Jennasis

1. In the Beginning

Hael jerked awake, hearing the spirits from his dreams cry in the dark through the rough wood paneling of his door. The pounding and the howling of the banshees resolved itself into a sound he recognized.

"Hael!" Meera's voice came through the crack in the door, a whispered scream. "Hael, you must come! The Lady is ailing! She is begging for you!"

He threw the door open and dragged her into the dim interior, slamming the door behind her. "I told you not to come back here, Meera. She has every shaman she could hope for. She doesn't need me!"

New tears streaked Meera's face and she smeared them away with a careless hand. "If you don't come, she'll have me beaten and you'll have to heal me again. Do you really want me whining at you again for weeks? "

He knew she was being facetious, but habit took him where he knew he shouldn't go. Not now.

"That would be unspeakable." His mouth quirked into a small smile, but her eyes brimmed up with hurt.

"She's in a bad way, Hael," she said in a broken whisper. "This is no attack of the vapors. It's the baby. It's early, and she's bleeding too much."

"I am no shaman! I am no doctor!" he protested. "There's nothing I can do."

"Please, Hael." Her voice dropped, and she raised her eyes to his, imploring, she clutched his sleeves with both hands, shaking him with her fear. She influenced him with her love, and with his. "Please. If she dies her slaves will go with her to her tomb."

All the past bantering laughter between them flew away. He laid his hand on her cheek, caressing away her tears. "I could never tell you no." He kissed her quickly, and began gathering herbs and powders, vessels and clean linen. He packed them into the ancient chest while Meera ran through the hot moonless night to hitch his aged pony to the cart.

They rode at a breakneck pace down the murky track to the main road. Meera clung to the side of the cart with both hands, struggling not to be unseated by the jouncing that threatened to throw everything off into the rocks at the sides of the path. Hael's battered old medical chest rattled and clunked under the seat, receiving the beating of its rough life. Hael hung tightlipped to the reins and kept his seat only by bracing one foot up against the running board of the cart. "Perhaps," Hael said when conversation was possible, "if I do this well, she will make me your Keeper."

"Oh, Hael," Meera breathed, then, like the quicksilver she was, she teased, "Who asked you? When did it become a man's place to choose his mate? I think I will make you fight the blacksmith for me."

"If I were you," he grinned, "I would marry the loser, then I would have nothing to fear from a bullying spouse!"

She laughed, and his heart quickened its pace with the beauty of the sound. "Perhaps if I chose the loser, I'd not have to make you fight at all. We both know who would win in a contest of strength against Gheren Smith."

"Physical strength or mental strength?" Hael laughed back. "In a battle of wits the winner would be just as clear. I think," he said thoughtfully, "I will put powdered hentroot in his ale when next I see him at the commonhouse."

"What does that do?" Suspicion lurked in her voice.

"It is an aphrodisiac." His teeth glinted in a wolfish grin that she could hear, but not see. "A deadly one..."

Meera punched him in the arm, hard, and he punched her back.

"Ow!"

"Yes, 'ow'," he laughed at her. "Don't hit me!"

"If we were joined, you could hit me," she muttered tartly, rubbing her arm. "It would be your right as my Keeper to hit me."

Her sarcasm made him wince. "Yes, I could hit you, but would I? And you can hit me, but should you?"