Page 5 of A Healer's Wrath
Like Finn, she knew too well how her golden hair and smile turned men’s legs to jelly. It didn’t matter if they were boys of Colin’s youth or men as old and round as Rist, all she needed was one coquettish flutter of her lashes, and they were hers to command. From what I saw, she enjoyed ensnaring them, too, wielding her vixen’s prowess like a swordsman swings a blade.
Worse, she was brilliant, grasping even the most complex concepts the moment they left the Master’s lips; while the rest of us required multiple retellings and even more practical examples to absorb whatever principles were involved. Siena rarely studied, as new recipes for potions or unguents buried themselves in her brain.
I would have admired her if she hadn’t flaunted her genius as often as she flicked her stupid hair.
I tried—quite unsuccessfully—to win her over with gentleness and praise. She was everything I dreamed of becoming: smart, clever, strong, and sure. On top of everything, she was beautiful—and not simply pretty for a rural girl raised among boys. No, she was that girl who made minstrels falter the moment she entered the dance floor. The Spirits had granted her every quality one might dream of, save one—humility.
I didn’t understand why Siena sneered when our eyes met.
And so I loathed her presence almost as much as she shunned mine.
This dynamic blazed like sunlight beneath a glass when it became clear my own knowledge, hard won through years of learning at my parents’ sides, nearly matched her own—and I was five summers her junior and a newcomer in the Medica. Venom swirled in her eyes whenever Master Rist praised my answers before the others. I felt her gaze burning holes in the back of my smock.
For his part, our Master was stern yet gentle, severe yet kind, demanding yet understanding. He was what one hoped for in a teacher—and everything one feared when we failed to meet his expectations. Our youth mattered little to his instruction; and yet, when candles burned low, he often told stories or jokes to let us dream and laugh.
Each day, Colin and I sat through a lecture with Master Rist. Most of our first year was consumed with memorizing all the bones, muscles, and other parts of the body.
Some days, the lecture was brief.
On one such occasion, as Colin and I sat quietly around the table where we took our meals, Master Rist rushed into the room, his hair sticking up in every direction, and huffed, “Memorize everything from pages twenty-four through twenty-eight.” Before we could think to ask if there would be an exam at the end of the day, he bustled through the door and was not seen again until the next morning.
It was more common that the Master’s lectures began at sunrise and rambled until patients demanded his attention.
While we studied or listened to lectures, Siena and Finn prepared the exam rooms for the day’s patients. If the first folk to enter bore minor injuries or simple illnesses, Siena would tend them without the Master’s supervision. Anything more challenging than a runny nose required our rotund leader’s personal touch.
The closest Colin and I came to a patient during our first year was accidentally entering an exam room too early. When not studying, our primary job was to clean and reset the exam rooms. We were never to interact with patients or engage in speculation. Colin took these instructions in stride, but I missed the days when my father let me sing to children or make some grandmother smile. I missed getting to hear the questions he asked and watch how he treated various illnesses. Most of all, I missed being around people older than my substitute baby brother.
Our first year passed slowly.
So slowly.
There are only so many parts of the body to memorize, and few of them sparked excitement when viewed on the yellowed pages of an ancient tome.
In my sixth month, I was granted the opportunity to sit for my one-year examination. The Master formed a testing panel consisting of Finn, Siena, and himself. The questions began simply enough.
“Name the bones of the hand,” Rist demanded.
“What are the muscles along the back of the leg called?” Finn asked.
And so it went.
Around the fourth hour of questioning, as we resumed following a heavy meal of meat and cheese, Master Rist’s eyes fluttered closed, leaving the others to lead the questioning.
“A patient presents with a high fever, chills, and swollen lymph nodes. What would be your diagnosis and recommended treatment?” Siena asked.
Finn’s head snapped up, and he glared almost as intently at her as I did.
“That isn’t an anatomy question,” I said, crossing my arms. “That isn’t even a second-year question, is it?”
“When you sit on this side, you get to choose the questions.” Siena cocked a brow and raised her quill. “Should we mark this as a miss? I hear no objection from Master Rist.”
She glanced to where the Master snored.
I tried to keep the fires in my eyes from blazing across the room, but the smug set to Siena’s mouth made that impossible.
I decided to fight in the best way I knew, to answer her stupid question.
“The symptoms, as described, could be several things, from a simple catarrh or imbalance of humors, though one would expect a runny nose or cough to accompany such a diagnosis. Absent those, these symptoms could indicate presence of the Black Death, an unlikely case, as the blackness has not been seen in the Kingdom in centuries.”