Healer of Sakkara

Chapter 4 - Truth

Over the next few weeks, two more small tremors hit Dern, and rumors of magic and 'imbalances' increased. Triss, Behn, and Galen continued to train whenever Triss was off duty, and the rest of the time Galen devoted to studying medicine. He'd invented two new salves for healing bruises—something he found he needed after practicing with Triss.

Between his salves and his naturally quick healing, he'd managed to keep the minor injuries he sustained a secret from Harrald. That is, until one day after Triss had landed a few hard blows to his ribs, and the older man came home unexpectedly while he was treating himself in the kitchen.

Galen hastened to pull his shirt on as soon as he heard the door bang open, but when he turned and saw Harrald in the entryway, he knew he hadn't moved fast enough. If he'd walked in on Galen kissing a girl, Harrald couldn't have looked more shocked.

"Galen... Are you hurt again?" he asked, approaching almost cautiously.

Galen crossed his arms, and kept his eyes on the rough stone floor. "It's nothing. Just a bruise or two."

"Galen. Look at me."

Taking a deep breath, Galen raised his eyes and obeyed resentfully.

"What happened?"

He huffed and looked away again. Harrald had a knack for detecting lies, and would only wear him down until he was satisfied.

"I was training with Triss, alright? I'm learning to fight."

"What? Why?"

The perplexity in his tone just pissed Galen off.

"To defend myself, obviously. So I'm not so... so defenseless," he snapped, a bit defensively. "It's just a few bruises, like I said. Why do you care so much?"

"Galen, you have to be careful," Harrald said slowly. "You're not—"

"Not like other boys." Galen finished sharply. "I get it. I'm small, and weak, and an easy target, or whatever. Why do you think I want to learn to fight? I'm tired of being different."

He tried to push past Harrald, but the older man caught his shoulder in a large, rough hand and held him fast.

"That's not what I mean, Gale. When I say you're different, I don't mean you're weak. I mean..."

"What!?" Galen demanded impatiently. "What do you mean? Why's it such a big deal if I get hurt now and then? Everyone does."

He winced as soon as the words left his mouth. Harrald's missing arm and twisted back were proof the older man knew that well enough.

When Harrald spoke, though, his tone was soft.

"You're not 'everyone.'"

Galen rolled his eyes, annoyed once more. He knew his adoptive father loved him as much—maybe more—than if he'd really been his son, but sometimes his protectiveness was over-the-top.

"I'm seventeen. I'll be eighteen, come autumn. There are Guards younger than me, risking their lives every day. You can't protect me forever."

Breaking free of his father's grasp, he marched towards the stairs. He'd almost reached the top when Harrald spoke again.

"I know that, Galen."

If he'd remained steadfast and demanding, Galen might have ignored him, but the weary resignation in his father's voice made him pause and look back.

Harrald stood at the bottom of the worn wooden steps, the remaining red in his grizzled beard catching the evening light streaming through the thick, uneven glass of the kitchen window-panes. He rested his hand on the rail and looked up at Galen with an expression so full of regret, Galen couldn't look away.