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Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life...
The blasted chant was back in his head. He’d been free of it for months, and now he couldn’t shake it.
Leaning against the wall of the stable, Kiril stretched his legs out. Bryar lay on a bed of clean hay, the wounded hand propped upright. While he slept, Kiril had released the tension on the tourniquets, then reapplied them more gently. Blood oozed from the wounds. They needed a medic, desperately, to cauterize the ends of the mangled fingers. The sight was enough to make even a grown man, a hardened leader, squeamish.
Bryar hadn’t wakened, although he had cried out a couple of times during the appalling trip to the stables with Kiril grasping the ironing board and dragging it over the ruts, Bryar’s feet trailing in the muck of the road.
They could both do with a bath. He’d check with Leo.
At least the stable was warm. He slung his pack, now weighted with dirt to screen the cell, against the wall, then scooted down until it formed a pillow. Hard and uncomfortable, but better than nothing. Marginally.
How was he supposed to get any sleep, with an injured man in his care?
Forgotten your leadership skills already?
He set his mouth in a grim line, remembering all he had pledged years ago, that day he assumed command of the pod. A leader does whatever is necessary. That meant getting Bryar and the cell back to the Midland, and by damn, he’d do it. They hadn’t exactly bonded, but he understood Bryar’s single-minded determination, and increasingly appreciated the necessity of his mission.
He reached over. Bryar jerked when he touched his forehead, as if it pained him.
Too hot.
The stable door opened, then closed. “Kiril?” The whisper threaded through the air.
“Over here.” His eyes now accustomed to the dark, he watched as Leo made his way past the animals to the pile of hay.
“I’ve brought clean rags.” Weariness tinged his voice. “Also a tisane we used when on campaign for injuries, to numb the pain and help with shock. Can he drink?”
“I doubt it. He hasn’t wakened.”
“For the best, I suppose. I would like to know what happened to the Master’s face.” Leo stared at him, tight-lipped, across Bryar’s inert body, a look that made Kiril wonder about the old man’s military rank. He was no follower, that much was evident.
“I guess I went a little mad. I wanted to make it clear he’d better not try to take the cell again.”
“Gauvain is more stunned by the turn of events than by the actual injury. I dare say the scar will draw admiration. There’s a story to be spun of an intruder, a confrontation. Ladies seem to like such trivial things.”
All hope of rest gone, Kiril sat upright again. “The other man?”
Leo shook his head. “Steps are being taken to hide, or at least disguise, the events of tonight. Nevertheless, the sooner we can get you out of Orlan, the better. Challenging, because a horse and cart heading for the hills is always suspicious. But they expect odd behavior from Gauvain, and so from his servant.”
“We can’t move him. Not until he’s healing.”
“For the moment, you’re safe. Keep the wounds clean. Tomorrow we will reassess.”
“He needs a medic,” Kiril insisted.
“Inquiries will be made, very discreetly.” Leo stood still, looking down at Bryar. “Now I must go. Many things require my attention this night.”
“I’m grateful, but find that medic.”
Leo nodded, then crossed the stable and slipped out the door. Kiril watched him leave, wondering what other skills the wily old servant had at his disposal.
~~
LEO APPARENTLY MAINTAINED a network of allies in Orlan, people he trusted to keep secrets. Bryar had awakened from a stupor shot through with torment in the early hours of the morning, to find himself being hauled up onto the hay-strewn bed of a cart and jostled to some other part of town. Being awake was worse. He couldn’t pretend the physical anguish, his helplessness, or his fragmented memory were simply a transient nightmare.
Kiril was nowhere in sight; Leo and another man did the hauling, and Leo’s voice spoke quietly to the animal – a donkey? Not worth wondering about. Bryar faded in and out of consciousness during the jolting drive.
The cart stopped, and the stranger appeared above him. “Okay, let’s move him in. Quiet, now.”
They carried him into a place that smelled like the Healers’ workroom at the Motherhouse, calming scents he associated with restored health.
When he next surfaced, he lay on a hard bed in a whitewashed room that radiated cleanliness and light. He felt as if he’d fallen from a high cliff onto rocks. Every muscle in his body protested whenever he shifted.
Had he killed Duncan? Bryar’s memory of the struggle in Gauvain’s study was vague, at best.
The agony in his hand chased off all other ruminations. He didn’t know the severity of his injury. He remembered only the knife descending, the hilt shivering from Duncan’s abdomen. The stink of blood and sweat, vomit and urine. And then the searing pain.
The stranger’s strong arm supported his head. “Excellent. Try to stay awake for a few minutes, would ya? We need to get some of this into ya.”
‘This’ proved to be an exceptionally nasty tisane. Given all the wondrous plants in the world, why couldn’t anyone mask the horrid tastes?
He choked down the first sip. “You’re a healer?”
“Herbalist. Come on, take more.”
The repulsive drink filled his mouth. He swallowed and choked. The man backed off, but held the mug to his lips again as soon as he caught his breath. “The more you can keep down the better.”
He managed another mouthful of the drink, then said, “Kiril?”
“That a person? Don’t know him. Leo said he’d drop by later. Maybe he’s got your friend.” The man patted his shoulder to show he was satisfied with his work and eased him onto the pillows. “In a while I’ll medic your hand. Stitched you up, but it’ll want alcohol, regular, to fight off the infection.”
“Stitched? What...?” He found he lacked the courage to finish the query.
“Never you mind. No point fretting. Get some rest.” The herbalist patted his good shoulder in a way that was probably meant to be reassuring, then left him alone.
As if he had a choice, Bryar thought grimly. He was incapable of escaping the tension-laced miasma that passed for sleep. A wave of heat enveloped him, and now-familiar pain throbbed through his left hand and down his arm. He drifted in a fog, unclear where nightmare ended and waking awareness began.
Later, during a lucid interval, he dragged his attention to a larger and potentially more urgent problem dancing on the edges of his consciousness. The Aura. He sensed it, here in Orlan. Attenuated, as if it flowed through gauze, but there. Ezra had worried about his weave’s stability. Were it to dissolve completely, the Aura would fell him, as it had the first time he crossed the hills. If it was degrading, he had to get out of Borgonne before it destroyed his mind.
Wouldn’t it be better for the cell to be unshielded, to neutralize Gauvain’s powers?
But that would destroy the Weavers’ ability to work with templates.
Where was the cell, anyway?
The fight. Had he really...?
He drifted off, into the haze of suffering and memory.
~~
KIRIL PACED THE SMALL room. At dusk he’d arrived with Leo, who studied Bryar, grunted, and disappeared without comment. As night fell, the herbalist’s wife, a round, older woman with her hair in a kerchief, had lit candles and drawn curtains – made of the same coarse linen as their clothes and everything else on this godforsaken planet. At least the itching in his wound from the beast in the hills was better. He’d shown it to the herbalist, who’d dosed him with yet another poultice and a foul oral preparation.
Bryar stirred and opened his eyes. His head moved slightly as he took in the room, the candles, the absence of other people. “Where are we?”
Good. His voice was clear, if not strong. “Can you manage soup?”
“After you tell me what happened.”
He stopped his pacing to put an assessing hand on Bryar’s forehead. Clammy. “Fever’s broken. You’re one tough bastard.”
“Damn it, Kiril. Tell me.”
A coiled spring. The man’s muscles bunched and tightened, as if he contemplated hopping up and shaking the truth out of him.
He perched on the edge of the bed. “We’re hiding out at a herbalist friend of Leo’s. Name and location are deep dark secrets. You remember the fight?”
“Parts of it.”
“I’ll bring soup.” With that non sequitur, Kiril headed for the door.
Bryar’s voice followed him, demanding the facts. “I want to know-”
“Later.”
Kiril let the leather flap fall closed behind him and strode down a corridor. In the kitchen, the herbalist’s wife labored over a cookfire, stirring something that released enticing, meat-rich aromas.
“So? How’s he doin’?”
“Says he can eat some soup.”
“Broth. Hang on.” She ladled clear liquid into a mug. “Not too much at once. Husband’ll be along to clean the wounds subsequently.”
His mouth quirked. He liked this place and these people with their casual, determined efficiency. “I’d rather not be around for that.”
“You’ll be around. Husband may need you to hold ’im down. Get you gone, an’ be sure to come back later for your own portion.”
“I’ll do that. It smells wonderful.”
The compliment brought a tight smile to the woman’s face. Whatever he thought of them, they clearly didn’t trust him, not even enough to reveal their names. She turned and resumed her work at the cookfire.
Well, he got it. While he had no idea how Leo and his cronies had dispatched Duncan’s body, anyone involved could find himself in a whole shitload of trouble if the truth of the previous night became known.
Back in Bryar’s room, he eased his erstwhile patient into a propped position. Bryar allowed Kiril to feed him, but waved him away after five spoonsful. “Can’t. Queasy.”
“Not surprising. Lack of food, shock. Plus, it seems you put up one hell of a fight.”
“I have a right to know what happened, Kiril.”
He let his posture relax, bowl and spoon occupying his hands, conveying – he hoped – the impression that what he had to say was of no particular consequence. “The fat man tried to take the cell. You fought and stopped him.”
Bryar waved his good hand impatiently. “I remember that. And?”
“And he’s dead.”
Bryar’s eyes went blank. “I never... To kill another person... No. It can’t be true.” Abruptly he slid down on the bed and rolled away, his head abutting the frame supporting his hand.
Any show of emotion ran counter to Kiril’s years of military training, but he got that a musician who had killed a man might seek some kind of release, might even want to cry. But he needed Bryar to heal, not wallow in guilt.
“You didn’t kill him. I did.”
The moment the words fell from his mouth, Kiril wondered what the hell he’d just done. After witnessing the flogging in the square, he had a decent idea how Borgonne treated its criminals. If they failed to make good their escape...
Shit.
“I don’t believe you,” Bryar growled into the bedclothes.
“Listen. After you collapsed – yeah, the knife was in him. But when I got it out, he came for me. You’re clear, man. You didn’t kill him.”
“You’re lying. I remember enough of it,” Bryar muttered.
“Defending yourself. Forget it. Getting you well’s the first priority. One way or another, we need to disappear. Every minute we’re here puts people at risk.”
Bryar was silent for long minutes. Finally, he turned onto his back again, his face devoid of expression. “I don’t understand why you would lie,” he said formally. “But thank you.”
Kiril shrugged. “More broth?”
“In a while. Where’s the cell? When can we leave?”
“The cell’s safe. We leave when you’re able to climb up into the hills. No point even trying before that.”
“Then help me.” Bryar jerked forward, pulling himself upright and disturbing the arm support. “We’ll see how strong I am.”
“No such thing.” The voice came from the door. The stranger entered carrying a tray with bottles, vials, and rags. “Over-exertion would weaken you, not build your strength. You’ll need all the reserves you have left to heal this mess.”
The man was hefty and determined. With no trouble at all he settled Bryar back on the pillows and claimed the bandaged hand.
Kiril saw Bryar’s look of alarm, quickly suppressed. Treating the wound was going to hurt like stink. In the hills, Bryar had fended off infection from the beast’s attack with alcohol and herbs. This was worse.
“Tell me about my hand,” he said between clenched teeth as the stranger unwrapped the bandages.
Kiril sat on the other side of the narrow bed, clasped Bryar’s shoulder, and managed to meet his gaze. There was no way to sweet-coat what had to be the worst possible news for a musician. “It’s not pretty. The knife took two of your fingers.”
Bryar’s head jerked toward the remains of his hand just as the herbalist applied an alcohol-soaked rag to the sewn-up stumps of the fingers. His face took on a greenish tinge in the moment before he fainted.
Kiril glanced up at the herbalist. “For the best,” the other man said.
He watched the application of alcohol, then herbs in a poultice, asking questions about the remedies and taking mental notes against the day he might have to do the same.
Bryar didn’t move.