Elizabeths Eyes

    I was halfway through stitching a gash in a Metal Worker’s forearm when the knock came at the infirmary door—three times, hesitant, the sound more a plea than a demand.

“Hold still,” I murmured to my patient, tying off the suture. “You’ll have your arm back in proper order in a moment.” He grimaced, flexing his fingers. “Physician, you work too fast. I’d hoped to get out of my afternoon shift.”  “As if your Foreman would allow it,” I said, cutting the last thread. “You’ll be back at the forge by the fourth bell.”

  My assistant Mira was already moving toward the door. The conversation in the waiting chamber beyond dimmed. I heard a guard’s low voice first, the faint clink of metal. Then Mira’s. “Physician,” she called, her tone strange. “You… should come see this.”

  I cleaned my hands, stripped off the lightly bloodied gloves, and walked from the treatment room into the front hall. The air changed as I stepped out—thick with the scent of dust, leather, and something unfamiliar. Foreign.

  The tribeswoman stood just inside the threshold, flanked by two city guards. She was younger than I’d expected—perhaps no more than twenty summers. Her hair was long and straight, the deep black of tarn feathers, braided with small beads of dyed bone that caught the lantern light. Her skin was a warm, ruddy bronze, the kind that spoke of wind and sun and miles walked under a vast open sky. Her clothing announced her as loudly as any banner: soft buckskin dyed a fierce red along the fringes, painted with symbols I did not recognize. A short knife rode in a sheath at her hip, its handle wrapped in colored sinew. Around her neck hung a small pouch on a cord, ornamented with quills and small stones. Her eyes were the most arresting part—dark, unflinching, and something between hope and terror.

  She pressed a hand flat against her chest and bowed her head—deep, respectful, but not submissive. When she spoke, it was in a language I did not know, the syllables rising and falling like a song.  “She has been asking for you by name,” one of the guards said. “At the gates. Would not leave until a runner was sent.”  I stepped closer, meeting the young woman’s eyes. “I am Elizabeth, Physician,” I said gently. “Do you speak Gorean?”

  She hesitated, then said carefully, with a thick accent, “Elf… Elizabet?” Then, more fluent in her own tongue, she added a rush of words. Her confusion was palpable. I smiled slightly and pressed a hand to my own chest. “Elizabeth,” I repeated. “Physician.”

  Her eyes brightened. “Physician of Gor,” she said more clearly  “Yes,” I nodded. “Of Gor. Of Ar.”

   She exhaled in relief, shoulders loosening as if a weight had slid from her back. She spoke again in her language, then struggled to form Gorean words.“Red Savages,” she said slowly, tapping at the red fringe of her leather tunic. “I am Takota.” She pointed at her chest, then extended her hand slightly toward me. “Takota,” I repeated. “Well met.”

  Her gaze flicked toward the guards as if unsure. She took a cautious step closer, lowering her voice to a level meant only for us  “Chief,” she said, and gestured behind herself, as though pointing somewhere far beyond the city walls. “Tatanka. He…” She frowned, searching. “Medicine man… cannot cure. We…” She pressed her hands together, fingers clasped, and brought them up under her chin—a gesture of supplication. “Beg. You come.”

  The room had gone quiet. The city dwellers waiting for sutures and poultices watched with polite curiosity, while the guards looked wary. I studied Takota. Dust clung to the hem of her leggings; the leather of her moccasins was worn and stained. She had not come from nearby. This journey had taken time and effort, and perhaps the risk of entering territory less than welcoming to her kind.

  The Red Savages were known to Gor’s cities—spoken of as fierce, proud tribesmen of the great plains. Their ways were different, their laws harsh. Stories told of raids, of blood feuds, of war parties on kailiuka and men who could vanish into the prairie like smoke. For one of them to come alone to the gates of Ar to ask for me by name… “How do you know of me?” I asked quietly.

  She frowned in concentration, then lifted her hand above her head, palm flat, as if miming the wings of a tarn. “Sky man,” she said. “From… Ar. Trade.” She drew a circle in the air. “He speak of city of many stones. Of Physician-Elizabeth-who-heal-dying-man-on-ship." A memory flickered—two years ago, a merchant from the north brought down from a river barge with a gut wound, infection raging. I’d cut deep, poulticed, and prayed to whatever indifferent powers watched this harsh world. The man had lived, against the odds.

   “He said, ‘Physician of Gor can cure when others cannot,’” Takota continued haltingly. “So I come.” Her eyes flicked back to mine, fierce now. “Chief Tatanka… has red marks.” She grimaced. “All over.” Her hands swept over her own arms, chest, throat. “Medicine man speak with smoke and spirits, but… no cure.” Her jaw tightened. “We need… your medicine.”

   The guards exchanged glances. One cleared his throat. “Physician, the Commander should be informed if you intend to leave the city.”  I nodded absently, mind already racing through possibilities—rash, infection, allergy, disease. I knew nothing of the flora of the plains or of what the Red Savages used in their rituals and daily life. A dozen unknowns stood between me and any diagnosis. 

  “I can’t decide this at the infirmary door,” I said softly. “Takota, I have a Companion. Alex. I must speak with him.”  She nodded quickly, relief shimmering again. “I wait,” she said, pressing her hand to her heart. “Tatanka… not yet dead. But…” She looked away, lips thinning. “Soon?”

  It was not a threat, not precisely, but a reality spoken aloud. In her world, chiefs did not linger in sickness. A weakened leader invited challenges, chaos, blood. I turned to Mira. “Reschedule my afternoon appointments,” I said. “Keep the emergency list open. You know what to do.”

She swallowed. “You’re going with her?”  “I’m at least going to try,” I said. “If I don’t, he dies without even the chance of my help.”

  The guards shifted, uneasy. “And if you don’t come back?” one asked. I met his gaze. “Then it will have been my decision, and my risk. But I doubt the girl trekked to Ar to kidnap me for sport.”  Takota stood straight under the scrutiny, chin lifted. There was no cringing in her. If she was afraid, she’d buried it beneath necessity.

“Come,” I said to her. “We’ll go to my home. My Companion must hear this.”

***

  Our house lay in the quieter quarter, not far from the central towers. Alex preferred to be away from the work sites where geometry and stone met, where arches rose with mathematical grace and bridges skimmed the air like stone ribbons. The building we called home bore his signature as much as his professional works—solid, thoughtful, unexpectedly elegant.

  In his workshop, he was bent over a small model of a bridge when we arrived, his hands dusted with fine white powder and chalk smudged along his nose. He looked up at the sound of the door, his expression softening when he saw me, then sharpening with curiosity when he saw Takota behind me.   

  “Elizabeth?” he asked, straightening. “You’ve brought a guest.”

  “From the plains,” I said. “From the Red Savages.”

  Takota watched him with the same careful attention she’d given me, taking in his Builder’s harness, the tools hanging from his belt, the measuring cords coiled at his elbow. She bowed her head to him, again that gesture of respect without servility. “Takota,” I said, gesturing. “This is Alex, my Companion. Master Builder of Ar.”

   She tried the title on her tongue. “Mass-ter Build-er.” Then, more tentatively, “You make…” She pointed up, miming towers with her fingers. “Big stone house?”  “Among other things,” Alex said, amused. Then his gaze slid back to me. “What brings the plains to our threshold?”

  In concise, stripped-down terms, I explained. The chief, the red marks, the failed efforts of their medicine man. Takota spoke when I faltered, supplying details in her own language, then broken Gorean. Chief Tatanka had been strong, she said, a leader of many winters, hunter of tabuk and enemy. Then, one moon past, red blotches had appeared on his skin—first along the arms, then spreading over his chest, back, and neck. The medicine man had burned herbs, chanted long into the night, painted symbols, bled vulos over the fire. Nothing helped. The marks grew, darkening. The chief weakened, started coughing. Food tasted like dust. Water would not stay down.

   “I should see him,” I finished. “If there is any chance, I must try.” Alex’s jaw tightened. “The plains are no gentle stroll, Elizabeth. And the Red Savages—”

 “They are people,” I cut in. “People who are desperate enough to send a young woman across distance and risk to find me.” He studied me for a long moment, his eyes calculating danger, weighing risk against my stubbornness. He had lived with me long enough to know how this battle would end. He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

   “You’ll need protection,” he said at last. “Two of the city guards, armed and authorized. I’ll speak to the Commander. You travel at your own risk, but I won’t have you leaving without at least a shield at your back.”  

“That will help,” I said. “If things go badly.”

 Takota’s gaze bounced between us. “You… come?” she asked, voice small now. “I will,” I said. “I just need to prepare.”

  The door to the side room was opened, our daughter, Elana, hair tangled from sleep, clutching a carved wooden tarn in one hand and babbling away. She looked from Elizabeth to the new person in the room Takota and started to smile at, Alex guessed, at the beads Takota wore.

  “This is our friend Elana, she comes from far away”“I said, my heart pinching at the thought of leaving her, even for a day.

  Takota watched Elana with an unexpectedly soft expression. She knelt, bringing herself eye-level with my daughter. From the pouch at her neck, she drew a small bead—red, carved—threaded on a short strip of leather. She held it out.  “For little bird,” she said, using the Gorean word she’d likely heard used for children. “To remember sky woman.”

  Elana accepted it, eyes wide. She looked up at me, seeking permission. I smiled and nodded. “Say thank you, love.” Elana-ese is usually a giggle and an attempt which made them all smile for a moment or two.

  Alex stepped close, one hand sliding to the small of my back. He looked at Takota. “You travel by tarn?” he asked. She nodded. “Sky beast, yes. Fast. We go and return before dark-two.” She meant two nights.  Alex turned to me. “Two guards,” he said. “You take your larger bag. Enough supplies for infection, allergy, and whatever else you can think of in an afternoon.”

“And you?” I murmured.

   He studied me, then leaned in and kissed me—firm, grounding, not showy. “I’ll be here,” he said softly. “Waiting. Try not to make me regret letting you go.” I kissed Elana’s forehead, inhaling the warm, familiar scent of her hair, committing it to memory like a desperate talisman. “Be good for your father,” I said. She looked to me with her eyes wide and soft, and I swear she understood every word.

  I gathered my big medical bag—the one I used for travel, stuffed with instruments, vials, rolled bandages, small jars of salves, and the precious, carefully rationed antibiotics and antifungals I had managed to construct from this world’s limited pharmacology. Some I’d coaxed from fermentation; others were distilled from uncommon plants. They were my most guarded treasures.

   By the time I returned to the front hall, Alex had already dispatched a messenger. Two guards arrived within the half-ahn, armored but not heavily so, each bearing a sword and short bow. One carried a small shield. They eyed Takota, but held their tongues. “We ride tarns,” one said to me. “Commander has granted you escort. You travel at your own request and hazard, Physician.”  “I understand,” I said.

  Takota led us through the streets to the tarn compound. Heads turned as we passed—a tribeswoman in red fringed leather walking beside a Physician in green robes, flanked by armed guards. Ar was a great city, but not so great that such a sight was common.

  At the compound, the tarn keeper looked Takota over, then shrugged. “Her beast is tied at the far post,” he said. “Came in this morning. Mean-looking brute, but she seems to have him in hand.” Takota’s tarn was as she’d described—big, feathered in deep brown and black, eyes sharp, beak scarred. The harness bore tribal markings in red and white. The bird stamped and ruffled its wings as we approached, but quieted when Takota murmured something in her tongue, stroking the feathers at its neck.

  “You ride with me,” she said to me, gesturing to the front of the saddle. She looked at the guards, then pointed to two city tarns already being saddled. “They follow.”  I had flown often enough that the tarn’s scent—the thick, musky animal reek, the tang of leather—was familiar. Still, straddling the saddle behind Takota, bag slung across my back, I felt that old, instinctive clench low in my middle. The ground was comfort. The sky was a calculated risk.

  Alex stood at the edge of the compound, Elana in his sure, steady arms. Her small fingers clutched the new bead. He met my eyes across the distance, and for a breath, the world narrowed to that line between us—the tether of trust, of shared years, of the unspoken fear that every parting might be the last. He didn’t call out. He didn’t need to. His nod was enough.

  The tarn keeper released the lines. Takota gave a soft whistle and a command. The tarn leaped. The city fell away beneath us in a rush of wind and sound. Towers and walls shrank, streets became threads, people dots. The second tarn, carrying the guards, followed at a short distance. Takota flew with the confidence of someone who had spent more hours aloft than on the ground. She leaned into the turns, knees angling, hands steady on the reins. Her braid whipped in the wind, beads clicking softly.

  “Far?” I called over the rushing air. “Not so far,” she shouted back. “Sky beast fast. Village near big river. We meet at sun-half.” She spoke Gorean better in short bursts, as if each word had to be wrestled into obedience. I admired her for even trying. My own attempts at her language would have been worse.

  We left Ar behind, the squared geometry of the city giving way to rolling grasslands. The plains stretched out, a vast canvas of green and gold, rippling under the wind like water. From above, it seemed endless. “Your world,” I said softly. She nodded, pride clear. “My world,” she agreed. By the time the sun angled halfway down the western sky, Takota pointed ahead. “There.”

  The village appeared as a scatter of low structures and tents near a ribbon of river. Smoke rose from several fires, and small figures moved below, pausing to look up as our tarns shadowed them. We circled once, then descended toward a designated clearing at the village’s edge. Children ran to meet us, only to be pulled back by adults with sharp words. Men stood, hands on knife hilts, eyes narrow. Women watched from doorways and tent flaps, faces inscrutable.

  Takota slid down from the tarn with fluid ease, then turned to offer me a hand. I accepted it, dropping lightly to the ground. My knees flexed, adjusting to earth after sky. The guards followed, landing a short distance away and dismounting with less grace. Their presence drew more attention—a mix of distrust and the prickled reaction to seeing city steel on tribal soil.

  Takota spoke quickly in her language, gesturing toward me, then toward the guards. The crowd’s focus shifted. I caught words repeated—“Physician,” “Gor,” “Tatanka”—spoken with urgency. An older man stepped forward, broad-shouldered, hair streaked with gray, face lined by both age and sun. He wore a feathered headdress, and his breastplate was decorated with bones and beads. His eyes were sharp, assessing. “Chief?” I murmured.

  Takota shook her head. “Second leader,” she said. “Tatanka’s brother, Wicasa.”

  Takota spoke to him in a low voice, hands occasionally cutting the air in emphasis. He listened, arms folded. His gaze slid to me, to my bag, to the guards. Something weighed in him. Finally, he nodded once and gestured toward a large hide-painted lodge at the village’s center

  Takota exhaled in visible relief. “We go,” she said to me. Then, carefully, she added, “If you fail… we tried.” It was not a warning. It was simply truth.

  Inside the lodge, smoke hung in the air, fragrant with herbs. It took my eyes a moment to adjust. Furs covered the ground. A small fire burned low in a pit at the center, its coals red, tongues of flame licking at a bundle of green leaves.

  Tatanka lay on a raised platform at the far end, half-covered in a heavy blanket, his chest bare. He was older, perhaps in his late fifties, body still solid despite its current slackness. His hair was long, streaked with gray, braided with two eagle feathers that now lay crooked on the pillow.  Even from the doorway, I saw the marks.

  Red blotches, angry and irregular, speckled his arms, shoulders, chest, and throat. Some had merged into larger patches. A few were darker at the center, crusted. Others appeared fresh—raw, inflamed. His breathing was shallow, laborious.

  A man knelt beside him—a medicine man by the look of the painted symbols on his skin and the pouch of herbs at his belt. He glanced up sharply as we entered, eyes narrowing at the sight of me. He said something that made Takota flinch.

  She answered firmly, her voice tight but controlled. I caught my name, “Physician of Gor,” repeated. The medicine man snorted, gesturing at the herbs and smoke. He spoke again, more heated. “Problem?” I murmured. She hesitated. “He say… you are not of our people. Spirits will not listen to you.”  “Then I hope this is not a matter for spirits,” I said. “But for flesh and blood.”

  Wicasa entered behind us, spoke a quiet word. The medicine man subsided, glowering, but did not leave. He would watch. He would judge.  Tatanka turned his head slightly as we approached, his eyes clouded with pain but still clear enough to focus. He studied me—my green robes, my bag, my strange foreignness—and then spoke in a rasping voice.

  Takota translated. “He says… if you can heal, he will be in your debt. If you cannot, he will die as a chief and not curse you.”

“I prefer the first option,” I said.

  I set my bag down, took a steadying breath, and moved closer.  Up close, the rash was more telling. I saw the pattern—the timing in the layers of lesions. Some older, dark and healing, some fresher. The distribution was concentrated along the upper body, particularly where clothing would rest close. There were faint scratch marks on some patches, as if he had clawed them in his sleep.

  “Has anyone else in the village had this?” I asked. “Even in small amounts?”

  Takota translated this to Wicasa. He thought, then nodded slowly, naming three men and a child. Takota gestured to a woman standing near the door. She tugged forward a boy, perhaps seven, pulling his tunic aside to reveal faint red patches along his upper back. Smaller. Less advanced. But the same.

    I moved to the boy, murmuring a reassurance. He watched me with wary eyes, but did not pull away. I examined the lesions, then thought of the timing. A moon. Spreading slowly through the tribe. Not everyone, but enough.

   “Anything new introduced into your food or clothing?” I asked. “New plants? New dyes? New… trade goods from the city?” Takota relayed, and Wicasa frowned deeply. He spoke for a while, gesturing toward the north. The medicine man listened with a sour expression.

   “New blankets,” Takota said. “From traders. Red dye.” She tapped her own fringe. “He says… we had not this color before, so bright.”  A suspicion sharpened. I stepped back to Tatanka, careful not to brush against the lesions. I asked Takota to help me have him sit forward for a moment. With effort, and Wicasa’s support, he did. The marks ran exactly where blankets would have lain across his shoulders and chest. Less severe under the arms and along the lower abdomen.

   “Do the men you named sleep under those new blankets?” I asked. “Yes,” she said slowly. “They are for warriors.”

  “And the boy?” I glanced him over. His tunic had red dyed trim. “New clothes too?”  At this, the medicine man said something with a grudging tone. Takota’s mouth tightened.   “He says he told them the color was too strong,” she translated. “But they did not listen. It was beautiful.”  I nodded. “Ask them what the dye is made from. Exactly.”

  They spoke rapidly, arguing. Finally, a young woman ducked out of the lodge, returning with a folded strip of red-dyed cloth and a small leather pouch of powdered color. I took both, inhaled the sharp, mineral scent of the dye. I rubbed a bit between my fingers. Slight grit, faint metallic tang. “Mercury,” I murmured. Or something akin to it. “Or cinnabar refined poorly.” I’d seen similar rashes in men who worked with dyes and metals, though never so extreme. A contact reaction, aggravated by heat, sweat, the open pores of the skin.

  Takota frowned at my muttering. “What is it?” she asked. I looked at Tatanka, at the boy, at the red cloth in my hand. “This dye is poison,” I said simply. “Not spirit-poison. Skin-poison. It burns the flesh, inflames it. Some are more sensitive than others. Your chief… most of all.”

   She translated, her words drawing a murmur from the gathered villagers. The medicine man stiffened, his pride colliding with my explanation. But his eyes flicked to the cloth, then to the lesions, and I saw the moment hesitation cracked his certainty.

  “He burns herbs and calls spirits,” I said quietly to Takota. “But if the cause stays against the skin, no chant will help.”  She swallowed. “Can you cure?” she asked.

  “I cannot change what has already happened,” I said. “But I can lessen it and prevent more.” I opened my bag, pulling out several small jars of salve—a soothing mixture crafted from local plants, with properties to calm itching and reduce inflammation. “First, these. Applied gently to the red marks, twice daily. They will cool the fire in the skin.”  I handed one to her, one to the medicine man. He took it grudgingly, sniffed, then dabbed a bit on his own wrist. His eyebrows rose despite himself.

   “Second,” I continued, “no more of this cloth against bare skin. Remove the blankets. Remove clothes with this dye. Burn them, or keep them away from the body. If you must use them, line them with undyed cloth.” Takota’s eyes widened. “Burn?” she repeated. “Yes,” I said firmly. “Better a lost blanket than a dead chief.”

  Wicasa spoke sharply, gesturing toward several men. They darted out of the lodge, shouting. In the distance, I glimpsed others pulling red blankets from homes, bundling them.

  “Tatanka must also rest and drink,” I said, turning back to the chief. “He is weak from pain and poor sleep. His body is fighting the constant insult.” I glanced at the medicine man, then at the herbs by the fire. “Your medicine man can still help. Some herbs calm the body, strengthen it. But he must know that the cause is not spirits alone.”  The medicine man stared at me, then at Tatanka, then at the cloth. He spoke quietly, his tone changed—no longer combative, but cautious. Takota translated.

  “He says he has seen red sickness with certain paints,” she said. “Men who painted their faces too much. He said it was the spirits punishing vanity.” Her mouth flickered. “Now he… thinks perhaps it is as you say. Flesh-poison.”

  “I do not claim to know everything,” I said carefully, aware of the cultural fault lines under my feet. “But I know the body. I know rashes and reactions. I know that removing the source and treating the skin often leads to healing.”

  Tatanka’s gaze had followed all this with growing clarity. His breathing eased slightly. He spoke, voice low but steady. Takota listened, tears brightening her eyes.  “He says… he trusts you,” she whispered. “He will burn the cloth himself if he can stand.”

I smiled faintly. “Then let’s help him reach that point.”

   For the next ahn, I attended to Tatanka methodically. I cleaned the lesions with cooled, boiled water, dabbing gently, careful not to break the skin further. I applied the salve in thin layers, explaining everything I did so Takota could teach others. The boy received similar treatment, as did two other men who were brought in—rashes less severe, but similar.  I left additional jars with Takota and the medicine man, instructing them on reapplication. I warned them to watch for signs of deeper infection—fevers, pus, spreading beyond the contact areas. For that, I left a precious small vial of my more potent medicine—derived from mold, refined over months.

  “This,” I said to Takota, pressing the vial into her hand, “is strong. Use only if the chief worsens—if he burns with fever and the lesions weep. Eight drops in water, twice daily, until the fever breaks. No more. Save the rest for the worst case.”

  She nodded, gripping it like an amulet. “You… do not stay?” she asked, voice tight. “I cannot,” I said gently. “My city needs me. My daughter. My Companion.”  She scanned my face, understanding the pull. She looked at the medicine man, then back to me. “You trust him?” she asked.  “I trust that he wants his chief to live,” I said. “And that now he knows more than he did this morning. That is enough.”

   Tatanka raised a hand, fingers curled. I leaned closer. His voice was low, but stronger now.  Takota translated. “He says… he will sleep without the red blankets. If he lives, he will send you gifts with the next tarn trader. If he dies, his people will remember the sky woman who tried to heal him.”

   “That seems unfair,” I said softly. “I’ll take the gifts only if you live.”  He chuckled once, then winced. “Then I will try harder,” he murmured through Takota.  I rested my hand lightly on his shoulder—not on the rash, but on a clear patch near his collarbone. “Your body is strong,” I said. “Now that the poison is gone, it has a chance to fight. Let it.”

   He closed his eyes. For the first time since we entered, his expression eased, iron bands of tension loosening. The salve would not cure in a day, but I had seen similar reactions resolve within a handful of suns, once the irritant was removed.  The lodge pulsed with a subtle shift—a change in weight, in expectation. Hope, cautious and fragile, had entered alongside the smell of herbs and smoke.

  Takota walked us back to the tarn, the guards still alert, though their shoulders had relaxed. The villagers watched us with new eyes—less suspicion, more complicated gratitude.  At the edge of the village, Takota stopped. She looked at me, at my bag, at the city guards, at the looming bulk of the tarn.

  “You are different,” she said suddenly. “Not like city warriors. Not like our medicine man. You… use mind like bow. Aim at sickness.”  I smiled faintly at the metaphor. “That is one way to see it.”

  She reached up, unclasped another bead from her braid—a slightly larger one, carved with a simple symbol. She pressed it into my hand.  “For you,” she said. “So you remember we are… also your people now.”  I closed my fingers around it, feeling its small weight.  “I don’t need a bead to remember,” I said. “But I will keep it anyway.”

  She half-smiled. “When sky trader comes,” she added, “we send him with gifts. For you. For the builder man who let you come. For the little bird.” Her gaze softened at the mention of Elana.  “You owe me nothing,” I said. “We decide what we owe,” she replied. “Not you.”

  Fair enough.

  We mounted the tarn. As it leapt skyward, the village fell away beneath us like a pattern in sand, small but intricate.  The flight back felt shorter, though the distance was the same. The wind hit my face, cool and strong. I watched the plains slide beneath us, then the dark line of Ar’s walls rise ahead.  We landed at the tarn compound as the sun hovered near the horizon, casting long shadows. Alex stood there already, Elana in his arms, a hand curled in his beard, her bead glinting at her throat.

  I dismounted, my legs momentarily unsteady. Alex handing Elana to me, as if he had a choice. I held her close, I held her tight. Alex’s relief showed in the small relaxations of his face, the way his shoulders eased.

  “Well?” he asked quietly, when I shifted Elana and he took my bag. “I think he’ll live,” I said. “If they burn the blankets and listen.”  He huffed. “You crossed cultures, challenged a medicine man, and diagnosed metal poisoning with nothing but your wits and a jar of salve.” His eyes warmed. “Not a bad afternoon.”

  I stepped closer, laying a hand on his chest. “Your guards did well,” I said. “No interference, but their presence helped.” He glanced at them and nodded. “You have our thanks,” he said simply.

  Takota stood a little behind, hand resting on her tarn’s harness. She watched our reunion with a small, thoughtful smile. I walked to her, the bead she’d given me still tucked in my palm.

  “If the chief worsens,” I said, “send word. A trader. A runner. I’ll return if I can.” She nodded. “I believe you,” she said.

  Then, impulsively, she added, “I like your city. Many stones. Confusing. But… maybe one day I come back. Not to beg. Just to see.”  “You’d be welcome,” I said.  She tilted her head. “Even Red Savage?”  “Even Takota,” I replied.

  She laughed then—a brief, bright sound—and vaulted back onto her tarn. With a shouted command, the beast launched, wings beating, carrying her away toward the fading light, back to the plains, to a chief who might now survive the red fire in his skin.

I watched until she was a speck, then nothing. Elana tugged my sleeve. I smiled and gave her raspberries on her pink full cheeks and laughed with her.

  Walking back to our cottage Alex asked softly “Did you cure him?” His free hand squeezing mine lightly. “I gave him a chance,” I said. “The rest is up to him, his people, and perhaps whatever spirits watch the plains.”  He nodded solemnly, as I leaned into him. “I’ll remember him,” I said softly.

  That night, as Ar settled into its own rituals of darkness and light, I placed Takota’s bead on a small shelf near my instruments, beside the model of one of Alex’s bridges. Two worlds, side by side—stone and sky, city and plains, Builder and Red Savage.

  I am a Physician, they say. But more and more, I felt like Physician of the spaces between—where cultures collided, where knowledge met tradition, where trust was a fragile bridge over unknown depths.  It was a hard place to stand.

  But it was mine.