, wincing at the effort. Sweat broke out on his brow, plastering his fair hair. "Sorry. Damned leg."
"Lie still, Marc." Raphael laid a hand on his forehead. "Master Lo Feng? Will you confirm my diagnosis?"
The Ch'in physician nodded, rubbing his hands together. He placed them a few inches above the young lord's thigh. I could sense the energy rippling around him. He moved his hands, letting them hover over Marc de Thibideau in a few places. The pit of his groin, his heart, the space between his eyes. He touched the lad only once, stripping off the thick woolen sock he wore on the foot of his injured leg, manipulating his bare sole with a gentle touch.
"Ow!" The young lord tensed, then relaxed. "Ah."
"Hey, now!" his father cried.
Master Lo Feng ignored him. "You are correct," he said to Raphael. "The break has caused a breach in the flow of his chi. As a result, the bone is reluctant to heal." He beckoned. "Bao!"
The surly lad stepped forward, whipping the staff from his shoulder with a flourish. The hanging iron pot rattled down its length and settled onto the floor with unexpected precision. The young man stepped backward, leaning on his staff.
"Bone soup." Master Lo Feng plucked up the pot. "It will help restore the balance of his energies."
"What's in it?" the Comte de Thibideau asked suspiciously, lifting the lid and sniffing at the contents.
"Marrow bones." It was hard to tell, but I thought there was a glimmer of amusement in Lo Feng's eyes. "Seaweed. Deer's antler. Things you do not have a name for. Dang gui and shan yao root. Simmered a long time for goodness."
The Comte sniffed again. "Smells foul."
Master Lo Feng looked serene. "It is healthful."
"De Mereliot?" The Comte cast his dubious gaze on Raphael. "What about the witch-girl? I thought that's what we were about."
"Are you willing to try?" Raphael asked me.
"Say yes." Marc de Thibideau groped for my hand. "Please. I don't want to be a cripple."
"You won't be," I said with more