Old Wives


When he first heard that his charge had taken with fever, Gabranth was largely unconcerned; Larsa was a strong boy, and Archadia seemed wise in the ways of illness and treatment, so far as he knew. But when he came to visit the boy after a week of convalescence and found his eyes still misery-bright, a thread of doubt shot through his conviction.

"My head hurts," Larsa complained in a small voice, "and I can't sleep or I have bad dreams."

Gabranth glanced back at the attending nurse as he shed a glove. "Have they done nothing for you?" he whispered, and touched the boy's brow.

Larsa nodded and winced. "Many doctors have come. They've given me medicine."

"You don't need medicine," Gabranth said. "You just need to sleep in peace a bit."

Larsa looked skeptical, but Gabranth smiled and patted his small, too-warm hand. "I'll be back."

What he remembered of his mother's remedies for fevers (which had plagued both him and his brother endlessly as children, as the weather in Landis was never as mild as it was for its southern neighbour) was simple enough; a shard of fire magicite packed in aromatic herbs, wrapped a few times 'round with a wet cloth, was easy enough to procure and prepare. When he returned to Larsa's bedside, he bade the boy lift his head, which he did with mild apprehension.

"Don't turn over," Gabranth said, and slipped the cloth under the boy's neck.

"Oh," Larsa said softly. "Oh. That feels good."

"You can remove it if you get too hot, but your head will feel better if you leave it."

"Thank you, Gabranth."

He was a judge then, albeit a judge whose duties were largely limited to attending Larsa, and to escorting other, higher ranked judges. It won him pride of place outside the House, but not so much within it; when he came by Larsa's rooms the next day, he found a doctor waiting for him, glaring fiercely.

"What is this?" the little man demanded, holding out the cloth.

Gabranth was unsure of the source of the man's irriation, and after a moment he shrugged and said, "'Tis a poultice."

"A poultice?" The doctor wrinkled his nose, requiring him to adjust his glasses. "The boy needs only to take his medicine, and now he says you have told him he doesn't need it."

"I am sure you have given him enough syrup to stun a horse," Gabranth said dryly, and took the cloth from him before he could shake its contents loose onto the carpet in his ire. "Yet he is still sick."

"Ah. A horse." The doctor sneered. "One of those ungainly creatures with all the legs, yes? I beg you keep your northern witchcraft to yourself, and leave Lord Larsa in the hands of those who know better."

For a moment Gabranth could not summon a retort, and the doctor took the opportunity to sweep by grandly in his small triumph. A familiar, impotent anger flared in his chest, but long practice forced it down so he could proceed to Larsa's bedside.

"I told him not to take it," the boy cried as soon as Gabranth walked into the room. "I told him not to be angry."

"Do not trouble yourself, my lord," Gabranth said softly.

"Please," Larsa said, "it made me feel better. Might I have it back?"

"This one is old," he said, a took a seat by the boy's bed. "You need a new one."

"I won't tell," Larsa said.

Gabranth forced a smile and nodded. "I shall see to it immediately."

"No," said Larsa, passing a hand over his flushed face, "no, please. As long as you are here, stay a while and keep me company."

"You need to rest."

"I rest better knowing you are here," the boy said, and closed his eyes wearily.