Maverick dommer's Arc

Chapter 8 of 8

Maverick carried Mylonin through the mushroom-roofed cob homes at a run. His mate hung limp across two arms, green fluid streaking its thigh. He shouted for help. A door opened. An old Mycelonite waved him inside, hands already moving to a shelf of clay jars. This was the village healer, the one Mylonin had once traded herbs with. Maverick knew the face but not the trade. He laid Mylonin on a woven mat and stepped back to give the old one room. The healer pressed a palm to Mylonin's belly and closed its eyes. "The child holds," it said. "But the new flesh rejects it. I need the root that calms a fighting body." It pulled a jar down, sniffed, and set it aside. Another. Another. Its hands began to shake. "Empty. I traded my last three moons ago." It looked at Maverick. "Without it, both die before the sun peaks." Maverick's chest went tight. "Name the root. I will find it." "You cannot. It grows a valley away." The healer touched Mylonin's cold cheek. "There is no time." Then Maverick remembered his garden. Back at the glowing grove, he had planted rows of strange plants gathered from across the whole planet. Bulbs. Vines. Flowers no Mycelonite had named. "I have plants," he said. "Many. Gathered far. Come with me. Look at them all." The healer hesitated, then snatched up a worn pouch stitched with pale mushroom marks. They ran together to the grove. Maverick led it to the herb rows. The healer moved down the line, crushing leaves, tasting sap, spitting. It stopped at a teal bulb trailing pale roots. "This one." It broke the bulb open. "Not the same root. But the same song. It will do." Inside the cottage, the healer ground the bulb against a stone and mixed the paste with well water drawn from the mushroom-capped well. It fed the green slurry to Mylonin drop by drop, tilting its head with one hand. Maverick knelt beside the mat. All four hands hovered, useless, ready. He watched his mate's throat move as it swallowed. Minutes passed. Mylonin's shaking slowed. The fluid stopped running. Color crept back into its cheeks. Its eyes opened. "The seed," it whispered. "It still holds. The fight is done." The healer sat back, drained. "The body accepts the child now. For today." It fixed Maverick with a hard look. "But this bulb will not last the whole term. Its body will fight again, harder, as the child grows. You need the true root. And only the elders know where it grows." Maverick took Mylonin's hand and pressed it to his chest. His child lived. His mate breathed. But the elders held the one thing that could carry them to birth. He had begged their permission once. Now he would have to beg again.