After Marsh made hasty introductions in the mandrake speech, the Healer bowed low at Arlan and said in flawless Common Tongue, "Be welcome, Arlan of Druidia. I am Calidar. If the boy's injury be within my skill, he will be Healed."

"Peace be to your house, Healer Calidar," said Arlan, his voice slightly slurred from fatigue. "Forgive our intrusion at this hour, but I know not where else to take him."

The Healer patted his arm and smiled kindly, "You have come to the right place." To his fellow mandrake, he added, "Bring the lad in, young Marsh, that I may look upon him."

The hut's interior was larger than it appeared to be from the outside, and Marsh laid the boy carefully on a pallet next to the small hearth. Arlan had to stoop to fit his tall frame within the hut's low ceiling, and sat across from Calidar.

The Healer regarded the boy quietly, fire reflected in his eyes, and after a few moments, spoke, "The injury done to him is grave. The wound has reopened, and he would be long gone if not for your constant vigilance." He nodded at Arlan with approval. "That and the effects of the Myrdraath's venom I can Heal, but the Healing of his mind is another matter. Meld your Sight with mine, and I will show you."

Calidar extended his gnarled hand to Arlan, who clasped it with his own, and as soon as contact was made, Calidar skillfully directed Arlan's Sight to the boy's shields. They passed through his outer, physical shield without resistance, for it was weak, but just before the inner mind-shield, the Healer bade him stop.

Where the boy's outer shield was a sickly green pallor, his inner shield was as green as the grass of Earth's summer, fed directly by his Power—and stronger than any he had ever seen.

"Never touch that shield—unless yours is as strong as his, druid." The Healer warned him, and Arlan recalled the Myrdraath's scorched tentacles.

Then the Healer guided his Sight beyond the translucent barrier, and Saw, instead of the myriad of bright interconnected channels that comprised human memories—nothing but emptiness, a dark void that brought a groan of dismay in the druid's throat. Worse, the pathways of the boy's mind that include control of his own powers were torn apart, and red flashes of pain leaped randomly among the chaotic channels.

Arlan rushed out of the child's mind faster than when he came in, just now realizing the magnitude of his problems.

Calidar held up his hand and said, "Do not despair, Arlan Druid. It may be that physical healing may yet resolve the wounds inflicted upon his mind. He may yet Heal once he recovers his full strength, although his memories are forever lost. It will take time. I cannot promise anything as of the moment, for the Healing of minds is beyond my skill, I fear."

Arlan took a deep breath, gathering himself. "Physical healing, then. I'll worry about his other injuries when we get to Druidia."

Gods of Ervon, he thought, the Hand was right. The boy is nothing but an empty shell, for which unequaled—and untamed—Power now resides.

He held his aching head in his hand.

A sympathetic touch on his shoulder, and Calidar's voice telling him, "Rest now, my friend, for even without the Sight I see you are in need of it. And leave me and Marsh to the task. I will call on you when it is over."

Arlan nodded without protest and thanked the Healer. He was so tired that he could barely raise his head from his shoulders, and mumbled something about stepping out under the open sky. There he lay on the clearing's soft grass, his thoughts in turmoil, staring at the stars for a long time before sleep overtook him.

* * * * * * * *

Something woke him from a nightmare of screaming, burning children—an insistent hand upon his arm. He sat up, instantly awake, senses straining for danger, and found Marsh hunched beside him.

" 'Tis I, Sir Arlan. Calidar bids you come."

As soon as Arlan entered the hut, the Healer beckoned him to the boy's side. His voice was subdued, and Arlan saw something very like awe on his withered face.

"It is done," said the Healer, half to himself. "Though now I am more certain that the Healing is mostly of his own doing."

"Whatever do you mean, Calidar?" asked Arlan, mystified.

Calidar shook his head as if to clear it, groping for the proper words. "I do not know exactly what has transpired, but as soon as I extended my Healing Gift to the injury near his heart, and as I was closing the wound, his Power suddenly merged with my own—or 'grasped' my Gift—and the next thing I knew, his wound was Healed. Even as we speak, the Myrdraath's venom is being purged from his system at a rate I have never seen, considering that I have just given him the herb to drink half a candlemark ago. In an ordinary human, the herb's effects would be visible after a night and a day, but as it is, he does not appear to be ordinary—not by a very wide margin."

The druid looked at the boy, his thoughts awhirl with possibilities—and more inherent problems—but it was Calidar who voiced them out: "You have told me that his powers are new-come. If so, and if trained, he may have the makings of an Adept—a Master Healer. One that has never been seen—"

"In a thousand generations since the time of the Dragons," Arlan finished for him. "A very rare Healer that is almost legend, a healer of the earth and all its ills. But what of his mind, my friend?"

Calidar's face fell. "His mind is as it was when you Saw it. I tried healing it with my Gift, cautiously, and almost got burned in the process." He rubbed his bark-like temple, remembering the surge of heat in his mind. "His mindshield is very strong—and extremely hostile. He may yet heal with time, but if not, then it may be that only a Mind Healer—and someone that he trusts—can help him."

'Where ever can I find a Mind Healer?' thought Arlan. Gifted healers are scarce in themselves, and rarer still is one that can cure the mind, but he turned to the mandrake and said, "If such a one exists, I will find him, Calidar. But first I must take him to the Conclave, for if his powers are this strong, once he regains his full strength he will be more a danger to the land than a Healer of lands."

"I see what you mean only too clearly, Arlan Druid. As soon as he is conscious and well enough to travel—and, at the rate he is going, in three or four nights—but never before that. Not even if he wreaks havoc in my house with his rogue magic." The Healer smiled wryly at Arlan.

Arlan nodded agreement. He would keep watch on the boy for the remaining hours of the night, while Calidar and Marsh retired to a dark corner of the hut to rest. Rest for a mandrake was akin to gathering nourishment from the earth. Like plants, their root-like feet would dig deep into the soil of Ervon, absorbing the very energies that gave them life. Unlike humans, mandrakes never really did need anything other than the earth on which they lived, Arlan thought with a little more than envy as he nibbled on the bread and cheese that Calidar laid out for visiting humans. His stomach still complained from their wild sojourn through the Stone, but he forced the food down. The Creator knows he would need to regain every ounce of strength if they were going to reach Druidia alive.

'By now the Hand's minions must be looking for the boy.' Arlan mused. 'The Healer's Sentinels may shield us from his eyes for awhile, but once we leave the clearing we are on our own. Three hundred leagues to the Conclave, and the lad gravely injured—it will be hard on him.'

Arlan gazed at the boy. It seemed that he breathed easier, and there seemed to be more color on his sallow cheeks. From time to time, his brows would knit in an expression of pain, and his hand would grope blindly for something that seemed to elude him. His hair, golden as the Sun of that other world, was lank with sweat. He was tall for his age—all bony arms and legs—and delicate of face like the elusive Elvedheyn, the elven race, though his chin was square and strong. And in the few times on Earth that he had watched him covertly, there was always laughter and mischief lurking in his eyes.

"Jared Rhyshannon," the Druid whispered, "will you ever claim your True Name? Will you ever be what once you were, before all this happened?"

An Adept. His Power need only to grasp the knowledge, the hidden potential of all things living or not—and bend it to his will—as effortlessly as breathing.

'Jeroen was not an Adept, though he had the Potential. But there must have been others, in his clan. Only, Adepts barely survive beyond infancy. I wonder how he did it, or at what price, that his son lived untouched by his Powers.'

But now, by the will of the Creator or of Darkness himself, that Power has wakened, a Power controlled by a ravaged mind, and he thought only that he had, unwittingly, brought a danger to the land that could rival Laareth himself.

A/N:  Images courtesy of @Sunnyrizz - Thanks so much!! ♡