The Bone Palace - Amanda Downum [118]
The Arcanost’s largest dining hall had been repurposed to hold the wounded. Lamps and braziers lined the room, supplementing the wan light from the high clerestory windows. The space was already thick with the heat of a hundred bodies, and the smell of sweat and vomit and sour blood clung to the walls. Isyllt’s nose wrinkled as they stepped inside, and Dahlia grimaced. She couldn’t imagine students would want to eat here again soon.
Injuries ranged from missing limbs to trench foot, with a myriad of infections and illnesses in between. Isyllt’s magic was useless for true healing, but she could numb wounds better than wine or opium, and set and stitch neatly enough. She had the foresight to tuck her ring into her inner jacket pocket, so patients wouldn’t panic at the sight of a necromancer descending on them.
More complicated than sword wounds or septicemia was the Ordozh magic some soldiers had fallen afoul of. The Arcanost knew little of the eastern arts—many were inclined to write them off as hedge magic and superstition. Isyllt had always found hedge magic to be reliable in a limited way, no matter what scorn the Arcanostoi heaped on the practice. Certainly the curses she found now had worked well enough. Some were bloody, others merely debilitating—one lieutenant had been made anathema to horses. None would bear him or endure his presence, not even from the back of a supply cart. Now he suffered from exhaustion and gangrenous feet from trailing the army all the way home.
Not only Selafaïn soldiers came seeking treatment—a few Rosians slipped in as well. The Arcanostoi in charge tried to chase them out, but when Isyllt caught them she made sure they saw her ring and her displeasure. In return, they sent all the wounded refugees to her, and soon she was surrounded. She knew only a handful of Rosian words, none useful for medicine, and most symptoms were described through pantomime.
By noon her lack of breakfast had begun to tell on her, but her appetite was nowhere to be found. By the fourth bell she felt wrung dry and knew she had to eat something no matter how unpleasant the thought was. Dahlia served as a mirror—her smock was smeared with blood and pus and vomit, hair tousled and locked with sweat. Her olive skin was pasty, but her jaw was set and hands steady. Isyllt nearly patted her shoulder, but stopped when she saw the state of her own hands.
“Let’s find lunch,” she said when the influx of patients finally slowed. Her voice was raw and ugly.
Dahlia made an unhappy face at the idea of food, but began hunting for a clean rag. Filthy linen lay in drifts and swags around them and the nearest bowls of water were pink with blood and clotted and stringy with other waste.
They found clean towels and soap at the far end of the hall, and Isyllt scrubbed her hands till they stung. As she wiped her face for the third time, a conversation on the far side of a doorway caught her attention.
“I’m sorry,” said a tired man in black robes, “but this isn’t the place for influenza victims. Try St. Alia’s, or St. Allakho’s.” That last told Isyllt about the other half of the conversation—one didn’t suggest a charity hospital to those with alternatives.
A woman laughed, harsh and brief. Isyllt moved closer—a Selafaïn woman, dark-haired and olive-skinned under layers of scarves and hoods. A young man sat on a bench behind her, shaking beneath bundled clothes.
“St. Allakho’s is full,” the woman said. “And so is St. Alia’s, even if they were taking charity cases.”
The man sighed, running a wide brown hand over his face. Isyllt didn’t recognize him, but the jade and agates in his rings marked him as a healer-mage, one of the rare few who chose to focus on magical theory instead of taking the more lucrative path of a physician. “Then you should take him home, keep him warm and dry and make sure he has plenty to drink. Broth and tisanes are best. Burn incense