There were six people waiting at the front door when Maegon unlocked the doors to the Hall of the Gentle Hand early in the morning. Six sick people was an unusually large number, so Maegon was glad Romenstar had offered his help tending the sick this morning.
Maegon did not especially want to be in Romenstar’s company just now. He had risen early and eaten a quick breakfast, and the interview with Martun, Saruman’s envoy from Isengard, had been vaguely unpleasant last night. But there he was with his walking staff, still wearing his blue, worn robes and conical hat. Romenstar refused to wear anything else.
”This is very unpleasant”, Maegon complained.”Usually we don’t have this many sick people this early in the morning but…” His voice faded. Everything was so hopeless. Originally he had considered Romenstar’s arrival a good sign, a sign for better days for the Hall of the Gentle Hand. But Martun from Isengard had stressed with his stern voice how important it was to keep Romenstar’s presence in the Hall of the Gentle Hand as secret as possible.
”I’m ready”, Romenstar said softly.
At that moment Maegon felt moved by Romenstar’s simple words or maybe the way he said them. He could not understand why he felt like that and it made him uncomfortable. Romenstar was like a child in some ways, but his face was gaunt and gray of suffering, and his blue eyes pierced Maegon like blue rays of light.
Nobody expected what happened then.
Romenstar asked the six people now gathered in the hallway to follow him as he led the group into the atrium with a huge fountain dominating the space. In front of the group walked an elderly woman who’s hands were severely deformed, bent and twisted from rheumatism. Lady Gostaeth, Maegon thought. An old widow and the gossip of Imloth Melui. Soon everyone would know that there was a new healer in the Hall of the Gentle Hand, an old white-haired man who dressed all in blue.
Romenstar walked over to the fountain and sunk the tip of his staff into the water. Then he turned around, took Lady Gostaeth’s twisted hands into his own and started rubbing them gently with the moist tip of his staff and chanting words in a language nobody recognized. It was not like any language Maegon had ever heard before. A stir went through the crowd and Maegon’s jaw dropped as he watched Lady Gostaeth’s hands slowly straightening, the swollen joints of her fingers visibly shrinking. Everyone could hear Lady Gostaeth’s sobbing soon after Romenstar had begun his chanting. They were tears of happiness and intense relief.
Martun, Saruman’s envoy, stood in the back of the atrium and his face darkened slowly as he watched the group of people in front of Romenstar fall to their knees, reaching out their arms towards him: ”Heal me, heal me!” The gloomy morning rain continued outside, no longer soft but wintry hard now.
A middle-aged man with a sun-blackened face, runny nose and watery eyes was next. Romenstar sunk his staff in the fountain again and touched the man’s face with it. The whole time he chanted with the same strange language, as if in a trance, barely aware of his surroundings. His eyes glimmered with tears and his skinny hands were shaking. One by one he touched everyone gathered around him in a similar fashion, and whatever was ailing them seemed to heal by the touch of the old man's staff and his mysterious words. Maegon had not believed it possible he could become so emotionally touched anymore.
Only Martun seemed unhappy to be a witness to such a miracle. He stood by a tall statue, his wide face in a deep frown, unable to move or say anything.
Maegon was in awe, as if witnessing the miracle had allowed him to reconnect, albeit briefly, with his own soul as it had been fifty years ago. When he looked at the back of the atrium again, he saw that Martun was gone.
Romenstar continued his slow chanting. It felt like a dream to Maegon and everyone else present. Suddenly the old man stopped his chanting, turned around and walked out of the atrium without a word. Nobody dared to follow him. Unwilling to break the spell, the group lingered in the atrium, still on their knees, some of them still weeping.
After a moment Maegon walked into the back of the atrium and turned right to the corridor where he had seen Romenstar disappearing. He found the old man leaning heavily onto his staff by a column. Romenstar’s face was pale and clammy beneath his tan.
”Romenstar? What’s wrong?”
”I am so tired”, Romenstar replied slowly, weakly. ”I… was so moved. For their sake.”
”They have never experienced anything like that. Nobody has.” Maegon, still touched, came closer to the blue-clad wizard who seemed to have shrunken within the voluminous folds of his blue robes. ”Dear Romenstar”, he said, touching the old man’s hand.
Romenstar stared at Maegon but said nothing.
”There is a man from Isengard to see you”, Maegon said hesitantly. ”No doubt he wants to talk to you now.” There was a look of concern in Maegon’s eyes.
