The Vampire & Her Witch

”I know, Father, I know,” Loman said patiently, masking his concern with practiced ease even as his heart began to race within his chest at his father’s extreme reaction to what had only been a firm press at the center of the old wound.

Slowly, his fingers moved on from the scar that ran several inches along his father’s side where the spear of a Horned Demon had nearly impaled him. The jagged scar still bore the marks of hasty battlefield stitching all these years later and if not for having a priest almost constantly at his side during that war, the wound would likely have been fatal.

Loman hadn’t even been born yet when his father received the wound, but there had been a time when Bors would proudly lift his tunic, revealing his battle scars to his sons and telling them that they had to become strong men one day to earn battle scars of their own. Of course, the idea of it had horrified Loman’s mother, who insisted that, even if Owain was bound for the battlefield one day, Loman didn’t have to ride to war unless he chose to.

Now, as Loman examined the old wound, he tried to compare it to what it had looked like in his memories, attempting to determine if it had changed in shape due to some underlying condition of the body and illness or if it was simply a matter of age. For years, his father had sworn that it had only been an ordinary wound and not one caused by one of the demon’s infernal darksteel weapons, but seeing the fierceness of his father’s reaction, Loman began to wonder if that was really true.

”I know the old wound is tender, but is it more tender than usual?” Loman asked as he gave his father the same patient look that he’d given to countless proud men who were in dire enough straits to seek a healer’s aid but too proud to admit the full extent of their suffering.

Too many men treated the priests of the Holy Lord of Light as miracle workers, believing they could wipe away all sickness with a single prayer and that all of the time spent poking, prodding and questioning was simply an act. Such men weren’t entirely wrong. There were, after all, Exemplars and Saints within the Church who were capable of such miracles.

But for most of the Church’s priests, a clear diagnosis was a vital part of any healing effort. A healer could kill themselves trying to heal a patient’s entire body, and many foolish priests had shortened their careers by years, if not decades, by underestimating the cost of healing a grievous wound or severe injury.

Only by fully understanding the disease could a healer minimize the energy required to cure sickness, and that understanding required careful examination of the patient. Whether it was viewing the patient’s urine in a clear glass for signs of cloudiness or bleeding, feeling their pulse for unsteady beats, listening to their breath or ’poking and prodding’ at their bodies, each piece of a healer’s ritual was vital to understanding the underlying sickness.

Now, as Loman examined his father’s body, particularly the old wounds, he began to see a pattern of faintly discolored flesh, extra tenderness, and mild inflammation that left him feeling that there was some kind of illness that was just beginning to rear its head. But with just the few things he’d observed so far, it could be any one of more than a dozen sicknesses, and it was difficult to know which if his father wouldn’t cooperate with his examination!

”I hardly go around poking my old wounds, Loman,” Bors said, shaking his head at his son. ”Enough of this,” he added, pushing his son’s hands away before the well-intentioned young man could unleash another unholy spasm of pain with his ’gentle’ examination. ”I told you, it’s just a winter cough. I’m getting older, and the cold and wet weather aren’t doing me any favors, but that doesn’t mean I need you fussing over me.”

And even if it was more than a winter cough, Bors thought, would that really be a bad thing? He’d kept Isla waiting for so long. So long as he could hold on for a few more years to settle things in the march, if he could see his first grandson born and know that the family was in good hands to continue after he passed, he wouldn’t mind if his time came to follow Isla to the Heavenly Shores or to search for her again in their next life.

”Father,” Loman protested, frowning at one of the few men he couldn’t use his position as a young lord or a priest to bully into obedience to submit to his examination. ”A winter cough is one thing, but you can’t lie to me. Your handkerchief is stained red. Coughing, even coughing that produces yellow or green phlegm, is one thing. Coughing that is stained with blood is another.”

”Wine stains on my handkerchief aren’t bloodstains,” the Marquis insisted stubbornly as he began lacing up his cream colored tunic. ”Are you going to make a fuss every time your old man has a bit of wine go down the wrong way? Ridiculous. Enough of this, I’ll be fine with a little extra rest for a few days. In the meantime, we have other matters that are more important.”

After all, today had been the third day in a row that he summoned Loman to entertain one of the barons visiting from the eastern territories that bordered Keating Duchy. Yesterday, it had been Baron Otker who held the easternmost territory on the River Luath.

The deep canyons and swift rapids that defined Otker Barony made it impossible for goods to travel further east by river without being unloaded and carried by wagon for a stretch of several leagues and the fees the Otker family collected for their services made them one of the wealthiest baronies in the march and one of the most important supporters of the upcoming war. Even if Bors thought a match between Loman and Baron Otker’s daughter was highly unlikely, he had to at least go through the motions of entertaining his vassal’s proposal.

Today’s lunch, however, was important for entirely different reasons. After all, not only was Baron Leufroy someone who had fought at Bors’s side during the endless skirmishes of the War of Inches, he brought along a far more suitable candidate for his son’s hand, someone whose charm and grace could match up to Lady Jocelynn Blackwell, even if she lacked Jocelynn’s calculating and ambitious nature.

”Tell me,” Bors said, fixing his son with an intense, evaluating look that was every bit as observant as the young healer’s gaze. ”What did you think of Baron Leufroy’s daughter, Adala? Do you think she has the temperament of a future Marchioness?”