The princess had not been in a mood for talking, and Kabibi had been leaning back in her seat, mesmerized by the soft murmur of the river itself; the dipping of oar blades; the small swirling sounds of the eddies they made; the leisurely, rhythmic rubbing of oars against leathered thole pins.
Now Mary turned to her dark handmaiden. "What would you be, or do, if you could be or do anything you wanted?"
The unexpected question turned Kabibi's attention inward; it was one she'd never asked herself. After a moment she said, "My lady, what I would be is happy and useful. Just now I am happy, and I hope useful, overall if not at the moment."
"No, I mean—what exactly would you be or do?"
Kabibi answered indirectly. "In my family, the men were herdsmen, and the women were mothers and care givers. If a girl was not ready to be a mother, she might make use of what we learned from the Sisters of Learning, as I did. A person must eat, and have shelter and clothing—which means having something to trade, some skill or goods. So I would like to be someone who does something they like that others find good, but what that is can change with time." Her graceful hands gestured. "Just now I am happy in this boat."
She turned the conversation then. "What would you be or do?"
Mary frowned, looking even prettier than usual. "I was born a princess, and princesses are supposed to marry a prince, or the son of a duke or archbishop. Or become a nun. The alternative is to remain a princess all my life, which threatens to be deadly boring.
"On the other hand, as a queen, or duchess, or princess, one has certain resources: perhaps money, and the power to influence one's husband. Or one's sons in their time. And . . ."
She paused. "My mother died of a lung fever that killed scores just in Hasty. They coughed themselves to death. The Sisters of Mercy did what they could, but their hospital is small and their numbers few, and at any rate all they could do with such a plague was comfort and pray, and burn medicinal candles.
"And there are the cripples. Young boys playing can fall from trees, breaking an arm or leg that might not heal properly. A mother can cut off fingers splitting kindling. Workmen lose a foot or hand, and afterward do handcrafts if they can, or beg, while their wives take in laundry and mending, or do cleaning.
"So I would bring a famous healer to Hasty, the best I could hire."
Kabibi laid a hand on Mary's arm. "My lady, what a beautiful desire. Have you talked to your father about it?"
Mary nodded. "Yes, a few years ago. And he said what you just said: that it's a beautiful thought. But he also said true healers are few and expensive, and the sick and disabled many. And that too often even the best healers cannot help them.
"I believe he became cynical of healers when my mother died," she added quietly. "Our palace physician had apprenticed under a highly regarded healer in Sanlooee, yet he could not save my mother, his cousin. He's best at setting bones. Often, when someone's brought to him, he can only tell the family to keep them warm and clean, give them lots of water to drink, and food if they want to eat. And whiskey if the pain is bad, but not enough to make them sick. Koivun is a Lahti, so for some illnesses he prescribes a heat bath. The sweating draws out poisons. There are enough Suomalainit in Hasty that there are public sweathouses, as well as private."
Her hands gestured a graceful shrug. "Fortunately we're usually well, so Koivun spends most of his time helping servants and townsfolk. Father tends to be soft-hearted toward people, but he says Koivun is all we can afford toward public healing."
She sat quietly then, but Kabibi let be, aware that the princess was not done. After some seconds, Mary continued. "It seems to me that real healing is possible." Her tilted blue eyes, almost violet, held Kabibi's dark eyes. "One hears stories, but stories can be wishful thinking. When mother had the lung fever, Koivun could do little more than pray for her, he and father and Elvi and I. Pray and weep. And she died anyway." The princess sighed. "As did many others that winter."
Kabibi patted her arm. "I understand," she said. "My parents died, were killed when I was a little child, and some years later, so was my sister Jamila, whom I adored."
"Killed?"
"Murdered. Everyone dies of something, sooner or later, but they were still young. My mother was thirty-two when she was killed. And Jamila, when she was killed, was only twenty-two, as best I can figure it. She was also beautiful, and smart."
Mary's look of sympathy was genuine. Then Kabibi switched directions on her. "Have you ever considered becoming a healer yourself?"
"No. I've never felt the talent. And . . ."
"Yes?"
"The responsibility would be hard to bear."
Kabibi nodded. "I'm sure the best physicians can tell stories about that. But there's a holy order of nuns—the Sisters of Saint Althea—dedicated to healing. Their training is said to be the best."
Mary gnawed her lip. "It's only the wish I feel, not the talent."
"Ah. Could the wish be the talent trying to come out?"
She paused, to encourage a response. When none was voiced, she went on, following her muse. "There's an Althean hospital in Sanlooee, just two weeks or so distant by boat. I've heard you get much of the training during your novitiate, and until you've taken your final vows, you can leave if you like. And talent or not, you could use what you'd learned."
Mary gazed thoughtfully across the river, its ripples sparkling with sunlight. "I have heard of the Order of Saint Althea," she said at last. "It's interesting that I never thought of this before. But I will now, Kabibi, truly I will."
Eight days later, Eldred reluctantly agreed to Mary's request, an approval quicker than she'd hoped. The archbishop had made the difference, saying perhaps the one thing that could have caused Eldred to "give up" his elder daughter so quickly: "If she feels the calling," Clonarty said, "and sincerely wishes to join the Altheans, it would be sinful to refuse her. The Altheans do much good, and are far too few."
So a week later, Mary was on her way to Sanlooee, with Kabibi and a letter of introduction from the archbishop. Along with a squad of picked armsmen to do the rowing, and make sure they got there safely. For there were four pairs of oars to help speed them southward, and buck the current on the trip home.