In the quiet clinic room adjoining the main community hall, Paxa Sel pulled the linen curtain across the window, shutting out the morning gray.
The room smelled of dried coltsfoot, boiled willow bark, and the sharp tang of spirits of bitter pine-resin. Kezra sat on a low wooden check stool with her coat and woolen tunic removed. Her bare shoulders were pale in the candlelight. Paxa stood behind her. She pressed a cold, hollow horn stethoscope against the ribs beneath Kezra’s left shoulder blade. She listened to the deep, rhythmic rush of her lungs.
“Breathe deep,” Paxa instructed.
Kezra drew the air in, held it for three beats, and released it in a slow hiss.
“Again.”
Kezra repeated the breath.
Paxa lowered the horn, set it on her instrument tray, and stepped around to face her patient. The healer took Kezra’s right wrist between her fingers. It tracked the outward pulse against the steady drip of a sixty-second water-glass.
“Seventy beats to the minute,” Paxa announced, wiping her fingers on a clean linen towel. “Pulse is full, regular, and compressible. Your chest sounds are clear. No rales from the sulfur drifts, and no fluid buildup. The seven-day descent from Empty Choir restored your outer breath flow. Physically, your machine is capable of beginning the five-day Stonewake re-survey tomorrow morning.”
