"Rose --The Beginning" by Garon E. Whited

                I am dreaming.  Or am I dreaming of a dream?  I do not know.

                I can see the land spread out below me like a map.  There are silver ribbons of rivers and streams, twisting.  There are straight lines and angles of dark roads.  There are pale golden fields, green meadows, forests of deeper green.  I see it all with vision sharper than a hawk’s (how do I know that?  Or is the eye of the mind so perfect?) and know that it is good.

*  *  *

                Rose walked along the battlements of the abbey in silence.  She was always silent; it was one of the vows she had taken.  The grey habit of a novice fluttered in the breeze, almost silver in the light of the rising moon.  Her hands, fine and long-fingered, rested on the now-cooling stones; the broken blisters soothed slightly by the smoothness.

                The Mistress of Novices, Sister Abigail, stood near her and watched.

                “Looking for something?” she demanded, startling Rose.  Rose turned to stare at her, eyes large and luminous.

                “You stare outside the walls as though ye wished to be beyond them,” the Sister continued, harshly.  “What is it that you stare at?”

                Rose was silent.  Sister Abigail sniffed, her feeble ploy having failed.

                “Well, fear not; your lusts will not be slaked within these walls!  We will work the demon sins from your flesh, purify your spirit with prayer.  Get thee hence to the novice’s cells, girl.”

                Rose turned and walked away, hands clasped, head bowed.  Sister Abigail sniffed again and turned her own lean, almost skeletal frame back toward her own side of the abbey.

                As Rose walked along the battlement, she was greeted by each of the sentries in turn; each was a woman, armed with bow and sword, garbed in leather and steel.  All knew of her vow and merely waved or nodded; a few hailed her softly with a “Good even, Rose.”  But none ignored her, as they might have ignored another.  And Rose, for her part, acknowledged them as best she could with a smile or a nod in return.

                When Rose reached the stairs, Atria was on watch near their head; Atria was staring out beyond the wall, peering into the shadows of the woods beyond the fields.  The last purple of twilight was fading, leaving only the light of the gibbous moon; but the distance was great, and her eyes perhaps beginning to fail in her later years.  Rose paused beside her and tugged on her brigandine shirt, looking inquisitive.

                “Ah, Rose,” Atria replied.  “I think I see someone moving, but my eye isn’t as sharp as once it was.  Could be bandits in the wood, sizing us up.  Can you see, girl, anything . . .” she pointed, “about there, maybe six or seven furlongs off to the side of the road?”

                Rose looked, her eyes wide and open, pupils enormous in the night.  She nodded, one hand clutching at Atria’s arm.

                The abbey bell sounded, deeply, sonorous, and reverberated for minutes in the still air.

                “And what do you see?” Atria asked.  “I know the bell allows those under a vow to speak until it rings again, so be swift!  There is no telling how long it will be tonight.”

                “I see a man,” Rose replied, softly; her voice was unused to labor for she seldom spoke even when permitted.  “He is crawling out of the wood; I think he is hurt.  That is the movement you see.  But I see other movement, further into the wood, and I believe that it may be wolves or some other creature ready to do him harm.”

                Atria sucked at her teeth.  “I’m right sorry to hear that,” she said, and sounded so.  “I can’t do anything for him.”

                Rose blinked and turned her gaze on Atria.  “Can you not ride out and rescue him from his attackers?”

                “Not I.  Talena, maybe; she’s the captain.  But I doubt Talena or the Mother would allow us out of the abbey for what could be a lure.”

                “Then I will speak to Talena.”

                Atria chuckled.  “Good luck.”

                Rose wasted no time, but ran down the steps to the courtyard and across it.  She flung open the door to the guards’ barracks and entered.  Several of the women looked up in surprise; the novices never came here, and only seldom did even a Sister.  But Rose swept them with her gaze, then moved to the door to the commander’s chamber.

                Here, she knocked.

                “Come!” came the shout.  Rose entered.

                Talena glanced up from her writing-table.  Her eyes widened.  “Well, what have we here?  A novice!  And what brings you—“

                “There is someone hurt, I think,” she said, interrupting—or answering quickly—“out beyond the wall, at the edge of the eastern fields.  I think there are animals about to attack.”

                Talena lowered her quill and leaned back in her chair.  Carefully; the scars of old campaigns still bothered her.  With a sigh, she shook her head, tan-colored hair barely rippling around her ears.

                “It’s after dark.  If this person is still alive in the morn—hey, where are you . . . ?”

                But Rose, having heard enough, turned and departed for other parts.  She fled across the courtyard, crossing it at a run, until she reached the main steps of the sanctuary.  These she climbed swiftly, then stopped at the doors.  A brief genuflection, then she entered, calmly, quietly, sedately.  She walked, or drifted, over the smooth stones, down the central aisle.

                The Ceremony of Moonrise had been completed for some time; there were few Sisters remaining.  But the Mother of the Abbey always remained for a time; Rose was hoped that she would still be present . . .

                She was.  Rose glided quickly up to her and paused, waiting.

                The Mother continued to kneel before the enshrined image of the Goddess of the Moon for long minutes.  Rose did her best to simply stand, respectful and attentive and patient.

                When the Mother finally stood, it was a slow process; her gnarled hands clasped tightly to the railing before the statue as she pulled herself carefully to her feet.  She took her stick in one trembling hand and slowly turned to walk to one side, to her chambers just off the sanctuary area.  Rose cleared her throat.

                “Mother?”

                She turned, slowly.  “Mmm?  Oh, yes.  Rose, isn’t it?  What do you require, novice?”

                “Mother, I believe that there is a man outside our walls, wounded, and that he may be in danger from the forest creatures—“ she broke off as the bell tolled again, the deep chime ringing and reverberating through the entire abbey.

                The Mother sighed.  “Then his fate is sealed until dawn, child.”  She turned to go, and Rose caught her sleeve, gently.

                Surprised, the Mother turned back.  “You seem most insistent, child.  Speak!  Tell me why this should be the cause of such unseemly behavior.”

                Rose hesitated.

                “Pay no mind to your vow; it’s purpose is to test your discipline, not my patience.”

                Rose swallowed.  “As you say, Mother.  It is also my vow to aid all those who are hurt or ill, as my father before me.”

                The Mother’s silver eyebrows rose, making deep the ridges in her forehead.  “Oh?  You follow in the footsteps of your father?”

                “I must, Mother.  My own mother did not survive my birth.”

                “Yet you were begat upon her by this man whose path you have chosen,” she replied, a trace of bitterness in her voice.  “He killed her, did he not?”

                “And gave me life, Mother.  Is that not the way of life?”

                The Mother chewed her tongue for a moment, thinking.  “Mmm.  But you seek to save the life of a man you know nothing of, not so?”

                “That is so, Mother.”

                “All for the vow to your father?”

                “Entirely, Mother.”

                “I see.  And if I refuse you?”

                Rose thought for a long second.

                “Then there is no mercy, nor kindness, nor love within these walls, and my place is not here.”

                The Mother chuckled.  “Even if there is, perhaps it were better you went elsewhere.  But we shall see.  Fetch Talena to my chambers as quick as you can; your vow is lifted until you bring her.  Go.”

                Rose went.

                The medical contingent consisted of Talena, four guardswomen, their garrison medic, Rose, and Sister Invid.  Sister Invid was one of the few sisters young enough to ride a horse at a gallop and who knew how to do so.  Rose merely hung on grimly and tried to ignore the pounding of the saddle against her backside.

                Rose would not have been allowed to go at all if the garrison medic—Patricia or “Patchy” to her friends—had not insisted.

                “If he’s been chewed on, I may need another set of hands.  And Rose is the best here.”

                In the absence of a higher authority at that moment, Talena had given in.

                Now they thundered across the fresh-turned earth of a field and closed on the unmoving figure.  Around it, there were huddled, dark shapes; the guards spread out, raising the short bows they used from horseback.  With some caution, sword in hand, Talena took her horse up toward the man at a walk.  Nothing moved.

                “It’s all right; they’re dead.  Come look him over.”

                Rose and Patchy closed in quickly, dismounting and moving toward the fallen man.  Talena also dismounted and examined the corpses of wolves.  The man had a sword in hand; these wolves had died by thrusts and cuts.  Very effective.  From the clean edges of the cuts and their depth, it was probably a magical blade . . .

                “Oh, my!” Patchy exclaimed.

                Talena turned to see that the man was lying on his back, as before, unmoving.  But Patchy was standing still, looking at a sword-point.  His arm was up and extended, holding the blade out, line-straight, to impale her if she stepped closer.  A quiet, low keening seemed to be coming from the blade.

                “Back off slowly, Patch.”  Patchy did so, and the blade lowered, as though tired.

                Rose stepped forward.  Patchy and Talena both hissed, “No!”

                The blade came up and pointed at her.  She stepped close enough that it was pricking her through her habit; a low-line touch, just below her navel.  She raised her hands to the blade, carefully, clasping them around it, pressing the palms against the flat.

                The blade remained steady as a stone.  Then it wavered.  After a moment, it sagged down and to the side, but the humming, keening sound remained.

                Rose knelt by the man and began to examine him.  His garments were covered in gore, most if it apparently his own.  He was breathing, however, and that was enough for Rose.

                Patchy took a tentative step forward.  The blade twitched in the man’s hand, and Rose laid her own on his hand.  The blade quieted, but reluctantly, still humming.  Patchy knelt next to the man, opposite Rose, and called for lamps.  These were lit and the two looked him over.

                He was a mess.

                Several of his wounds were bites; one on the upper arm, one on a leg, two on the other, and one right under the ribs on his left side.  But the majority of his wounds were cuts, nicks, and thrusts; there were two arrowheads still in his back, broken off.  These they removed.  Ointments and bandages were applied, and in several cases, the guardswomen held reflecting lamps while Rose stitched wounds with boiled strands of hair.

                Patchy watched her work and kept out of her way.

                “Cap’n?” she asked, quietly.

                “Yes, Patchy?

                “Can we keep her?”

                Talena shrugged.  “As long as she stays a novice, I guess.  You really think she’s Delmerion the Healer’s daughter?”

                “I couldn’t say for sure; I never met him.  But I heard about him.  A lot.  He was supposed to be able to raise the dead, sometimes, if he got to them quick enough.”

                “I don’t believe it.  About the raising the dead.  But maybe she is his daughter.”

                “I believe her,” Patchy opined.  “I’ve been sewing wounds ever since I took that cut to my shoulder, eight years ago; I’m not much good in fighting anymore.  But I’ve never seen anybody heal like her.”

                Talena nodded.  “You think if they throw her out, we can hire her?”

                “I doubt we could afford her, but we can try.”

                “Right.  So what do you think of our friend, here?”

                Patchy led Talena a few more steps away, speaking even more quietly.

                “He’s not at his best, Cap’n.  But I can tell you this:  the Sisters are going to kill him.”

                Talena raised one eyebrow.

                “Well,” Patchy went on, “he’s going to need to be inside and cared for.  For a while.  I doubt he’ll be able to help himself to a chamber pot unless someone puts it under him.  And they won’t like that, having a man inside the abbey.”

                Talena nodded.  “I was thinking about that.  I say we bring him inside and try it; the Mother will probably be asleep by then, if she isn’t already.  That way he gets a night of rest, at least, and maybe wakes up enough to get something in his belly.”

                “There’s another thing, Cap’n,” she said, and hesitated.  “Maybe I’ve been out here too long.  Maybe it’s been too long since the last merchant caravan went by.  But I think . . .”

                “Yes?”

                “Cap’n, he’s yummy.”

                Talena’s eyebrows went up.  “Oh?”

                “You, Jahra, and Kath have been on guard; you haven’t had a good look at him.  But trust me; the rest of us know.  He’s . . . um.  Very.”  Patchy shifted her stance uncomfortably and licked her lips.  “Very,” she repeated.

                Talena nodded, slowly.  “All right.  I’m warned.  I doubt he’ll be seducing or raping anyone soon.”

                “Um, no, not soon,” Patchy agreed.  “But he could be.”

                “Oho!  Feeling it, are you?”

                Patchy blushed.  “I wouldn’t.”

                “I know.  All right.  Who can we put on him?”

                Patchy blushed deeper.  “Cap’n . . .”

                Talena grinned.  “I know, I know.  Who can we have guard him.  You have to; you’re going to be his doctor.  Rose, if we can get her.  She’s seen him already.”

                “Margie, Ellon, Tira, and Selae.  They won’t care that he’s a man; they aren’t interested.”

                “Good thought.  I’ll see to it.  Check with Rose and look him over.  If we can move him, let’s be about it; it’s getting chilly out here.”

                The idea of putting their black-haired devil into a cell in the abbey brought some considerable ire from Sister Invid.

                “He’s a man!”

                Talena looked into the canvas stretcher slung between two horses.  “Yep.”

                “He can’t go in the abbey!”

                “He’s not.  He’s being taken into the abbey.  It’s some sort of act of mercy thing the Mother wanted.”

                “He has a sword!”

                “Couldn’t pry it out of his fingers.  I’m not so sure he’s holding it; it may be holding on to him.  Could be he’ll expire on his own and we’ll have it.  Leery as I am of having a magical blade loose in the abbey, I’m still bringing it in.

                “But he’s a man!”

                Talena checked the stretcher again.  “Yep.  You know ‘em when you see ‘em.  Got a flat chest, has broad shoulders, looks like a day or two of beard.  I’d check under the trousers, but I’m pretty sure you know your stuff, Sister.”

                Sister Invid blushed a peculiar shade of scarlet.

                “That’s beside the point!”

                “I’m glad we’ve got that settled.  Now, which cell should we put him in?  I know, there should be an open one in the House of Novices.  Maybe the top floor, down at one end; the whole floor is empty, as I recall.  That’ll keep him out of everone’s way, and we can lock him in if he gets troublesome.”

                The good Sister settled into a seething mode and kicked her horse into a trot.

                Entry was no problem; the guard captain simply ordered the gate open and told the guards to buzz off.  They did.  Once the gate was shut and barred again, the four guardswomen with the patient helped carry him up the stairs of the House of Novices and down to the last cell on the top floor.  Rose and Patchy had run ahead to clean it somewhat, or at least dust it off, and to drag some necessary things into it—a brazier, blankets, a washbasin, a table, and the like.

                Once the man was laid out on the table, suitably padded with blankets, Talena enjoined the guardswomen to as much silence as they could manage, knowing that the best she could hope for was a reprieve from the rumor mill until morning—and probably not that.  Patchy and Rose were to remain with him in the room, along with Ellon and Tira.  Talena saw to it that everything was in order and was just leaving when Sister Abigail burst in.  The sword began humming immediately.

                “I had to see it with my own eyes!” she screeched.  “Rose!  You will be flogged for your vile and heinous crimes before you are expelled from the abbey!  I will see to it that you—“

                “Sister!” Talena snapped, stepping between her and Rose.  “Shut up.”

                Abigail went white, then purple.  “See the power of a man over your minds!” she hissed.  “Already, his mere presence has clouded—“

                “If you want to rant, do it in the courtyard,” Talena snapped.  “The Mother sent us out there to render aid.  We rendered aid.  And the aid he required was to be tended.  That’s being done by the best we have.  Now you can go wake her up and screech at her if you like; I won’t stop you.  It’s your right.  But the Mother handed the responsibility for this man off to me, not you, and I grabbed Rose because I needed her.” 

Talena stuck a long, strong finger into Sister Abigail’s chest.  “Now you’re interfering with my responsibility.  I don’t tell you how to train novices; I’ve only ever borrowed the one.  When I’m done or the Mother says so, you can have her back.  But while I’m in charge of this, you’ll shut your prissy yap and like you were under a vow of silence or we’ll both go wake up the Mother—and one of us will be out of a job.  Are you absolutely certain that it’ll be me?”

Sister Abigail kept changing colors, like a sky during sunrise.  At last, she sputtered slightly, turned on her heel, and whisked out the door.

“Think she’ll wake Mom up?” Patchy asked.  Rose glanced up at her, shocked.

Talena noted the look.  “Nice work, Patches.”

“Sorry, Cap’n.  Rose, most of the guards don’t call her that, except when we’re by ourselves.  I’m sorry.  We don’t mean to be disrespectful, really, but we aren’t priestesses.”

Rose nodded, slowly.

“Okay, thanks.  Cap’n?  Will she wake up the Mother?”

“Mad as she is?  Maybe.  But it’s a long walk for old bones, and it’s getting cold.  I don’t think she’ll keep her mad going strong enough to have the guts when she gets to the door.”

“Good.  Are we going to get thrown out for this?”

“Maybe.  I don’t know where we’ll find work, if we do; I’m no healer, and I doubt I’ll find any mercenary company willing to take on an old sword.”

“So why’d you spark off at her?”

Talena shrugged.  “She’s a harpy.  I’ve watched her at the novices for years.  She hates them.  Or hates their youth.  Or their beauty.  Or something.  Maybe she hates herself and takes it out on them for having chances to do things she’s too old to try.  I don’t know.  But she’s a bitch.

“Besides,” she went on, “Rose doesn’t deserve to be shrieked at for saving a man’s life.  For saving anybody’s life.  Or trying.  Maybe I’m just sick of seeing the dying and I’d like to be on the side of the healer for a change.”

“Don’t blame you.  Even if we get chucked because of it.”

Rose took Talena’s hand and squeezed it, eyes full of a thank-you.

“It’s okay, Rose; I did it for me.  Just keep him from dying so this isn’t pointless.”

                Rose nodded and returned to her patient; she sat in the hard wooden chair next to the table and kept her fingers on his wrist, apparently oblivious to the sword.  It no longer even bothered to hum when she came near.

                “I’ll see you all first thing in the morning,” Talena added.  “Good night.”

                Morning dawned like molten gold and the abbey was abuzz with rumor.  More than one novice went to the top floor, only to be turned back at the stairs by guards.  Several Sisters also came to look in on the patient, ostensibly to see for themselves; the guards did not stop them.  The Sisters all went away after looking, some thoughtful, some angered, some simply relieved the truth was less than rumor.

                The Mother of the abbey hobbled up the stairs with the help of her stick and a novice.  When she reached the door to the cell,.the Mother shooed her attendant novice away then opened the door.

                The room was silent; Rose was sleeping on a cot while Patricia kept an eye on their patient.   Patricia stood up immediately, but the Mother waved her back to her chair.

                “How is he?” she asked, quietly.

                “Slightly better.  His heart is stronger.  If the wounds to not fester, he may live.”

                The Mother nodded at Rose.  “She is still abed?”

                “She was up until dawn, Mother,” Patricia replied.  “We tend to him in shifts.”

                The Mother hobbled to the other chair and slowly lowered herself into it.  She regarded the sleeping form for some time.

                “It is dangerous.”

                Patricia hesitated.  “For us?  Or for the abbey?  Or in general?”

                “Yes.”  The Mother brooded over the sight.  “He cannot stay here.”

                “As you say, Mother,” Patricia replied, hiding the bitterness in her voice.

                “Will he die if we cast him out?”

                “Yes, Mother.”

                She brooded further, eyes deep-sunk in wrinkles, dark and sharp and troubled.

                “To cast him out is to kill him.  To keep him here is to risk us all.”

                “Logic suggests that one is expendable to ensure the safety of many,” Patricia offered.

                “Yet logic is not all there is to judgement.”

                The Mother regarded Rose for long minutes, silently.

                “She is a healer?”

                Patricia nodded.

                “A good one?”

                “Mother, I do not know where she learned that art, or how one so young could master it, but she can physic far better than I.  If he lives, it will be because of her.”

                “Can you care for him by yourself, now?”

                Patricia hesitated.  “I . . . I think so.  Unless his wounds fester; he is too weak to be bled.”

                The Mother nodded.  “And then you would require Rose.”

                “Probably for even longer; I think she knows a way to keep them from festering.  It would be swiftest to let her continue to tend him with me.”

                “I see.”

                There was a long, pregnant silence while the Mother thought.  Patricia laved the man’s forehead, keeping it cool; the beginnings of a fever were starting.

                The Mother levered herself up from her chair, carefully, leaning on her stick. 

                “Tend to him. While he is like a babe, I may regard him as such.  But the very day he can stand alone and take food with his own hands, he goes.  Do you understand me?”

                “Yes, Mother.”

                Still troubled, the Mother hobbled out of the cell and down the corridor.  Patricia shut the door behind her.

                The day he can stand, is it?  The day he can stand, he will be forced to walk and run—and fall, I doubt not, Patricia thought, returning to her seat.  How will he live?

                She stroked the too-warm brow and dampened it with a cloth again.  She ran her fingers through the black locks, combing them out, enjoying the feel of their silk on her fingertips.

                Why did you have to be so handsome?  If you were ugly as a boar, there would be much less fuss.

                She sighed, then dampened his brow with kisses.  “Please,” she whispered, “don’t die.”

                It was late in the afternoon when he woke.

                His first thought:  Where am I?

                He held still and felt.  Cloth.  Lots of it.  No clothes.  Blankets?  A good sign.  And his sword, still in hand.  Even better.  Not a slave, nor a prisoner.  A light touch on the wrist . . .

                He opened his eyes, slightly, barely slits, and saw a beautiful woman.  Her face was oval, framed by the silver-grey of a wimple, rogue curls of dark hair escaping from it.  The habit was voluminous, but could not hide the slenderness of her form, the swell of high breasts.  Her hands were long-fingered and fine; one lightly clasped his wrist as she sat beside him.

                The room seemed to be of stone, quite small.  There was another chair in his line of vision, both hard, uncomfortable, uncushioned affairs.  From his point of view, he gathered that he was on a table or ledge or other such surface.

                As long as it isn’t an altar or a bier, he reflected.

                “Hello,” he ventured.

                Rose started, dark eyes widening in surprise.  One hand flew to her mouth, fingers pressing against her lips.

                “I’m sorry.  I did not mean to startle you.”

                Rose shook her head and stood, pressed the back of one hand to his forehead, then cheeks.  He tried to sit up and Rose was very firm about holding him down.

                “I am in a hurry,” he said, his breath labored.  “I must go.”

                Rose pushed him down and held him there, shaking her head.  Ever practical, she poked him in a bandage or two and he grunted.

                “I think I see your point,” he replied.  He was a sizable man, easily twice Rose’s weight, but she held him down as though it were reversed.  “All right, I’ll stay.”

                His stomach growled.

                “—if you will feed me,” he amended.