Grass was growing between the paving stones, pushing up with the slow strength of nature, distorting the paths and making the footing treacherous. The fountains were silent now, the water stagnant. But Derae did not care. She no longer had the strength to walk the gardens and rarely left the room behind the altar. Only two servants remained, both women she had healed long ago, before her powers had faded. No longer were there ragged tents beyond the temple, filled to overflowing with the diseased, the lame, and the crippled. No one needed tokens now to see the healer. Shallow cuts she could seal, and minor infections would still vanish at her touch. But no longer could she bring sight to the blind or draw the cancers from the lungs and bellies of the dying. Now it was she who suffered, her limbs racked with arthritic pain, her joints swollen. If she moved slowly, supporting herself on two sticks, she could just reach the temple doorway, there to sit in the afternoon sunshine. But she needed help to return to her room when dusk and the cool breeze of evening stiffened her limbs.
