“God,” Audun said. “I don’t know if I can do anything. I’m not a healer. You know that. You know what kind of wizard I am, Thyssen.”
As if to remind Hamnet, a cheap burnt-clay cup grew lips and said, “He doesn’t ask for much, does he? Heal her from a sorcery nobody knows anything about? Sure, that sounds easy.”
Hamnet’s ears heated. He did know what kind of wizard Audun Gilli was, worse luck. “You knew something about the wound, anyhow,” he said. “You can’t blame me for hoping.”
“No one should be blamed for hoping,” Liv said softly. “Not ever.”
“Yes, you can say that, can’t you?” Hamnet’s voice was bleak enough to make her flinch. But his desperation drove him to speak directly to her again: “Please see what you can do to help her, Liv.”
“Me? But I told you—”
“You knew about this Levigild.” Hamnet Thyssen was proud of himself for coming up with the legendary Bizogot’s name.
“Well, yes, but . . .” Liv struggled to put what she was thinking into words. “Hamnet, I told you—I know nothing of mistletoe except the legend! I would never have recognized it. Audun did that, remember.”
“Yes, I know.” The look Count Hamnet sent Audun Gilli failed to annihilate him, though not from lack of effort. It did make him turn red, which seemed a less than adequate substitute. Hamnet went on, “But since he doesn’t want to try, I was hoping you might. We can’t beat the Rulers without Marcovefa, you know.”
“It isn’t that Gilli doesn’t want to try,” the cup said, puffing out ceramic cheeks it never should have owned. “It’s just that he doesn’t think he can do her any good.”
“Crackpots everywhere,” Hamnet said sadly. Liv flinched again, perhaps for a different reason this time. Even the cup winced. Count Hamnet continued, “I would ask this if Marcovefa were not my lover. I would ask this if she were a man. We need her. The fight needs her.”
“I know. I understand. I believe you.” Liv looked and sounded dreadfully unhappy. “But I don’t know what I can do here. I don’t know if I can do anything. And failing might be worse than not trying at all.”
“How?” Hamnet demanded. “Is that even possible?”
“Worse is always possible.” That wasn’t Liv—it was Audun. “Better may not be, but worse always is. Nothing is so mucked up that you can’t muck it up worse. If I’ve learned one thing in life, by God, that’s it.”
Hamnet thought it over. Reluctantly, he decided Audun had a point. All the same, he said, “If you leave her like this, she’s liable to die. What happens to us if she does?” What happens to me if she does? But that was a different question—in most ways, he supposed, a lesser question.
“We will do what we can for her, Hamnet, and for you.” Liv responded to what Hamnet had said, and to what he hadn’t. Audun Gilli couldn’t have looked less delighted if she’d told him he needed a tooth pulled and they were all out of poppy juice. But he didn’t walk away or say no, and Count Hamnet gave him grudging respect on account of that.
“What can you do?” Hamnet asked.
“Our best,” Audun answered. “How good it’ll be . . .” He shrugged. “We just have to find out, that’s all.”
“So we do.” Coming from Liv’s mouth, it didn’t sound like such a pronouncement of doom. She studied the inert Marcovefa as she might have studied a track on bad ground. Then she asked Audun, “What do you think? The charm with the moonstone, perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” Audun said in tones of deep skepticism. In an aside to Hamnet Thyssen, he went on, “If we set a moonstone under her tongue with the proper spell, it is supposed to kindle her mind and make her wits sharp.”
“That sounds like exactly what she needs!” Hamnet exclaimed. More slowly, reacting to the wizard’s tone, he added, “Why aren’t you happier about it?”
“Because most of the time it doesn’t do what the grimoires claim it does,” Audun Gilli answered. “Take any book of recipes—you’ll find a few that don’t turn out a dish you’d want to eat. It’s the same way with sorcery. I shouldn’t wonder if it’s the same way with everything. And the moonstone spell is like that: it sounds better than it eats, if you know what I mean.”
“I’ve made it work,” Liv said. “Not all the time, but sometimes, anyhow.”
“Then you cast it this time. If you have faith in it, it’s more likely to do what you want it to,” Audun said.
“I’ll try it, yes.” Liv hesitated before adding, “If that’s all right with you, Hamnet.”
“Of course. Why do you even ask?” Hamnet said.
“She can’t speak for herself now. If anyone has the right to speak for her, it’s you,” Liv said. “So if you don’t trust me to work the magic . . .”
“Ah. I see.” He nodded. “As far as I know, you don’t have anything against Marcovefa. That’s the only thing that would make me say no. Go ahead.”
Liv rummaged in one of the pouches she wore on her belt, and then in another one. At last, she nodded. “Here we are.” She held a small moonstone in the palm of her hand. The stone’s soft luster reminded Count Hamnet of the mother-of-pearl ornaments that sometimes came up into the Empire from the lands by the shore of the Southern Sea.
“You’re going to put that under her tongue?” he asked. When Liv nodded, he went on, “What do you do if she swallows it?”
“I’ve never seen that happen.” Liv gave the moonstone a thoughtful look. “It’s small and smooth. It should pass.” Hamnet eyed the stone, too. After a moment, he found himself nodding again.
When he didn’t ask any more questions, Liv slid the stone into Marcovefa’s mouth. Marcovefa smiled but didn’t open her eyes. Liv started to chant. She used an old-fashioned dialect of the Bizogots’ language, but not so old-fashioned that Hamnet couldn’t follow most of it. She called on the moonstone to banish the baneful mistletoe.
Liv’s hands twisted in quick, assured passes. Hamnet watched Audun Gilli watching them. Every once in a while, the Raumsdalian wizard would nod or smile in appreciation of what they were doing. One skilled stonecarver might have watched another work with mallet and chisel the same way.
“Oh, very nice!” Audun murmured at one point in the proceedings. Hamnet didn’t see anything that struck him as special, but he knew he would have also missed most of the fine points of what a stonecarver was doing.
When a stonecarver finished his work, he had some carved stone he could point to. Then anyone could judge whether he’d done well or not so well. When Liv finished, she’d have . . . what? With any luck at all, she’d have Marcovefa fully restored to herself. Count Hamnet hoped for nothing less.
Liv’s voice rose. “So may it be!” she said, and pointed a callused, short-nailed index finger at Marcovefa’s face—or perhaps at the moonstone still in Marcovefa’s mouth. Despite the winter chill, sweat soaked her hair and ran down her face. She pointed, she waited expectantly, and. . . .
Nothing happened. Marcovefa lay there. Her chest rose and fell. Her color stayed good. But her eyes didn’t open. She didn’t revive.
“Oh, a pestilence,” Audun Gilli said softly.
Liv looked much more distressed than Marcovefa did. She was also panting from the effort she’d put forth. “It didn’t work,” she said, as if that were the worst thing she could think of. Right this minute, it probably was.
“It doesn’t seem to have,” Hamnet said. “Would trying it again do any good? Would your trying it do any good, Gilli?” Using the Raumsdalian wizard’s family name instead of his individual name was less than friendly, but it was as much as Hamnet could do.
Audun Gilli didn’t take offense now, as he hadn’t before. “I’ll try if you want,” he said. “I don’t know how much good it will do, but I’ll try.”
And he did, from the beginning. He even took the moonstone out of Marcovefa’s mouth and put it back in before starting his spell. That made her smile again, but didn’t revive her. His spell was different from Liv’s; he used Raumsdalian in place of the Bizogots’ language. Where Liv had almost ordered Marcovefa to return to herself, Audun cajoled her.