Carry On

by Celia Lake

  Roland let out a hiss. He remembered Deschamps. Allery, that was the name. He’d played on the house bohort team, he’d been skilled at solving puzzles, if with a tendency to go charging at the ones that might yield to force. “My condolences.” It seemed useless to say, but the formalities meant something to him. “I remember, he was always cheerful.”

  The younger man nodded. “He was.” Then he added, “I’m Cadwell, sir.”

  Roland nodded. “I remember he talked about you a few times. After matches, or in the salle. Hoping you’d do well. You started the year we left, didn’t you?”

  Cadwell nodded, then he cleared his throat. “Sir, what you said, what you didn’t say. You think there was some new magic, you have some ideas, but nothing you’d venture in front of strangers. I agree with you about cavalry being a horrific idea, not that infantry is much better.” It came out in a burst, of a man who’d hit his limits of patience.

  Roland nodded slightly. “As you can see, no one wants to hear it. Certainly not from me.”

  “It would make the War impossible to win.”

  “At least as we have fought in the past,” Roland agreed. “I don’t have a better answer, but doing the same thing that is not working, is killing so many young men, so many horses, so many others... I cannot see that that is any good either.”

  There was another pause. Cadwell was a man who measured his actions, Roland could tell this much. That was unlike his brother, who had tended to boldly go ahead, trusting to his excellent instincts. It was as if he were deciding between two different lines of question. There was a flicker in his eyes as he made the choice. “And your own injuries?”

  Roland permitted himself a shrug. “They have not been forthcoming. My nurse has a few ideas she’s being allowed to try out in the near future. I’m willing enough to see what happens with them.”

  “How can you be patient like that?” Ah, that was a younger man’s complaint.

  “I don’t precisely have much choice. I have the situation I have. I can be patient with it, or impatient and waste what energy I have wailing and complaining. Frankly, patience is more challenging, but less exhausting.” Which he desperately needed right now.

  Cadwell’s lips twitched at that. “True enough, I suppose.” He glanced at the door, over his shoulder, as if to check the coast were clear. “There are some odd reports coming out of the hospital. People recovering more slowly than expected.”

  Roland contemplated the implications. “Not just me, then.”

  “No. I don’t know who else, it’s mostly rumours. Smoke, fog.”

  “Are you assigned to Trellech, or where?” The question was, would this man have a chance to investigate further.

  “Here for another month, then getting sent across the Channel. France or Belgium.”

  Trenches and mud, then, wherever he was, most likely. “Your speciality?”

  “I was still finishing my apprenticeship when I got assigned.” Career Guard, then, or at least one of their kind. “Pattern magics. I’m not as good as I should be, but we need everyone we can get.”

  Roland tilted his head. “Not a field I know much about.” Easier to admit it, even if it were harder on his pride.

  “Everything from the supply chain management to how troops move in battle. Some of Mons made for very interesting data, if one could ignore the human costs.” Cadwell couldn’t, clearly. It made Roland relax a little more.

  “And the temple, here?”

  Cadwell shook his head. “I don’t have many contacts. I’ll keep my ears open. Who’s your nurse? It might be easier to get a message in through her.”

  “Therapeutes Elen Morris. One L in Elen.” Roland added one more thing. “Dedicant of Sirona, if that helps.”

  “That does, actually. Gives one a better sense of how to go about things.”

  There was a knock on the door then, and Harry. “Pardon, sir, but we should be getting back or we’ll be off schedule. Oh, sir, I didn’t know there was someone still here.”

  Roland shook his head. “Perhaps you might come call again, sometime, Captain Deschamps? A visitor is a pleasant change of pace.”

  Cadwell was quick enough to pick up the hint. “And I’m somewhat at loose ends until I’m posted. I’ll see what I can do.” He nodded at Harry. “Thank you, orderly. I won’t keep the major further.”

  By the time Roland had been ferried back to his room, he found he was exhausted. Elen had warmed the bed for him with some charm he was coming to rely on. By the time he was tucked into it, it was far too easy to give himself over to sleep. He was roused briefly for supper and his usual dose, before falling into deep sleep again.

  Chapter 17

  Tuesday, April 20th, the garden shrine

  “How bad was it, yesterday?” Elen had settled him in what had become their usual spot in the garden, even though the weather was rather overcast and grey.

  They’d barely had time to talk. The new morning schedule had some benefits, but it meant that there was someone in or out of the room much of the morning. Breakfast, waiting for the healer’s rounds to reach them, then the preparation for the bath, and the bathing, and then luncheon. And he’d been tired, both last night and this morning, even with the lower dose of his evening potion and a reasonable amount of sleep.

  Now, here he was, in his chair, a light blanket tucked over his legs, and feeling very much the invalid he was. He’d also been feeling on edge all morning. The conversation with Cadwell had woken up something in him. It was as if he’d been on a narrow path between two tall walls, unable to look to either side, and now he was getting a glimpse of gates into gardens or estates.

  “It wasn’t one of the big presentations.” He owed her an explanation, at least. She was doing her best to help him, and she was still here, even after he’d terrified her. Or after his magic had terrified her, anyway, and surely they were essentially the same thing.

  She had picked up her knitting again, as always. No longer the muffler, but a tube. Sock or wristlet. “Do you get bored knitting the same thing?” He’d been curious about this for some time, but at the moment he also wanted to do anything but discuss the meeting and Cadwell’s comments.

  Elen looked up at him, wide-eyed, as if he’d caught her out in something, then she looked down at her hands. The needles clicked for nearly a minute. When she spoke, her voice was so quiet he had to strain to hear. “We’re not supposed to.”

  It made him suddenly angry. “Why not, you’re human, aren’t you? What would you be knitting if you could? Mind, you’ll have to explain it to me, I don’t know much about it.” The anger startled him, the surge of feeling, and he tried his best to moderate it, to avoid scaring her. No need for both of them to be worried by what he was feeling.

  She looked at him, and held up the needles. “Needles. Wool. This is going to be a sock.” In case that weren’t obvious, which it hadn’t been, so he supposed he was glad she’d explained that.

  She continued. “It’s all the same thing, over and over, for a long time. There’s a bit of shaping, turning the heel, but mostly, it’s just the same stitches, over and over again. More complicated than a muffler, but I’ve knit a lot of socks now. There is something soothing about that, about not having to think about it at all. But it’s also boring.”

  “I suppose so.” Roland agreed. “There’s more than one kind of stitch, then? I know nothing about the, about the art. And that’s more than two needles, isn’t it?”

  That made her smile, and he liked that. “There are two basic stitches in knitting, knitting and purling.” she said. “P-U-R-L. Not like the kind you put in jewellery.” It had the air of someone who’d explained that to clueless men before. “You use three needles or maybe four to hold something that’s circular. You work the last, and then you take the one you just freed up, and repeat the process.”

  “That seems easy to lose.”

  Elen shrugged. “It’s how it’s done. Been done for ages, honestly. And it’s not as if
they usually have minds of their own.”

  Her tone made him laugh, he began to suspect that knitters had their own superstitions about such things. “When do you use one stitch versus another?”

  “You can combine them, to make different kinds of fabric. Like ribbing, that’s a knit fabric that has more give to it. You can add stitches to a row, or knit them together, too. Shaping something, like the heel, or a helmet, to wear in the trenches.” Roland nodded, he’d seen enough of the knit pieces that covered everything but the face, how they curved around the chin, the neck, tucking down under the jacket.

  “Those are bloody useful in the cold.” he agreed. “And square wouldn’t do.” He hadn’t realised he’d sworn before he saw her grin again. Amused, not offended, at least. She didn’t seem upset by his show of emotion, at least.

  “They’re somewhat interesting to knit, but I do need a pattern for them, to keep track of where I am. And they’re bigger, so they take more space to carry around. Socks, now, you can stuff socks in your pocket, so long as they don’t come off the needles.”

  He nodded, then leaned forward a little. “You haven’t answered my question.” He hadn’t answered hers either, but he was still thinking about that.

  Elen ducked her chin, and when she met his eyes again, she was smiling again. “Of course you noticed. The first thing I miss is the colours. You can get quite a good range of colours in yarn these days, or at least you could, before.” She gestured. “But for the Front, everything has to be muted. Khaki or grey. Nothing that will stand out.” She considered. “Nothing that shows dirt badly.”

  “Or worse, no.” It slipped out before Roland could stop himself.

  She nodded. “Or worse.” Then she was knitting again, doing a dozen stitches before she continued. “I like the deeper colours. My aunt dyes yarn with natural dyes, she can get quite a good purple out of logwood, or indigo’s blue. The colours against each other, though, sometimes. An edging on something, to set it off.”

  “What sort of things did you knit? Before?”

  Elen glanced up. “I’ve got a half-finished shawl in the basket in my room. It’s been to France and back with me, now, and every so often I sneak it out, in the dead of night, and knit a row. But I shouldn’t, I really shouldn’t. And if anyone saw, they’d say I wasn’t doing my bit.”

  Roland blinked at her. “Not doing your bit? Have they not noticed that you’re here twelve hours a day, no time to yourself, keeping me together, and also knitting a fair number of things. Can’t you have a half hour for yourself, in the quiet, to do something that brings you joy?”

  Elen waved the needle she’d just freed. “I wouldn’t be doing my bit. And I’m here, quite safe. I even have my own room, not a cot in a dormitory. I don’t have to fight for a bath, much.” She added, “Mind, that’s mostly because I’m here late so often.”

  “Small favours, I suppose.” Roland agreed. “What’s the shawl like, then? Not the same thing over and over again, then? And what colour is it?”

  “The shawl is lace, though I’m only a little way into that part.” Elen smiled again, that more relaxed smile. “And it’s a logwood purple. A darker purple. It doesn’t go with much I wear right now, I suppose. Traditionally, it would be white, but…” She gave a little shrug.

  “Lace is combining the stitches a different way?” Roland had certainly seen plenty of lace, though he thought perhaps some of it wasn’t knit, but made by some other means. He vaguely thought there were machines for lace now.

  It got him a laugh. “Yes.” she said. “You can do an extra loop of the yarn, and then the next time you go over that stitch, you do something so it makes a hole in the fabric. Here, give me a minute, I’ll do a row or two of that, and then take it out.”

  “Unproductive stitches? My. I won’t tell of course.” Teasing her felt unexpectedly good, and she grinned right back.

  “Tell me about your meeting.” There was a bit of steel in her voice now, as if this were the trade for her work. He supposed it was fair enough, for all he wished she’d asked about anything else.

  “I met someone I didn’t expect.” It wasn’t where he’d planned to start, but it seemed the most important piece.

  “Who, may I ask?” Her needles were going quite quickly now, as if having a pattern and a goal were driving her on, or doing something interesting had freed her.

  “The younger brother of someone I knew at school. His brother died, he told me. Deschamps. Allery Deschamps. This was Cadwell.”

  “Would it help to make an offering?” Elen’s voice was softer now, but the comment was utterly unexpected.

  “I’m not religious.” His voice came quickly. “I mean, I don’t want to give offence, and I suppose all men pray in the trenches or on the battlefield.”

  She looked back at him, and something about her was now extremely steady, as if she had a certainty to her that wouldn’t be shaken. “You don’t have to believe to make an offering. It’s the act of making it that counts.”

  “But all the stories about hubris and doing things wrong, and whatever.” He shook his head. “That made some sense to me. Consequences for doing the wrong thing, at least. I can make sense of that.”

  Elen snorted. “It does follow logic, doesn’t it?” She considered. “But you’re willing to do a bath in one of the shrine rooms? Were you raised in a faith?”

  Roland closed his eyes. “Father is nominally Christian. Holidays and so on. Mother, I don’t know. She never talks about it, but I’m fairly sure she believes something.” He opened his eyes to catch a brief sharp nod.

  “We’re not priestesses, or priests, or ministers, or whatever the term is. Clergy.” Her voice was quiet now, even. “We’re there to see to the work of whoever it is we’re sworn to. That the offerings are made properly, that the temple’s tended. That the work we do is an offering. I don’t always believe, but I always do the work. It’s soothing that way.”

  That comment about not always believing, he was suddenly sure there was a story there, and an important one, and he was just as sure she’d never tell him. She had no reason to. He shifted in his chair. “Do you make offerings, then? Here?”

  She glanced at the shrine, over his shoulder, and nodded. “Nothing fancy, out here. There’s a shrine in the temple. I tend that as part of my duties. We have a roster, it changes as people come and go, as well as a turn in the main temple. Candles burn down, they need to be replaced, the offerings have to go out.”

  Roland took a breath, finding himself fiddling with the blanket in his lap. “Will you show me? Sometime? The Temple? The shrine?”

  There was a moment where he could have sworn she lit up, as if she were truly glowing, but then it disappeared, as quickly as it had come on. She nodded. “I will. And I’ll explain the bathing, tonight. What the process is.” Then she stopped knitting, and stood. “And here, here’s some lace.”

  It didn’t look complicated, at first, it looked like a series of evenly spaced holes in the knitting. Then, as he looked more closely, he could see there were careful, planned variations, the way music made patterns that were more than the individual notes. Without asking, he reached out, to touch the yarn, lightly, then drew his hand back.

  “How complicated does it get?”

  “Very.” She was amused now. “I could bring a few photos, and show you. One of my aunts wearing one.”

  “Something you made?” It felt daring to ask, but he was suddenly curious.

  There was a long hesitation, then she apparently remembered something. “I think so, yes. If I can find it.”

  “Thank you.” Then, suddenly, he felt tired. “Could we go in? I’m starting to feel a chill.”

  That was enough to break the moment, and get her fussing over tucking in the blanket so it wouldn’t catch in the wheels of his chair. He let her make all the tiny adjustments, thinking about how quickly and freely her fingers moved to their task.

  Chapter 18

  Later that afternoon, Roland�
�s room

  Elen was, she admitted, fussing with making sure everything was tidy while Roland ate. She was still nervous about Roland taking the waters, in the most metaphorical and literal senses, both. Especially after he’d asked the questions about how the shrines worked. She had been immersed in the Healing Temple and in healing work in general for so long that she forgot most people didn’t think of things like they did.

  Oh, she was sure there was more than one shrine in the Guards. And in the crafting quarter, there must be quite a few. People certainly had their own devotions. She’d seen enough guild medallions with a stone or engraving or carving of the guild on one side, and some god or goddess or their symbol on the other. Often not the ones you’d most expect, either.

  That always made her wonder. During her apprenticeship, she’d helped more than one crushing injury from a hand that got caught in the looms. She’d half thought about doing a study of whether people who wore tokens of Athena or Frigg or Saint Maurice were less likely to have bad injuries. But comparing the results against a control group, that would be a trick.

  “You said you’d explain the bathing?” Roland was settled in bed, and he’d finished eating.

  Elen turned back, and settled down, considering her knitting. She’d have to work back to before the lacework demonstration, and she wanted to do that in better light, if she could. First thing tomorrow, maybe. She settled on the chair she’d taken out of the nurses’ lounge, in the hopes it would be sturdier. It was a rather battered upholstered number with a blanket over it to hide the worst of the fading, but she thought it would not be missed.

  “The main Temple is on the ground floor. It’s been rebuilt a few times, but there’s a natural spring down there. When they rebuilt it after the Pact, in the late 1400s, they built in a number of rooms below the main temple. Several dozen, I think close to fifty.”