Healer of Sakkara

Chapter 27 - Healer

"Galen! Galen, wait!"

Sevhalim's call reached him from a distance, but Galen knew he had only moments before he lost his chance. Bursting into the room where Iksthanis lay, he dashed to the unconscious man's side.

Startled by the sudden commotion, Zenír leaped up from his chair.

"Galen? Is something wrong?" he asked, reaching for the polished wooden staff someone had given him to aid his movements.

"You could say that," Galen gasped as he pulled the sheets covering the injured man aside.

"What has happened?"

"There is no time. Listen, Zenír — if you want Iksthanis to live, then let me work, and keep the others away as long as you can."

Zenír nodded slowly, his unfocused gaze troubled but determined. "You have a good heart, Galen," he said. "I will trust it."

Taking up his staff, he went to the door and stood with the length of wood held lightly in his hand. Though sightless, he was no invalid. His staff was weapon as much as walking-aid; yet Galen doubted he'd be able to hold Sevhalim off for long. Thus, he wasted no time, and turned his attention to Iksthanis.

As Sevhalim himself had taught him to do, he let his focus sink deep while the rest of the world fell away, until there was nothing but the bright star burning at his core.

Opening his eyes, he looked upon Iksthanis. The man's body appeared almost translucent, the brightness of his life flickering with the fragile light of a candle burning low, while areas of darkness showed where injuries lay. Shadow shrouded one side of his chest, much of his abdomen, his left leg, and a portion of his skull.

One glance told Galen it was too much; they had waited too long already, and if he healed Iksthanis now, the effort would consume him.

If he could control it, though, perhaps he might ensure the other man's recovery while holding back enough to sustain himself as well. It wasn't a perfect solution, and he wasn't certain he could manage it, but it beat the alternatives, and he had to try.

Shouts and rapid footsteps told him he was out of time, and he heard Zenír raise a brave challenge in the hall, answered by Sevhalim.

"Get out of the way, Zen!" Sevhalim demanded. "He isn't ready for this! I'm telling you—"

Shutting out the sounds, Galen concentrated on the power resting within him like a banked fire, and stirred it to life with an indrawn breath.

Answering magic pulsed hot at his core, and Iksthanis's need called to it like thirsty roots craving rain.

He breathed in again, and the heat intensified, flowing down his arms to his hands and gathering there as if eager to be poured forth upon the injured man. He felt a sense of fullness in his heart and in his whole body — like an irresistible urge to shout or move or run — and the only way to satisfy it was to release the magic and pour forth into Iksthanis.

More shouts and a soft 'thud' in the hallway signaled Zenír's defeat, and Sevhalim appeared in the doorway, wild-eyed and breathless, and froze at whatever he saw on Galen's face.

"Galen," he gasped, reached towards him. "Galen — wait. Please, trust me!"

Oddly, Galen felt no sense of urgency at all, and regarded him with calm dispassion. "I'm sorry," he said. "But I don't."

Shutting his eyes, he let the magic go.

It seemed almost to delight in its release, and Galen saw at once that his plan was no good: he had as much chance of controlling the flow of power as he did of damming a river with his hands. It was all or nothing, and so he gave himself over to the fire.