Healer of Sakkara

Chapter 8 - Visions

Swirls of color and flashes of light burst in Zenír's vision as he awoke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in bed. Sweat dampened his unruly brown curls and soaked his nightshirt, and as his racing heart slowed and he caught his breath, he rubbed his face and ran his fingers through his hair. 

Another dream.

In dreams, Zenír could see, and he often experienced such phantom images upon waking. For a time after losing his sight, he had hoped this meant his eyes would yet heal, but eventually he understood it was merely a trick of his mind.

Bedsheets rustled as he pushed them aside and set his feet to the cold floor. Leaning forward and resting his elbows atop his thighs, he laced his fingers around the back of his neck and sighed.

It was the third time in as many days he'd awoken in such a state, the tattered edges of a dream fading too fast for him to recall it except in the vaguest terms: fire and destruction; fear, darkness, and death. The dreams had the flavor of visions, the strange metallic tingle at the back of his tongue that accompanied his second sight, but he hoped they were not; for while he remembered no details, one thing was certain: they were decidedly unpleasant.

Shaking his head as if to shed himself of the dream's lingering influence, he rose and made use of the washstand to refresh himself. Once clean, he dressed from a tall chest of drawers, ran a wide-toothed comb through his curls, slipped his feet into the soft boots he always left beside the door, and grabbed his walking staff from its corner.

Stepping from his private chambers, he made his way towards the communal dining hall as the morning bell rang three times, calling everyone to breakfast.

He'd been given his own room in the great house after Korim more or less claimed him as his assistant. Iksthanis still lived in the guest quarters, which were nearer the Haven's center, and the dining hall was about halfway between.

Gravel crunched beneath Zenír's feet as he walked along the path between the buildings, morning sunlight warmed his face, and crisp autumn air filled his lungs; and yet the smile that touched his lips was tinged with bitterness. He had never felt so free as he did here — even before the loss of his sight — and yet his independence rested on the work of others. Everyone at the Haven did their share, while Zenír merely profited. It had not bothered him so much when he had considered himself a guest, but now that he hoped to make this place his home, a new sense of guilt poisoned every pleasure.

In the dining hall, which bustled the with the buzz and chatter of many people talking and eating at once, he followed the broad aisle between rows of tables and benches to the front of the room, and joined the line of those waiting to be served their morning meal.

When he reached the serving table, the resident on duty greeted him cheerfully.

"'Morning, Zen. Sleep well?"

Zenír recognized the voice of Haster, a motherly ex-Hand who oversaw the vegetable gardens.

"Well enough," he said mildly. "What's on offer this morning?"

"Hearty stone-ground oats with your choice of toppings: roasted seeds and nuts, sweet berries, cream, honey, yogurt, apples, and cinnamon spice."

Zenír's mouth watered at the scent of the roasted sunflower seeds and walnuts, and the faint sweetness of sun-ripened berries. "Plain will do me fine," he said.

"As you like," Haster replied, with the verbal equivalent of a shrug.

When Zenír took his bowl and found a place at the end of a long table, however, he discovered his porridge garnished with plump blackberries, toasted seeds, and rich cream.