Sieben pocketed the medallions, and was about to follow when he realized the coffin was still open. He swore again and grasped the lid, straining to drag it back into place.
‘So close, my friend,’ came a whispered voice, and Sieben swung to see the tiny, glowing figure of Shaoshad sitting cross-legged on the floor. ‘But I did not hide the Eyes within the lon-tsia.’
‘Where, then?’ asked the poet. ‘And why did you hide them at all?’
‘They should never have been made,’ said Shaoshad, his voice edged with sorrow. ‘The magic was in the land, but now it is barren. It was an act of colossal arrogance. As to why I hid them – well, I knew I risked capture. There was no way I would allow the Eyes to be retaken. Even now it saddens me to know they must surface once more.’
‘Where are they?’
‘They are here. You were mostly right – I did use the power to locate Shul-sen’s tomb, and I did indeed imbue her lon-tsia with enough power to regenerate her. Watch – and be suitably impressed!’
The two lon-tsia medallions rose up from Sieben’s palm and floated across to the stone coffin, hovering just in front of the inscribed name-plate. ‘Can you guess?’ asked the spirit of the shaman.
‘Yes!’ said Sieben, moving forward and retrieving the floating medallions. Holding them up before the engraved word Oshikai, he pressed them side on into the two i indentations. Both lon-tsia disappeared. A violet glow radiated from within the coffin. Sieben rose and peered inside. Two jewels now rested in the eye-sockets of the skull of Oshikai Demon-bane. Reaching inside, he drew them out; both were the size of sparrow’s eggs.
‘Tell no-one you have them,’ warned Shaoshad, ‘not even Druss. He is a great man, but he has no guile. If the Nadir find out they will kill you for them; therefore do not use their powers too obviously. When treating the wounded, stitch them and bandage them as before, then concentrate on the healing. You will not need to produce the jewels. If you keep them hidden on your person, the power will still flow through you.’
‘How will I know how to heal?’
Shaoshad smiled. ‘You do not need to know – that is the beauty of magic, poet. Simply place your hands over the wound and think it healed. Once you have done this you will understand more.’
‘I thank you, Shaoshad.’
‘No, poet, it is I who thank you. Use them wisely. Now replace the lid of the coffin.’
Sieben took hold of the stone and, as he did so, glanced down. Just for a moment he saw the lon-tsia of Oshikai gleaming among the bones, then it faded. Dragging the lid back into place, he turned to Shaoshad. ‘He wears it once more,’ said the poet.
‘Aye, as it should be, hidden again by a Hide-spell. No-one will plunder it. The other has returned to the resting-place of Shul-sen.’
‘Can we win here?’ asked Sieben, as the shaman’s image began to fade.
‘Winning and losing is entirely dependent on what you are fighting for,’ answered Shaoshad. ‘All men here could die, yet you could still win. Or all men could live, and you could lose. Fare you well, poet.’
The spirit vanished. Sieben shivered, then thrust his hands in his pocket, curling his fingers around the stones.
Returning to the hospital, he walked silently among the ranks of wounded men. In the far corner a man groaned and Sieben moved to his side, kneeling beside the blanket on which he lay. A lantern flickered brightly on the wall, and by its light Sieben looked at the man’s gaunt face. He had been stabbed in the belly, and though Sieben had stitched the outer flap of the wound the bleeding was deep and internal. The man’s eyes were fever-bright. Sieben gently laid a hand on the bandages and closed his eyes, seeking to concentrate. For a moment nothing happened; then bright colours filled his mind, and he saw the torn muscles, the split entrails, the pooling blood within the wound. In that instant he knew every muscle and fibre, the attachments, the blood routes, the sources of pain and discomfort. It was as if he was floating inside the wound. Blood flowed from a gaping gash in a twisting purple cylinder . . . but as Sieben gazed at it, the gash closed and healed. Moving on he sealed other cuts, his mind flowing back from the depths of the wound, healing as he went. At last he reached the outer stitches and here he stopped. It would be wise to let the man feel the pull of the stitches when he woke, he thought. If any wound was utterly healed, the secret of the stones would be out.