Wild Magic

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“Sa saaah, heshal.” Desantro clucked over the ruin of Penhari’s back and buttocks. “Men!” She poured distillate of kuzury in a small bowl, sopped a fiber ball in the liquid and began cleaning the wounds, her big hands surprisingly gentle.

Penhari chuckled, then gasped. She closed her hands into fists and ground them into her thighs as her back burned and throbbed.

“There there, luv, that’s over,” Desantro crooned at her. “Noi, this should feel a lot better, hmmm?”

Coolness. The creamy salve killed the fire and eased the stiffening of her skin. Penhari sighed, relaxed. “Diyo,” she said. “You have good hands.”

There was a short silence, then a hesitant laugh. “Was thinking of you like my plants, heshal, I mean, your plants, the ones I tend. If you don’t mind.”

Penhari smiled. “I am honored, Desantro. Plants have a proven worth, I have none.” She grimaced. “In the eyes of my family.”

Desantro worked a while in silence, then she said, “I’ve finished with the lotion; there’re strips of bandage in the box. How you want me to do this?”

Penhari frowned, touched her breasts, smoothed her hand down her battered stomach; she was sore, bruised where Famtoche had used his fists on her, but the damage didn’t seem to be that bad; he was too flabby to have much power behind his punch. “Bind the bandage round me, but not too tight. Enough layers so the salve doesn’t leak through.”

Desantro helped Penhari to stand, then eased her arms into a wrap-around robe of linen so old and so often washed it was softer than fleece. Leaning heavily on the woman’s arm, Penhari shuffled to the bed. With Desantro supporting her shoulders, she eased down on her side and lay in a loose curl with her knees bent to ease strain on her stomach bruises. She turned her head, wincing at the pull on the cuts. “Have cook make some broth for me and an infusion of singizzia.”

Desantro shifted nervously. “I’ll tell the Chamber^, massal.”

Penhari managed a smile. “I think you’ll find him… urn… more cooperative than you expect. The Wheel turns, Desantro, he’ll be remembering that about now.” She lowered her head on the pillow, closed her eyes. “Tell him,” she murmured, “to send you again. I find being tended like a plant comforting.”