The Third Awakening

Chapter 6. The Death of Minacomori

Minacomori had always fled the winter, following the ways of her ancestors. She went as far as Arlar, where the scorching desert winds repelled the frosty gusts of the west. And there was no one kinder and more generous in the whole Els. She always brought gifts for the blond family from her journeys. Among them were figures from eastern citadels, cunning trinkets from dwarven fortresses, and even exotic spices that once made Nicholas's meals famous.

Yet a hidden foe harbored resentment against her for years. Who could an old woman, unseen by many, have harmed? Her enemy turned out to be a man whose purpose was to heal and save, whose life's essence was to guide the carefree peasants towards goodness, light, and hygiene – the healer Fyrion. Each year, the traveler was a dark blot on his impeccable report. He appeared before the lord in the spring, reporting on those who had not survived the winter. In the hierarchy of Els, the healer stood just below the lord, a prestigious rank that carried many responsibilities.

The actual threats to Els were not barbarians but plague and famine, which could ravage the capital and bring the White Kingdom to its knees. Once upon a time, the Sinladian sages proposed a solution so simple and ingenious that it permanently took root in the kingdom and led to its prosperity. You'll like it! Healers were not paid to heal the people in Els. If too many are sick, a healer could be disgraced and expelled. So instead, they were paid to prevent any illness at all. Therefore, healers dedicated their lives to combating the causes of diseases, not their consequences. They would visit estates and, with authority granted by the king, compel peasants to wash, boil water, and comb out lice.

There were two kinds of death in Els: by God's will and due to a healer's neglect. If the venerable old woman had passed away at home in her bed, as befits a virtuous woman, it wouldn't have cast a shadow on Fyrion's bright name: one hundred and twenty years is a respectable age. But year after year, she continued to leave before the cold, which meant that the healer failed to safeguard her soul and body and had to list her as missing.

Each year, the local lord would laugh at his close associate. Still, the numbers were relentless, and Fyrion lost much of his substantial allowance. If an ordinary peasant died once, which could always be justified, Minacomori "died" regularly on paper, year after year, infuriating the skilled healer. He pleaded with the inquisitors to deal with her. Still, she was stubborn, revered as a saint, and simply untouchable – who would dare stand in the way of the most powerful witch in the world? He dreamt of poisoning her, but she was seldom at home and ate only dried berries and spring water. And so, he managed to poison her with his words.

Ray had just turned eleven years old. Fyrion had finally succeeded in catching up with Minacomori. For several years, he had been persistently visiting the estate with one sole purpose, to gauge her well-being. In that wretched year, he had indeed cornered her and " healed" the poor old woman. He gave a long sermon about how, at the age of one hundred and twenty, traveling alone across Irmar was tantamount to suicide. For Whiteness and Sun's sake, she should take a small respite. He persuaded the naive old woman that she was gravely ill and, at her age, must stay under her family's caring hands.

That autumn, Minacomori ceased her journey. They tried to treat the grandmother, to cleanse her from the filth; she was fed only white food: boiled rice, white bread, white milk, and white poultry meat. Such a diet caused her great suffering, and she began to believe that she was indeed sick and needed purification. And that winter, Minacomori began to falter; for the first time in her life, she caught a cold, and for the first time in her life, she took to her bed. Minna, the youngest daughter of Isidor, took good care of her grandmother, and Ray spent time at her bedside, but she had nothing more to tell him. Only in the early spring, she turned to her grandson.

"Do you hear?" Minacomori asked.

Ray listened. Somewhere, a mournful cuckoo was sadly cuckooing.

"The road is calling..." Minacomori continued.