The Infirmary

Wealthgiver 11

This is the ELEVENTH chapter of Wealthgiver, an alternate history serial romance about nationalism and cave-Thracians. For the back-of-the-book description and an index of chapters, click here. For the beginning, click here. For the previous chapter, click here.

MOOD MUSIC

Andrei spoke into the darkness. "Give me light."

"Ma." That meant 'no.'

He stood in the doorway to the mountain's pitch-black infirmary, holding the papery hand of the old man who had led him here. Brother Bogdan, Andrei was to call him when not speaking Good.

The old man tapped the floor with a foot, releasing echoes that bounced off the walls of what must be a rather large, rectangular space.

The air in the medical chamber was warmer than out in the corridor, and damper. The infirmary smelled nothing like anywhere Andrei had worked. Cold wet stone, a bit of sweat and sulfur. He wondered how the cave-Thracians managed to get rid of the smells of blood and vomit.

"Your patient is on the cot closest the door," he said in French. "You need only put out your hand and take a step forward.

"I also need light so I can examine my patient," said Andrei.

Brother Bogdan clicked his tongue in a way that suggested irritation and tugged Andrei back toward the door. "Novitiate, what you ask is not possible. The afflicted girl is a novitiate priestess, and so must be surrounded by purely chthonic influences. No light, no alcohol."

"What about medical spirits?"

Brother Bogdan didn't dignify that with a response. "We should not even speak in this outside language in her presence. Please speak only in Good."

"Vas em nir. Ti ié nir."

Brother Bogdan slapped him, but only gently.

"Bréma?" called a voice from inside the infirmary.