Clara pulled the crimson hood of her cape over her head and mentally braced herself for the trek through the woods. It was late in the day to begin a forest journey, but the wails of the suffering children she left behind spurred her steps onward. Darkness would probably have fallen by the time she returned, but she'd been in and out of the woods so many times that she hardly needed light to find her path. Only in the heart of the forest could one harvest the valdir, and without the herb she might never break the fever of the children.
The plague had swept quickly through the town, the worst of it affecting the young children and the very old. Few strong healthy adults had been at its mercy for than a few days, but the elderly had sickened at an alarming rate, and the children had been almost universally affected. The babes cried in their cradles, unable to yet put into words their discomfort and pain, and Clara had worn herself down to near exhaustion trying to heal them.
Her red cloak marked her as a healer, ensuring that she was welcomed wherever she went, and given free room and board at any village. It also signified to any soldiers of Mahania that she was not to be harmed. Mahania and her own country, Lotharis, had been at war for years. Each wanted to claim supremacy over the other's country and resources, fueled onward by greedy monarchs. King Roderick of Lotharis was said to have an entire room where the furniture was entirely made of gold. Clara rather doubted the truth of this, but enemy soldiers seemed to have no trouble believing in it, spurring their desire for conquest of Lotharis.
Born with the innate ability to heal the sick, Clara had been identified at a young age and taken from her family to train at a special school for healers. Lotharis and Mahania agreed on almost nothing, but a general truce had been made about the healers of either country: they would wear a uniform red cloak to identify themselves and be spared by either side, regardless of their country of origin. Healing was a rare and special gift, and useful to both sides. Clara had spent many years training, learning how to channel her own inner magic as well as using healing herbs and remedies to supplement her own skills and energy. Every healer was required to spend 2 years at the border of Mahania and Lotharis, where attacks and battles were common and sudden. It had been draining both on her energies and on her spirit, to see the atrocities the men committed against each other, and she had been relieved when her years were over and she was allowed to roam the countryside, providing aid to whatever village or town she came upon or that called for her services.
She could still recall the stench of sickness and death, a smell her teachers at the school had not prepared her for. At school, working alone or as a group, they had healed all but one of the sick who were brought to them, and the one fatality could not compare to the horror of a battlefield. Men cried out to her to help them even as they held their insides in their own hands, and she knew they were beyond saving. Heart torn and tears streaming, she offered them the one gift she could bestow: the healers kiss. She breathed energy and will between their lips, and a numbing sensation would sweep downward from their lips, throughout their ravaged bodies, as the pain slipped away. They were still relaxed and numb when the kiss took its full effect and stopped their hearts. This, she had learned in school, was the kindest thing you could do for one suffering and beyond a healer's abilities.
Here, near the border, she still sometimes saw the aftermath of attacks from Maharia, but they were few and far between. Most soldiers did not venture this far inland without being stopped, or if they did, they generally headed north to the capital city, and would not bother with trifling little villages. Her main work consisted of healing the sick, setting a broken limb or two to rights, and aiding in childbirth. Occasionally she was even called upon to heal livestock. Although some healers felt this beneath them, Clara was always glad to help a poor family hang on to the cow they so desperately needed, or mend a lamb's broken leg so it could be sold at the market. She found the work much more fulfilling than the endless stream of wounded men at the front lines who would only be sent out to fight again once she healed them.
Right now she sought the valdir, which would help relieve the fever and in turn save more of her own energy for driving the sickness out. She could have sent a villager, but they harbored a fear of the woods, claiming they were haunted. Clara scorned such superstitions; she'd been in many woods and never come across anything remotely resembling a ghost. Wild animals were a minor concern, but if she avoided the big game trails she could generally keep out of the way of bears or wolves, and unless they were very hungry indeed they usually avoided humans. There was a little more risk at night, she knew, but she was willing to take a chance to replenish her stores of herbs. A healer who relied on her magic alone would not have the strength to care for than a couple people at a time. She had already sent word out for more healers to come and help with this terrible plague, but for now she would have to rely on her own strength and supplies.
The sun was just beginning its descent as she entered the woods. Instantly she felt the change in temperature as the cool shade enveloped her. The birdsong and lush, green smell were comforting to her, and she breathed deeply, allowing herself a moment of respite from the day's work. Clara always felt more energized after spending time out in the woods, as if somehow she could draw energy from the very trees and earth. Her closest teacher, Bimi, had felt the same, and it had been she who had taught Clara how to find the herbs that would help and heal in the woods, while avoiding the toxic and poisonous ones. Valdir only grew in the depths of a forest, near the heart trees of the wood. Every wood of sizable nature boasted at least one heart tree, and most had several. Clara loved the heart trees, they were the very soul of the forest, pure and yet mighty and forceful. When she laid hands on a heart tree she could nearly feel its soothing energies pouring into her. Bimi had laughed at this, and declared that Clara was romanticizing what were merely very old and rare trees, but Clara would not be dissuaded.
She had been in this wood in particular several times before, she enjoyed this more quiet corner of the country and had spent much time in its villages. She knew there were several heart trees in the depths, and she allowed her instinct to guide her to it as she made her way through the trees. A squirrel darted in front of her feet, and she smiled to see the little creature make his way up the tree and watch her intently, as if she might be a very small, hairless bear who fancied a squirrel dinner. She reflected on the nature of the plague as she walked. Where had it come from? The water was good, so that was not the source. There was seemingly no connection in food between the afflicted families, and many of the infants could not eat solid food anyway. The town was not overrun with rodents, ruling out rats as the carriers.
She knew that sometimes these things were just carried by air or from person to person, but it would be better if she could find a source. The villagers were already whispering that such a plague must be Maharia, either by curse or some other method, and the last thing Clara wanted was for such rumors to get out. Those in power might take it as fodder to refuel the stagnant war effort, which had lost enthusiasm as the years went by and neither side seemed to gain or lose any ground for long. Villagers like those in this town were quite sick of the whole thing, as they were always short of men who were sent to front lines, and the supplies which were commandeered by the king's men to be sent to front lines as well. A notion like this plague coming from the enemy could renew interest and prolong things even more.
The patriotic among the citizens would swear that it was their time honored duty and sworn right to battle Maharia until Lotharis finally triumphed, but Clara and many of the other healers were holding out hope that Prince Randall would put an end to it when he assumed the throne. He was not much in the public eye but the few reports of him that reached the general public indicated he didn't hold much enthusiasm for the war. It had dragged on for decades, surely a new ruler would be able to see the logic in ending things for good; assuming the Maharian rulers could be convinced of that as well. Clara knew there was a Maharian princess close in age to Prince Randall, perhaps marriage of the two could unite the countries. She wasn't sure how such a union would affect the economies of the nations, but anything was better than this never-ending war.
Her musings were disrupted by a low groan, and she froze in her tracks. It had sounded.... human. She held her breath and waited. A few moments later, there was another groan, and the sound of something being hauled through the underbrush. Clara's had went to the knife she kept strapped to her side. It was sharp,suitable for cutting through human flesh when the occasion called. She'd never heard of a healer being attacked by bandits or robbers, but she was alone and chose to be cautious. She crept forward carefully and quietly, placing each foot with precision, working her way toward the sound. It could be a hurt woodcutter or peasant, and it was her duty to investigate and heal the injured if it was needed.
The noise was coming from a small clearing. The trees overhead were especially dense and verdant and at first Clara could make out nothing, but then she spotted the blood on the ground. Caution thrown to the wind, she raced forward, following the trail. The first thing she saw was a foot, poking out from under a bush. She leaned down to brush aside the small branches in estimation of where a head would be based on the foot's placement, and and hand burst forth from the bush, grasping her wrist tight. Clara gasped and tried to pull away but the grip was unrelenting. A man's face, smeared with blood, rose up slightly from the bush. His lips were pulled back in a snarl, and Clara was terrified for an instant that he was going to kill her. His eyes lit on her red cloak and his hold on her arm loosened.
"Healer?" he asked.
His slight accent gave him away instantly. Clara had never heard it from anyone so young before. The man was near her own age, by approximation, and the only others she'd heard it from had been very old indeed. Ever since the war started, there were no others crossing the border with that accent; only those who retained it from their youth still spoke it. Maharian.
Slowly, Clara nodded.
