He began to sing, his soothing voice rolling over her,
"Soon but soon, little dove, I'll be here by your side,
to drink the wine, taste your tears,
don't cry, little dove, I'll be here by your side,
when darkness comes, I will not feel,
but when day returns, I'll be here by your side,
by your side, little dove, for death is not goodbye."
"Very pretty," she murmured. Her limbs felt as if they were stuffed with wood. She wanted to ask, Is this normal? but she felt too tired to form the words. Tomorrow she'd cry again. Tomorrow it would feel real, and she would face whatever needed facing. But for now, her pillows were soft, and she felt her thoughts drift apart, disintegrating as she reached for them.
"Will you think about it? Someone you trust? Who do you trust?"
"My sister," Daleina said, either out loud or only in her head. "I miss my sister."
Hamon watched Daleina drift back to sleep and tried to convince himself it was normal sleepiness. He didn't make a habit of lying to himself, though, not about medical matters. She'd had another blackout only this morning-not a complete "false death," but she'd lost consciousness for seven seconds. The nearby spirits hadn't reacted, which meant she hadn't died either in a false or true sense, but her heart rate had slowed, and she had gasped for air when she woke. It wasn't surprising it was wearing her down.
He knew precious little about cases of early onset. Ordinary cases were rare enough. It cropped up in families, but often skipped generations, and it tended to strike the elderly, whose bodies were already failing. His former teacher, Master Popol, had waxed on about it once-said it was a mistake in the brain, an interruption between mind and body, a failure of communication, and the fact of its existence had bothered the loquacious healer so much that he took it as a personal affront. Communication between body and mind shouldn't fail, any more than communication between healer and patient, and then his teacher had moved on to discussing how best to cultivate trust between healer and patient. Calmness helped, and Hamon was trying his best to stay calm. Honesty was important, and he hadn't lied to Daleina about her sickness, but equally important was knowledge. A healer, Popol was fond of saying, should be a fountain of facts, and Hamon wasn't, at least not with regard to this illness.
I can fix that, he thought.
Seating himself by the window, he lit a firemoss lantern, squeezing the moss to wake its light and adjusting the shutters on the lantern so its light fell only on him, not on his sleeping queen. He then pulled a stack of blank paper from his pack and began to write. He'd say he was conducting research, in attempt to apply for admittance to the university. He'd claim he wanted to transition from healer to scientist, and his chosen topic was the False Death, but first he wanted to glean the accumulated wisdom of his illustrious future colleagues-yes, praise them, make them feel special, flatter their wisdom and knowledge. He could play the humble scholar. Seeking out more parchment, he decided he wouldn't limit himself to the healers and scholars of Aratay. He'd reach out to those in Semo and Chell, even as far away as Belene and Elhim. Someone, somewhere, may have a scrap of information that would help Daleina. He addressed each letter just as carefully, sealed them with his own personal seal, and tied each with a ribbon of healer blue.
As the dawn bells rung, he summoned a caretaker to the queen's door and handed the stack of letters to him with strict instructions to send them with utmost speed. While he waited for replies, he'd delve into the hospital's library-there could be case studies that were relevant-and talk to everyone with any scrap of knowledge . . .
Everyone? he asked himself.
"You're doing it again," Daleina said. She'd gotten out of bed and was washing her face in a basin. She met his eyes in the mirror. She looked like her usual beautiful self, albeit with a bruiselike darkness under her eyes and a crease on her cheek from the folds of her pillow.
"Doing what?"
"Worrying so much that you're nearly vibrating. It won't matter how good a liar I am if anyone can read my condition off you without even knowing you." She sounded so calm and reasonable. He didn't know how she did it. Except that he used to be able to do it with every patient he ever had-detach himself, see the symptoms as separate from the person, project an air of soothing calmness. He'd worked hard to develop that air. It's harder when the patient is Daleina, he thought.
"Did I ever tell you why I became a healer?" he asked.
"Your father died, and you couldn't save him," Daleina said immediately.
He blinked, surprised she remembered that story. He'd only told her once, and she'd never repeated it or asked any questions. It had been a highly edited version of the truth-he'd said his father had been ill, and he hadn't been able to heal him. "Yes. And it was my mother who killed him." That wasn't a detail he mentioned often to anyone. Or ever.