A young man in skewed grey robes nearly stumbled from the bedroom. His hair was mussed, and he wearily rubbed sleep from his eyes. He dragged his slipper-covered feet over to the small woodburning stove and brought it to light. He filled an iron kettle with water from a barrel that looked to refill itself from a small pipe that ran through the ceiling to the roof. The young man turned with a massive yawn, and when his tired eyes reopened, his gaze landed on Rezkin. He blinked several times as if to clear away the inharmonious image of a strange, dark warrior sitting in his abode. The young man scratched his head and furrowed his brow before finally asking, “Who are you?”

Rezkin lifted one brow. He had to give the man credit for not panicking, but his total lack of concern was disconcerting. Anyone finding Rezkin in his home should surely be terrified. The warrior knew he was not himself, though. He should have checked the other room to make sure of its occupant. This young man was not the one he was here to see. He also realized that since the unexpected resident had appeared, he had been focused on not causing a panic. Rezkin had been willing the young man to feel comfortable and perhaps curious but not frightened. It seemed his will had been appeased.

“I am looking for Master Healer Dronidus,” Rezkin replied, his voice slightly hoarse.

The young man shrugged and then shuffled over to a counter that held a small canister. He scooped tea from the canister as he spoke. “Dronidus is dead. He died two weeks ago. Got run over by a spooked carthorse. Nasty business, but nothing could be done.”

“And you are?”

“The name’s Yerwey Dulse. I am … was … Dronidus’s apprentice-journeyman, but when he died, the guild went ahead and raised me to full healer,” Yerwey explained.

“Apprentice-journeyman?” Rezkin asked. He did not know if it was his fever, but the term made no sense. Either one was an apprentice or a journeyman, not both.

Yerwey grumbled in irritation as he waited for his water to heat. “Master Dronidus,” he said with scorn, “insisted I would learn more by staying under his tutelage than by finding a position as journeyman. I suppose I did, but only because he never lifted a damned finger to do anything himself. I got stuck with all the work and almost none of the pay.”

It was a common enough complaint among apprentices, but this young man looked defeated. It seemed that any love he might have had for his life’s calling had been beaten from him with endless hours of toil for little gain.

“I have need of healing,” Rezkin stated without preamble.