Drift: River of Falcons Book 1

Duty Calls

Drift settled into the rocking-chair and tucked the little boy's blankets more firmly around him. "You're going to get better," she reassured him. She blew on the tea, sprinkled a few drops over his forehead, and began a soft chant. It was the Contata Agraria, a repetitive series of phrases going something like this:

Nonnihil rigo, nonnihil salva

Nonnihil aro, nonnihil sero

Nonnihil sarrio, nonnihil caveo

Nonnihil cano, nonnihil admiror

Nonnihil meto, nonnihil cesso

Nonnihil reservo, nonnihil resero

In aeturna gratia harmonia

Et in aeturna gratia Animas

Concordia interior

Via concordia exterior

Audite Animas

Audite Animas

As Drift chanted, the little boy stopped trembling and closed his eyes. The chair squeaked gently each time Drift rocked back, and the boy's breathing fell into time with the chair.

Drift looked up as a large moth with orange stripes on its hind wings flitted in through a window, circled her, then flew toward the oil-burning lantern that hung above the table. The Miller tried to swat it out of the air. "Leave it," Summer said. "It's doing no harm." The Miller shrugged and resumed his nervous pacing around the room. (When he reached the far end, Summer muttered a request under her breath to a Spirit named Catocala. The moth circled Drift and the boy several times before flitting back out the window.)

Drift propped the boy up and pressed the teacup to his lip. When she tipped the liquid toward him, he took a small sip, but the effort seemed to exhaust him. He coughed and let his head fell back against Drift's shoulder.

The moth came back and landed on an arm of the rocking chair. Drift stared at it. The center of the wing-pattern was reminiscent of the shape of a tortoise, and she was reminded of the tortoise's words about patience. It's probably good advice, she decided, despite the strange source. After that, she let the boy sip the tea at his own pace. Oddly, as she focused on her patient, she felt the same tingling she'd felt when the tortoise had brought her to the pond. The room began to spin. There was a giddy moment when they seemed to be suspended in time. She blinked and shook her head.

The boy had fallen asleep, his little chest rising and falling peacefully. Drift yawned, closed her eyes, and leaned her head against the tall back of the rocking chair. Soon both of them were asleep, the boy's head cradled on Drift's shoulder.

"Spirits be!" the Miller exclaimed, touching the boy's forehead. "The fever's gone! This boy of yours. He has power! Where did you find him?"

Summer frowned. "It's the herbs that do the healing. Let's hope it doesn't spread. Are you feeling all right?"

"Me?" the Miller said, "I'm fine. Why?"

"Perhaps it only affects the young. Mind that he doesn't get chilled on the way home."

"I will," the Miller replied. He leaned over and picked the boy up, wrapping his blanket around him. "Thank you," he added. "And when your, uh, boy wakes up, thank him from me, too." He stared at Drift, whose hair dangled over one side of her face as she slept in the rocking chair.

Summer took his arm and led him to the door. "I'm glad we were able to help," she said.

"If you need a sack of flour or some cornmeal, just send word, but you should put up a sign at your turning."