Free Path of Fate by Diana Pharaoh Francis

Kallas since Reisil could remember. “My son’s hotter than a frying pan. That tea of yours hasn’t done a lick of good. Can’t hardly talk, his throat’s so swollen. Suppose you’ve been up in Kallas dawdling about instead of tending the sick. Racket of those bells woke Teemart just when I finally got him asleep. Now he’s coughing and sounding like a half-dead dog.”
    “My apologies, Nurema,” Reisil said, setting her pack on the kitchen table, clearing her throat on the thick, dry air. “I had planned to be here sooner.”
    Nurema was a sharp-spoken woman, but kind and generous for all that. She had a special affection for her mild middle son, who, though now grown into a young man, had not yet married and instead took care of his widowed mother. For all her rough edges, Reisil appreciated Nurema’s genuine fondness for Teemart. A mother’s love. Would that mine had shown the tiniest speck of feeling for me that Nurema has for her son! As soon as she thought it, Reisil suppressed it. Now was not the time.
    “Open these windows and the door,” she ordered. “I know I said to keep him covered, but he needs fresh air. This smoke and heat don’t do anything for him at all.”
    Reisil fit actions to words and flung open the shutters, turning to the cot in the corner where Teemart huddled beneath a thick layer of wool blankets, his breathing stertorous. She wrinkled her nose at his ripe odor, then touched her hand to his flushed forehead and cheeks. “You’re right. The tea hasn’t been able to do much. I brought some other things that should do the trick. Boil some water for me.”
    “No doubt he’s being laggardly, and right now when there’s so much work to be done,” Nurema groused, snatching up the bucket and heading out to the well. She sloshed water on her skirts on her hurried return. “Place is falling apart and there he is napping, lazy as a snake.” Reisil wasn’t deceived by the old woman’s sour tirade and smiled to herself.
    Nurema hovered over Reisil as she pawed through her pack, pulling out the things she needed: a vial of goris root extract, a clay jar of crushed teris and another of powdered oleaven leaves. There was a ball of red clay wrapped in damp cloth, and a bottle of fermented jess berries. Measuring carefully, Reisil prepared a brew that should break Teemart’s fever. She then had Nurema hold him upright as she coaxed him to drink it.
    “Easy now, Teemart. It tastes bad, I know, but it will make you feel better so that you can have a bath and stop drawing flies.” A weak smile flickered across his face and he drank the foul tasting concoction obediently. Nurema tucked the blankets in around him, stroking his hair from his forehead.
    “Lazy brute,” she murmured.
    “He’ll need another dose tonight and then in the morning,” Reisil said. “I’ll come around tomorrow to see how he’s doing. Now to speed things up, we’ll make a plaster.”
    She kneaded ground mustard and eucalyptus into the block of damp clay and pressed it onto the sick man’s chest, laying a hot, damp cloth over it. “Don’t let that dry out, or the mud will crack off. Hopefully he won’t toss and turn too much. Give him some broth next time he wakes up, as much as he’ll take. Float some bread in it. He needs both fluid and nourishment.”
    Nurema nodded, and Reisil knew the other woman would follow instructions precisely. She packed her supplies back in her pack and then arched her back, hearing it crack.
    “Have a seat on the bench outside there and relax. I’ll make some tea,” Nurema ordered brusquely. Reisil obeyed gratefully. Her hunger had returned with a vengeance and her head pounded.
    The bench had been made by Teemart for his mother and had a comfortably curved seat with a high back. Nurema had woven rag cushions for it, and Reisil dropped down onto them with a sigh, kicking her feet out before her. The older woman soon followed, carrying a tray with two cups of tea, a plate of