“And what was that all about?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THEY lived among the seskeesh for nearly a fortnight. For the first week Gabrielle hardly roused, alternating between sleep and the apparent-sleep of her healing trance. Féolan and Derkh did little but keep vigil for the first two days, subsisting on Féolan’s remaining supplies.
On the third day, when Gabrielle seemed less likely to die at any moment, Féolan left the cave for some time. He returned with a straight shoulder-high branch, which he proceeded to lash to one of his arrows. When he was satisfied with his work, he tossed the makeshift spear to Derkh.
“Ever gone fishing?” he asked.
“Sure,” Derkh replied dubiously. “But not with one of these.”
“Then this is your big chance to learn,” announced Féolan. “The stream where the seskeesh drink is full of trout. It’s time we dug for our dinner.”
“Are we out of food?” asked Derkh.
“Not really. There is plenty of travel biscuit still—we packed extra, so as to outfit you better if you really were bent on leaving us. But it makes for a dreary diet, day after day.”
Derkh turned away abruptly, hiding his face. He was still Greffaire enough to be mortified at the way his throat tightened with this news. He had not really considered why Féolan and Gabrielle had followed him so far into the mountains, but as he trudged to the nearby brook he realized that he had assumed it was to prevent his departure. But it wasn’t. They had come to help him.
His mind was a kaleidoscope of memories: Gabrielle, exhausted and grief-stricken, laboring to the point of collapse to save Derkh’s life. Féolan, peering into the cart where Derkh lay feverish, taking him not to the executioner but to the surgeon’s tents. Féolan kneeling before him, offering his own life for the slaying of Derkh’s father. Gabrielle’s quiet hurt, when he refused her table. How often must they prove their friendship, before you will trust in it?
The trout proved as elusive as quicksilver, flashing away from his spear almost before it broke the water. But Derkh was determined that, in this at least, he would not fail his friend, and by late afternoon he had caught two smallish fish and a large bullfrog. He returned to the cave just as Féolan was changing the bandages on Gabrielle’s still form.
“That’s a good start,” Féolan said with a nod.
The little catch caused quite a stir among the three seskeesh. The female poked at Derkh’s catch, and then left the cave with the young male. They were back before the sun was down with a heap of bloody fish—a dozen at least.
Féolan’s grin, broad and untroubled, was worth being shown up for. “Looks like you’ve met your match, my boy. Though I wager you cook better than they do.”
The tables were turned later that week, when Féolan emerged from the woods with a deer slung over his shoulders. The seskeesh were clearly amazed, and when Féolan separated a back haunch for himself and Derkh, then turned the rest of the carcass over to his hosts, they crowded around noisily, patting him so enthusiastically on the head and back in their excitement that Derkh feared a little for his safety.
When at last the seskeesh retreated with their prize, Féolan and Derkh turned back to Gabrielle. She was awake, watching them—and she was smiling. When she spoke, her voice was weak but clear. “I see you have become one of the family,” she said.
GABRIELLE WORKED UNTIL she must rest, and rested until she could work. For days her life held to this elemental rhythm, interrupted only for the briefest waking to sip some water or broth, or to empty her bladder. The work was exhausting, weakened as she was, and the balance delicate: She must not push herself too hard or risk collapse, yet she dared not leave such a wound unattended for long. The first long night, she thought only to mend and strengthen the heart-path puncture. It had taken a huge effort just to prepare for the drawing of the weapon. She had made a weak join in the tear where it had widened each side of the blade and then envisioned a kind of mental brace of healing light behind the artery wall, ready to be lashed together as the knife tip retreated. That was her moment of greatest danger. Though she threw the full force of her mind against it, the wall she had created barely held, so powerful was the surge of blood. It had taken the last of her will and strength to make a patch too flimsy to stand up to the least movement. She would not normally have trusted a patient for two minutes to such a weak vessel wall, but she had no choice. As oblivion swallowed her she had just one prayer—that she would sleep quietly.
Day by day, Gabrielle’s stamina improved and the periods of healing grew longer. As her exhaustion eased, however, the pain pressed in harder on her consciousness. Her sleep was uneasy now, every inadvertent movement stabbing her awake. And waking was a trial she wanted to endure as infrequently as possible.
Day and night held little meaning in this twilight existence, so she did not know that nearly a week had passed when the uproar from the seskeesh prodded her awake. She only knew she felt better: the pain was a steady companion, not a consuming fire. And she was hungry. At the thought of food her stomach cramped and yawned, and Gabrielle realized that her shaky weakness was at least partly due to her long fast.
Féolan and Derkh both seemed overcome to see Gabrielle awake and lucid. They must have kept a long vigil, she thought, as she watched Derkh’s bruised eyes fill with tears. Féolan was bent over her hand and seemed unable to speak. Her heart twisted, and she felt her own throat prickle and tighten.
“Don’t,” Gabrielle gasped. “Don’t make me cry. It will hurt like blazes. Please!”
Derkh dashed his eyes with the back of a hand and managed a wan smile.
“Your face still looks awful,” offered Gabrielle.
The smile broadened. “There wasn’t any healer around to take care of me,” he explained.
Gabrielle was tiring already. She closed her eyes and managed one last piece of conversation:
“If that was meat I saw in that fracas, I hope you saved some for me. Turn it into something a sick person can eat, and I will sing your praises forever.”
GABRIELLE WAS STILL in no shape to hike, when they left the cave six days later, but she didn’t have to. She was carried tenderly to within a few miles of the Skyway Pass and as far south into the Maronnais hills as the shy seskeesh dared venture. The great female laid her into Féolan’s waiting arms, caressed her face with a giant hand and slipped away. Gabrielle knew there was no need for further words or gestures—nestled in the great creature’s arms, she had sent her thanks every step of the long way—but she still could not stay her weeping.
“Where to now?” asked Derkh.
“A track skirts the mountains the length of La Maronne,” answered Féolan. “It’s not much more than a footpath, but locals and supply carts do travel it. We’ll rest there and hope to flag down a cart for Gabrielle.”
“From there to the outpost by the Skyway Pass, I suppose?” Derkh’s face darkened at the prospect of facing more suspicious soldiers.
“Don’t worry, Derkh. It will be all right.” Gabrielle sniffed up her tears and smiled at Derkh. He brightened in response. He had changed, Gabrielle realized, remembering his tears in the cave. Some of the prickly self-protective caution had been left behind in the mountains.
Féolan winked at Derkh, adjusted Gabrielle’s weight and started trudging south. “She’s right, lad. If you’re going to make friends in Verdeau, the king’s daughter is a pretty good place to start.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“BUT I didn’t know she was upset!” protested Tristan, exasperated.
A dinner, an evening and a breakfast spent in Rosalie’s polite but frosty company had been all Tristan could stand. He had finally pulled her into an empty room, closed the door and demanded, “Why are you mad at me?” Now he had his answer, but he still couldn’t fathom it.
“You should have known,” retorted Rosalie.
“But I didn’t. I can’t make myself know something that I don’t know! I was playing with the kids; I di
dn’t notice her.”
“Right.”
“Huh?”
“You didn’t even notice her. And then you didn’t notice me. All you noticed was your own little game. When are you going to grow up and think about the people around you? Your mother has been through a lot lately, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Tristan flared into anger. “What do you know about my mother? Or me? Gods on fire, you have a nerve!” Catching himself yelling, he broke off and forced himself to speak quietly. It didn’t come out reasonable and calm, though. It came out tight and accusing.
“I know more about the pain my mother carries than you ever will. I was there when she learned of my father’s death. I never claimed to be perfect—but don’t you tell me I don’t care about my own family!”
He was out the door and halfway up the staircase before Rosalie could say another word.
TRISTAN FROWNED AT the parchment spread out before him.
“The talks are in Gaudette? Why so far?”
“The Barilles general and his party want to be close to the pass, so they can examine the battle sites,” Dominic explained.
“Why do they want to do that?”
Dominic shrugged. “They say it’s to understand the tactical situation. Personally, I think they can’t quite believe the attack really happened.” He looked up and caught Tristan’s incredulous look. “Not that they think we are lying about it. Why would we? But you can understand how the threat might not seem real to them, Tris. And maybe they doubt the scope of what we are reporting.”
“Hmm. Well, whatever. We need them to be part of this, so if they want to troop up to Gaudette, so be it.”
“That’s about the size of it,” agreed Dominic. “So the next question is, are you going? You were keen to represent us at these talks before our merchant friend threw a wrench in things. Do you want to take over from here?”
“Yeah, I do,” said Tristan slowly. “Only... It’s twice as far as Ratigouche. We’ll have to head out quite soon. When does General Fortin plan to leave?”
“Three days from now. He wants to arrive a little early and make sure everything is prepared.” Dominic noted Tristan’s glum look. “What?”
“It’s Rosie,” admitted Tristan. “We haven’t exactly been getting along well lately. I just hate to leave with bad feelings between us.”
“Had a lover’s quarrel, have you?”
Tristan declined to answer. His sibling’s tendency to make light of his love life was starting to annoy him.
“Well, you have three days to patch things up. That should be plenty,” remarked Dominic.
“Plenty if you know how,” Tristan answered morosely. He dropped his head onto one hand, a fistful of blond hair sprouting between his fingers, and peered up at Dominic. “You’ve been married a long time. Don’t you and Justine ever fight?”
“Of course we do.”
“So how do you stop?”
Dominic regarded his brother’s tufted hair. “I presume you’ve apologized.”
“Apologized?” Tristan sat up abruptly. “Why should I? I didn’t even do anything!”
“You haven’t apologized.” Dominic shook his head. “You don’t know much about this, do you?”
“But I didn’t do anything wrong! I mean, I guess I did, but I couldn’t help it.”
“Irrelevant.”
“What do you mean, irrelevant?”
“Do you want to make up with her?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then the rest is irrelevant. Apologize. Even if you don’t know what you did, apologize for it.”
“But—”
“It’s code, Tristan,” Dominic said firmly. “Think of it as code.”
“Code for what?”
“Code for, ‘I’m sorry we made each other feel bad, and I want us to be happy again.’ “
Tristan pondered this brotherly wisdom for a minute.
“Does Rosie know it’s code? Or will she take it as an admission of fault?”
“It doesn’t matter,” insisted Dominic. “Look, if the code doesn’t do it for you, just picture heading off into the reaches of La Maronne without so much as a goodbye kiss.”
Tristan gave his hair a hasty rake down with both hands, rolled up the manuscript and stood.
“Point made, big brother. All right, I’m off to apologize. In code.”
“One last pointer? By way of hard-earned personal experience?”
“Why not? Shoot.”
“Don’t say, ‘I’m sorry but.’ Just say you’re sorry. Period.”
Tristan sighed. “I’m gonna feel like a cat choking on a hair ball.” He padded off in search of Rosalie.
Dominic’s encouraging smile spread into a grin as Tristan disappeared down the hall. Wouldn’t I love to be a fly on the wall for this little chat! he thought. Probably the first apology Tristan has ever made.
THE HAIR BALL proved less hard to spit out than Tristan had feared, and its gracious reception did much to soothe his wounded pride.
“I’m sorry too, Tris,” said Rosalie into his chest. He didn’t even remember her getting up from the lawn swing she had been perched on, but she must have because here she was in his arms. Maybe they were pulled together like magnets. “I said things I shouldn’t have, that I had no right to.”
“Hey, that’s okay.” Tristan pulled her tighter and nuzzled into her hair, marveling at his brother’s perception. He had never thought of Dominic as especially brilliant, if the truth be known. More in the reliable-but-dull category. He would have to rethink that opinion now.
TRISTAN WAS CLOSETED with General Fortin, reviewing the list of delegates for the upcoming defense talks and the proposals they would put forward.
“I think it’s good, after all, that we are meeting in La Maronne,” he offered. “As the entry point for the Greffaires, the Maronnais have the most at stake. It makes sense that they should host it.”
Fortin nodded agreement. “There is one last question I wished to discuss with you, Sire. Our first meeting—the one Prince Dominic attended—proved somewhat chaotic.”
“Yes, that was Dominic’s assessment too.”
“It is new to us, this business of planning among four different nations,” continued Fortin, “four heads of state and four generals, all of them used to taking the lead and dominating in a discussion.”
“All of them with their contingent of aides and courtiers, each one bent on making his mark,” added Tristan dryly.
“Precisely.”
“Is there a solution?”
“I was going to suggest we propose appointing a director of the talks. The director’s role is not to put forward his own opinion, but to keep the discussion orderly. People would require the acknowledgment of the director to speak, and he would also be responsible for summarizing any conclusions and confirming the agreement of all parties.”
“Big job,” said Tristan. “You know what the difficulty is?”
“Sire?”
“It would have to be a prominent, respected person. If things get heated, he may have to refuse or even reprimand the highest-ranking personages in the Krylian Basin. Right?”
“Yes, that’s true,” agreed Fortin.
“But none of the important people there will wish to play that role because it will limit their ability to promote their own viewpoint.”
They were interrupted by a knock on the door. Dominic stuck his head in.
“Can I interrupt?”
“Of course,” said Tristan. “What’s up?”
Dominic entered the room and waved a roll of parchment at them.
“This just arrived from Blanchette. You won’t believe it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
CART traffic was sparse along the little track that meandered along the northern edge of La Maronne, but just as Féolan had concluded that he would have to carry Gabrielle all the way to the Skyway Outpost, a herd of sheep made their way down the path, followed by a weather-beaten shepherd p
ulling a hand cart piled with clothing, blankets and supplies.
There was no need to impress the man with Gabrielle’s lineage. He took one look at Gabrielle (“so fair, wan and wounded,” Féolan would joke, later), scratched at his ample beard as if deep in thought and began unpacking his wagon. Most items were tied into a blanket and slung over his back. Féolan and Derkh tucked what they could into their packs. With a grand gesture, their new friend motioned Gabrielle to the empty, and rather rickety-looking, hand cart.
“Will it do, Gabrielle?” asked Féolan, worried. “I think it’s only a few more miles, but that thing will be bumpy beyond belief, and there isn’t room to lie down.”
“They’re all bumpy beyond belief,” said Gabrielle. “Big or small. I wonder, though, if we might be able to rig up a little backrest. It would help if I had something to lean against.”
A pack filled with cloaks and blankets was tucked behind her, and she was soon being hauled down the road, legs dangling behind, surrounded by milling sheep.
It was the slowest part of the journey for Féolan. He could see Gabrielle tire from the effort of bracing herself against the pitch of the little cart, see her face tighten in pain with every rattle. He would rather have carried her, but after three hours of rocky downhill track he couldn’t manage much more.
Abruptly the wagon stopped, and with a yell the shepherd bolted off the track after a group of straying sheep. Féolan crouched in front of Gabrielle’s knees and looked up into her face. “How are you doing?” he asked.
“Let’s just say it’s not seskeesh travel,” said Gabrielle. “I’ll be bloody glad to get off this thing. But I’ll last.”
Their friend was stumping back, brandishing his hat behind four reluctant sheep. Waving off Derkh’s offer to take a turn, he hoisted up the handles of the cart and offered them a wide, gap-toothed smile. “Stupid beasts,” he said. And then, “Goin’ to the soldiers’ camp?” They were the first—and only—words he spoke to them.
Squinting into the late-afternoon sun, they rattled down the road.
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