The Crow by Alison Croggon

Bards and was herself a gifted healer. Even if he made a mistake, which was seldom, they never spoke a sharp word to him, no matter how little they had slept, or how overworked they were. And so Hem learned, in those few days, how to listen to the ill, how to anticipate their needs, how to run fast in soft shoes so he made no loud noises that might disturb those who slept. Before the scale of the suffering before him, his previous complaints seemed petty and insignificant. He was too busy, in any case, to worry much about himself; his day was filled from dawn to dusk with countless tasks and errands, and Oslar himself began to teach him some charms of healing for the less serious cases. He was so tired by nightfall that, for the first time since he had been in Turbansk, he was not troubled by nightmares.
    When Saliman told him one evening that the Bards were praising his work, and that Oslar had said that few minor Bards in his experience had shown such innate talent as Hem in the arts of caring for the sick, Hem accepted the praise, which was hard earned, with a new humility.
    "Don't be offended if I say that I am surprised; I thought you would be too impatient for this work," said Saliman, with a smile, which for Hem was ample reward for every hour he had spent in the Healing House. "Perhaps you will be a healer when you are grown. Every Bard has to find out how their Gift best expresses itself; for some, it is a hard road. But I think you might be lucky. Healing is one of the highest callings; and there is always need for healers, even in times of peace."
    Hem pondered Saliman's words in silence. He could imagine himself as a healer. Perhaps one day he could be as good as Oslar.
    "You'd have to work on your scripting, though," said Saliman, interrupting his reverie. "Imagine, say, if the herbalist made a love potion instead of a laxative because he couldn't read your instructions. The trouble you could cause!"
    Hem grinned; Saliman was constantly nagging him to work on his writing, which was nearly illegible. Perhaps now he could see the point.
    They were eating a quick meal before Saliman went out again to continue the endless work of preparing Turbansk for an assault. The food was plain, but tasty: freshwater fish from the Lamarsan Sea baked with dates, and a mash of pulses. Outside Saliman's rooms, birds burbled in the trees as they settled to their evening roosts, and a cool breeze brushed Hem's cheek. It was very peaceful. Hem suddenly wished, with a furious longing, that he could have come to Turbansk in ordinary times.
    Saliman had just told him of the first attacks on Turbansk, by raider ships sailing from the mouth of the Niken River across the Lamarsan Sea, and Hem had seen soldiers in the eating halls, on their way to harry the Black Fleets, or returning exhausted and grim-faced. No raider ships had yet reached Turbansk, and, Saliman told him, none would: the harbor defenses were stout. But the raiders drew off Turbansk's strength, wearying their forces even before the main assault; and after the fall of Baladh, Saliman feared that a fleet of stolen ships would set out from Baladh Harbor to launch a major attack.
    Because of the war, Saliman had not even had time to take Hem, as he had promised, to see the Lamar Falls in the Lamarsan Caves, the sacred heart of the Light in Turbansk, which he had said were one of the wonders of the world. If times had been different, perhaps they could have ridden there with Maerad... but Hem quickly shut off his thoughts about his sister: they were too painful.
    "Will there ever be peace again?" he asked, a little sadly.
    "Of course there will be." Saliman leaned back and closed his eyes, and Hem could see how weary he actually was. The skin under his eyes was purple, as if it were bruised, and his face was drawn. Hem wondered how long it was since Saliman had slept; he was willing to warrant it was more than two days. "If not in my lifetime or yours, then in someone