The position felt comfortable enough for now, but Nightfall took Genevra at her word, readjusting the location of palm and fingers until he found a relaxed and natural arrangement. The wound throbbed in a slow cadence. The fall from his horse had reopened the slash so it looked as if no healing had occurred, and he could still see yellow-white tendon gaping through muscle and skin. He nodded his readiness.
Unlike standard Healers, Genevra did not prod the wound. Without preamble, she clamped her grip to his. Nightfall scarcely felt the touch, though he did not know whether to attribute this to some specific of her gift or lack of sensation from the injury. The pressure did send a shock of pain through his arm that disappeared almost as quickly. The agony that had grown commonplace in the past weeks channeled away, leaving only the dull ache of his thigh and the persistent tingle of the oath-bond.
The Healer cringed, then shuddered. Her grip tightened, evidenced only by the shift of muscles through her forearm. Nightfall still could not perceive her hold.
Gradually, Genevra’s expression softened and her teeth unclenched. "Does that feel better?” Her demeanor became generally more relaxed and the gaze she turned him brighter.
"Much, my lady." Nightfall smiled as their eyes met again, trying to mellow the piercing stare that had terrified so many. "Does this healing hurt you?"
"Only at first." Genevra’s easy conversation made it clear she could talk throughout the process, though she tended to clip her words in the manner of Noshtillan’s lower class. "I have to draw out the pain to get rid of it. The healing, though, is simple enough. I just channel energy to you, and your body does the work."
Nightfall considered how this fell into Dyfrin’s speculation. A sorcerer’s spell would torture the gifted soul, not the caster. Although the healing process took time, the summoning of the power did not seem to tax Genevra at all. He glanced around at the overlord’s guards. The two stationed here watched the process with appropriate intentness, though their stances revealed boredom. His escorts chatted in low voices, their words too low to hear but their casual gestures revealing nothing menacing or of concern. Curiosity got the better of him then. He needed to understand why a young and pretty woman had trapped herself into the overlord’s service, providing care that caused her pain several times a day. At the least, he might gain some useful information about local practicing sorcerers. First, however, he had to rid himself of snooping ears. “You’re from the other peninsula, aren’t you?"
Genevra stiffened slightly. "How do you know that?"
“Your accent." Nightfall kept his expression gentle. “I only ask because I was raised in Mitano." He clung to the lie he had told Prince Edward. "I also spent a lot of time on Noshtillan’s streets. It’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of speaking Xaxonese. Would you mind?"
"Not at all." Excited by the prospect, Genevra bought right into the story. "Do you know lavvey?" She referred to the language of the streets, a version of Xaxonese so rapid, clipped, and colorful with slang that it seemed more like a second tongue.
Like I invented it. Nightfall grinned. "We-niff," he said in dialect, the standard shortened form of "well enough." Although none of his standard personae dwelt in Noshtillan, his malnourished figure and youngish features had allowed him to play a dozen grubby street urchins when the need arose. He glanced at the guards, noting their Delforian features. Those from upper class breeding might have learned Xaxonese, but the rapidity of lavvey would probably render that knowledge wholly useless.
Healer and patient chattered for several moments about buildings, merchants, and life on the city streets. At first Nightfall believed she tested him, deliberately slipping into the deepest and quickest lavvey she could and making errors about Noshtillan to explore his knowledge. Nightfall parried each dodge with a deftness that came from long practice, correcting her mistakes without chiding or allowing her to lose face. It had too long been his job to know the ins and outs of every city on the continent, to evade his many enemies with a competence that made him seem more demon than human.
Over time, Nightfall regained his sense of touch, and the more normal pain that accompanied it seemed welcome. Gradually, that faded also, leaving the sensation of impression from Genevra’s hand and the clammy sweat that arose from long contact.
Soon, caught up in reminiscences, Genevra’s sham openness became sincere, a change Nightfall noticed at once and capitalized on with patient caution. He waited for a lull in the conversation to ask the important question, "Why do you do this?"
"This?" Genevra indicated their hands with a shifting of gaze. "I was born with the power." She released his hand. "There. Try that."
Nightfall opened and closed his hand several times, studying the location of the injury. His fingers moved easily, only slightly stiff from disuse. A long scar marred the palm. With time, he guessed, it would fade into the creases. "Vrin," he said, a mild and innocent exclamation of amazement.
"You just had the right kind of wound. Relatively fresh, straight, and not life-threatening. I’m very limited in what I can and can’t do." She dismissed her talent as quickly as Nightfall had passed over saving Edward’s life. "Now, let me see the other."
Nightfall stripped off his breeks, using a pillow to cover the indiscretion to save her from embarrassment rather than himself.
Unabashedly, Genevra studied the gash left from the broken railing.
"Will I survive?" Nightfall settled into a comfortable position.
Genevra swapped the sarcasm for some of her own. "Not if you keep throwing yourself in front of knives." She smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from her dress. “Your master says you caught a blade in your bare hand."
Nightfall held up both hands, palms toward Genevra. "Do these look like the hands of someone who caught a dagger blade?"
The Healer laughed. "Is the younger prince really worth your life?”
I’m not sure heir worth his own life. Nightfall continued his act. "Three times over, at least."
Genevra delivered a more clever coup de grace than Nightfall expected. "Then why was someone pitching daggers at him?"
The conversation had shifted in the wrong direction, and discussion of details about himself bothered Nightfall. Still, it would risk the camaraderie he had worked so long to develop if he hesitated to answer. “We got caught in someone else’s feud. Just in the wrong place at a bad time."
Genevra accepted the explanation. She pressed her palm flat to the wound. "It’ll scar."
The concern seemed ludicrous. It would scar whether she assisted or not. Again, Nightfall chose gentle sarcasm. "Thanks for the warning. I’ll cancel all my engagements to parade naked in public areas. Anyone who chooses to gawk at my unclothed thigh deserves whatever ugliness he sees." He stopped just short of double entendre. Time had taught him that even lowborn women cared little for flirting from older men. Personal innuendo would earn him no goodwill.
Genevra lowered her head. Her body tightened, and her face screwed into a knot of concentration. Again, pain seemed to flow from Nightfall’s body, this time leaving only the buzzing itch of Gilleran’s magic. After days of constant aches, with or without movement, the simple lack of pain was euphoric.
Nightfall waited until Genevra’s features returned to normal, using the moments of silence to reclaim the conversation, still speaking in lavvey. "So why do you do this? I mean, why let others know what you can do? Why trap yourself into a small room with so many guards you can’t even take a piss in private? Is Pritikis paying you that well?"