“If rabbit—” Franse mimed a rabbit running away “—out of garden, you stay,” Franse cautioned gruffly, then went back into the cave. “No walk, you. No run, you.” He came out again with a crude wheelbarrow and a rake, going out past where the bushes started to rake up leaves, stuff them into net bags and load them on the wheelbarrow. Mags stayed where he was. The cat came out, jumped up on the bench beside him, and curled up in the sun for a nap.
After a couple of trips it was obvious that Franse was bringing the leaves in to pile them on top of some of the plants still in his garden. Mags had seen the gardeners at the Palace do that with some of the flowerbeds, so he assumed that this protected them against the cold.
He started to get up to help, but Franse waved him brusquely back. The second time he tried, Franse glared at him.
“Not Healer am I” he said crossly. “Not to be hurt my work. Not to be hurt the Sun’s work.”
Well, that seemed to settle it.
Mags wished rather desperately that his Mindspeech were working. Franse seemed to know he was a Trainee, and from Valdemar, and Franse himself was a Karsite priest, yet why wasn’t he trussed up and waiting to be turned over to the Karsite authorities? Why, in fact, had Franse just given him a weapon and ordered him to shoot rabbits, when he could probably use the thing to hurt Franse, or even kill him?
Franse didn’t seem to think much of other Karsite priests either. Mags knew that there were priests of many sorts that went off to be hermits, and given Franse’s apparent misanthropy, he seemed to be the sort of fellow who would do that; but if that was the case, why rescue anyone, much less someone he knew was an enemy of Karse?
This was all terribly puzzling, and Mags was left to sit there on a bench in the sun and try to sort it out without a lot of clues to go on. So he sat with an arrow nocked loosely to the bow as Franse moved out of sight with his barrow. Evidently the leaves weren’t all he was going after today.
Then a little bit of movement under the leaves of the bushes ringing the garden caught his eye.
Cautiously, a rabbit eased partly into sight. It looked around, nose quivering. Mags knew better than to move; rabbits had excellent vision all around their heads, and his best chance at a shot would be if it put its head down behind something to eat. He’d practiced this sort of thing on the target range. If he could see any part of it, he’d know where the chest was, and the chest was his target.
It eased a little more into sight, stretching its neck out. There was something in particular that it wanted, but it was not sure it was safe to get it yet.
Then it sat up tall on its hind legs and took a good look around in all directions. Mags remained very still. There wasn’t any sort of breeze, so there was nothing to carry his scent to it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the cat watching it, also not moving.
Satisfied, the rabbit dropped back down to all fours and hopped slowly into the garden, moving with great caution.
Then came the moment Mags had been waiting for. The rabbit put his head behind a huge, green leaf.
Mags was pleased to find his aim was still good.
He started to get up, but the cat jumped down, stood in front of him, and glared at him for a moment. Startled, he remained where he was. The cat sauntered over to the garden and ducked behind the leafy vegetable. A moment later it came out again, head high, with the rabbit’s neck in its mouth. It carried the rabbit, arrow and all, right to Mags, then dropped it at his feet and darted off again.
He had just pulled out the arrow and cleaned it when the cat returned with a small, sharp knife (held by the handle) in its teeth.
This time it stood there looking at him with the knife in its mouth until he took it. It sat down and watched him expectantly.
Well, what else was there to do?
He skinned the rabbit and cleaned it, bundling the meat in the skin to keep it clean and keep the bugs away, and then offered the cat the offal and the head, which Reaylis cheerfully accepted and ate. Well, it ate the offal; it took the head and sauntered off with it. Mags wasn’t sure what it was going to do with the head. Save it for later, like a dog? Find a sharpened stake just outside the garden and impale it there as a warning to other rabbits? Given what he had seen from this cat already, he would not be in the least surprised to find a row of staked vermin skulls out there on the other side of the hedge surrounding the garden.
Just as he was considering these possibilities, Franse returned with a wheelbarrow full of acorns. His eyes lit up as he spotted the bundle of fur on the bench beside Mags.
“Ha! Triumph!” he crowed. “Good hunter you are! Ha!” He took the bundle and went into the cave, coming out only a moment later. “Tearing hurts you were not?” he asked, in a voice that was almost accusing.
“The cat did all the work,” Mags said. Franse nodded as if this was something to be expected. “He took the head away, too,” Mags added.
Franse shrugged. “Reaylis does what Reaylis will do,” he replied. “Food is to being soon. With meat!”
The priest trundled the barrow full of acorns into the cave. Mags waited to see if another rabbit would appear, but by the time Franse came back and signaled that he was to come back inside, nothing had turned up but the cat.
The priest waved him in the direction of the little chamber where his bed was, and he wondered with a twinge if he had usurped the poor fellow’s bed. And if so, how was he to make amends?
Franse came in with the usual bowl and mug, but there was a look of intense satisfaction on his face as he handed both to Mags, who was sitting cross-legged on the fur blanket. Mags’ mouth watered as he smelled the savory meat in the bowl; it was some sort of beet soup or stew, nothing like anything he’d ever had before, and his stomach registered its approval with a loud growl.
The priest actually grinned a little, then went out and came back with a bowl and a mug for himself. “Now, shoot you, we like men can eat!” he said happily.
Mags blinked. “Not a good hunter, are you?” he ventured.
Franse sucked the meat off the section of ribs he was holding, licked them dry, and grimaced. “No good hunter, I,” he admitted. “Only Reaylis hunter is.”
Well, then, that was what he could do to make amends. “Do you know how to dry meat?” he asked cautiously. “Or smoke it?”
“Aye, aye, I am to being dry fish and vegetables and in smoke hang,” the priest assured him, and bit into the leg with strong, white teeth. “Reaylis brings not enough to smoke.”
Well, the bow and arrows would be good for small game. Mags wasn’t about to try for anything bigger than a goose with it, though. He decided to broach the subject of the sleeping arrangements. “I hope I didn’t take your bed . . .” he began, tentatively.
“Eh?” The priest looked startled.
“Now that I am getting better, I can sleep by the fire,” Mags elaborated. “If this is where you sleep, I can sleep by the fire.”
The cat sauntered in just as he said that, and cat and priest exchanged a long look. Understanding came over the priest’s face. “Ah! No, is—” he looked at the cat again. “Is old bed. I am to be having bed of Old Harald.”
Oh, well that was all right, then. Mags felt very much better about the arrangement. He had to wonder, though, if Franse was such a bad hunter, who had shot the enormous bears that had provided the furs for the bed? Had it been Old Harald?
Well, he’s a priest, maybe people give him things. Or he gets them from the temple. Or they belonged to his former Master.
Franse offered the cat the other leg from his bowl, but the cat wasn’t interested. “Is not to be liking—” Franse fished a bit of beet from his bowl and held it up.
“Beets,” Mags supplied.
“Ah! Reaylis not liking beets,” Franse explained, and he demolished the las
t quarter with relish.
Mags was very, very conscious that he had a considerable debt to discharge here, before he could even think about trying to get back to Valdemar. He was also conscious that he faced a danger he hadn’t even been aware of when he’d escaped—because he didn’t think he’d be able to face off one of those demons again, and he knew he was unlikely to be rescued by someone like Franse a second time. But first things first: Discharge the debt.
He slowly became aware as he finished his meal that the pain of his wounds was increasing, and Franse must have seen that in his face. The priest hastily slurped the last of his broth, collected their crockery, and hurried out, coming back with a pot that smelled very familiar. Mags was certain that several of Bear’s salves and balms smelled exactly like that. The man gestured to Mags to take off his shirt, which Mags did, a bit self-consciously, only to be surprised at the fact that his entire torso was wrapped in bandages, as well as both arms. How had the priest managed all that alone?
Franse unwrapped his chest and back first, and Mags tried not to wince at the extent of the lacerations. Neat lines of stitches showed that some of them had been bad enough to require sewing up. But they were healing, and quickly, and there was no sign of infection. It appeared that all the lacerations were on his chest and shoulders. This man might not call himself a Healer, but he was certainly every bit as good as Bear, and maybe better.
Franse handed him the pot and mimed him spreading the creamy yellow salve inside the pot on his chest wounds. Franse dipped his fingers in the pot and worked on Mags’ shoulders while Mags took care of the rest. When his chest was rebandaged, they took care of his arms. Franse mimed, face going a little red, that he was going to have to take care of his legs himself. “Must to being make morning eat,” he muttered, and hurried out.
It gave him a very strange, slightly shuddery feeling to work on his own wounds this way, to see the damage under his hands. It wasn’t bad on his calves, but his thighs had some tears that could have killed him if they’d gone deeper.
Good thing he’d been able to keep it somewhat away with that torch.
When the priest came back, Mags handed him the pot, and he handed Mags another mug. “To be make sleep,” he explained, at Mags inquiring look. Mags hesitated, but only a moment. After all, Franse had had ample opportunity to do whatever he wanted by this point. If the priest had wanted him dead, the simplest thing to do would simply have been to let the demon do it. And if he’d wanted Mags incapacitated, he could have tied him up. He drank the bitter stuff down and got into the bed again, feeling the salve killing the pain in his wounds and the medicine in the tea starting to work on him.
He deliberately was not allowing himself to dwell on how far he was from home, how hard it would be to get there. Right now he couldn’t even move outside the garden, so right now the very best thing he could do would be to let the medicine make him sleep and do whatever he could to heal his wounds. Worry about leaving once he had the ability to leave.
He drifted off to sleep hearing Franse in the main room, droning away aloud. Prayers, he assumed. After all, the man was a priest . . .
* * *
He woke to the sound of something that sounded a lot more joyful than the droning of last night, a song that lifted his heart and put a smile on his lips without him being able to understand a word. Franse was evidently a good singer as well as a very devout fellow; whatever this morning hymn was saying, he was putting a lot of feeling into it. His voice was a rich tenor, and the song made Mags think of the songs on Midwinter Eve in Valdemar.
Mags got up and went out into the main room, where he found a crude basin ready for him on a little table right by the doorway, something that looked like soap, and a rough towel, as well as the pot of salve and a roll of new, clean bandages. That was what told him that it was all for his use.
He felt much better after a good wash; the stuff wasn’t soap, but it was a root that cleansed in much the same way as soap did. He rebandaged his arms and legs and left his chest to do last, and Franse arrived from outside in good time to do the actual bandaging.
Franse took the basin away or, rather, started to, and that was when Mags noticed that he was . . . well . . . just a little clumsy. He tripped several times in the rough floor, saving himself each time with a muttered curse. He went out to dump out the water in the basin, and when he came back, he started to put the basin down just a little short of the shelf it was supposed to fit on. Mags was close enough to make a lurch for it and save it—and that was when he understood why Franse was not, and would never be, any sort of a hunter.
“You don’t see very well, do you?” he asked, breaking the silence.
Franse shrugged.
Mags thought about this. “There are things,” he said, slowly. “Round pieces of glass. They can be put on your face in front of your eyes so you can see better.” He made circles with his thumbs and forefingers and mimed Bear’s lenses.
Franse gave him a look full of skepticism. “How?” he asked, squinting at Mags doubtfully.
“Like . . . like jewelry!” Mags replied. “Wire or wood around the lenses, wire behind the ears or leather tied so—” He mimed that as well. Did the Karsites have long-vision tubes? He thought they might. “You know the tubes? Generals have them, that can make far things look near?”
But Franse shook his head. “Not for the seeing of generals, me,” he replied without rancor. “Not Old Harald, not me. We are low—low—no great ones come to us.” he brought his hand down to the floor.
“Humble,” Mags offered.
“Aye.” Franse sighed. “Humble. Such things . . .” He shook his head.
His attitude suggested that while he understood what Mags was telling him, that there was some object that would allow him to see clearly, he didn’t think someone like him would ever be allowed to have it.
“My friend has such a thing,” Mags said, because suddenly he realized how he might get himself safely back home. If Franse could be persuaded to come with him, in return for a pair of spectacles, he could go in the disguise of Franse’s servant or helper. He already knew how to play at being a deaf-mute. He would never have to say a word. Franse could do all of the talking; surely people would give them food, or there would be food and shelter at the temples . . .
Why, they might even be able to get donkeys or even horses and get to the Border in no time!
“Aye?” Franse looked glum. “A demon-horse rider not humble is . . .”
“He’s not a d—not a Herald,” Mags corrected. “He’s a Healer, but he does all of his healing as you do, with herbs and salves. No—” he closed his eyes as Healers often did to concentrate, held out his hands flat, and wiggled the fingers to suggest the Gift working. “Only herbs, knives, needles, salves, bandages.”
“Aye?” Interest returned. “And he such a thing is given?”
“So he can see well to make his medicines,” Mags explained. “It is not easy to make such a thing in Valdemar, but it is not difficult either. A humble man could have such a thing.”
“But I am not a Healer of the North.” Franse’s face fell again.
“But I must get home safely,” Mags said, very quietly.
Franse gave him a sharp glance, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned to the fire and ladled out big bowls full of acorn-and-berry porridge for both of them. Finally, Franse produced spoons. Mags was relieved; he was beginning to think Franse didn’t possess such a thing. But it appeared that he had two at least, besides the big one in the pot, all three carved of wood and dark with age and use.
He helped with the cleaning of the place as best he could, moving stiffly and carefully to keep from hurting himself. He discovered that Franse had some pretty clever solutions to not being able to see well—keeping the medicinal and culinary herbs in two separate cave-chambers, for in
stance. Franse had a broom, and unlike Franse, Mags could actually see where the dirt and dust-balls were. When he was done, the floor was cleaner than it had been in a long time. To his great disappointment, he got tired very quickly. But he did manage to get another rabbit, this one just outside the garden, and two squirrels from trees that overhung it. The cat fetched all three like a dog. They ate very well that night, then sat quietly at the fire. Franse wove rope by feel; Mags carved a spoon. He could certainly understand why Franse only had two. Carving a spoon wasn’t that hard, but when you lived alone, the last thing you wanted to do was to cut your hand. Even if you were as good with herbs and the like as Franse, having to do things one-handed could make things very difficult.
Franse was awkward as company as well as physically, and it wasn’t just because his Valdemaran was pretty scant and mostly limited to telling Mags what to do. More and more, Mags got the feeling that Franse was a hermit not only because he had served with a hermit, but by virtue of his very nature. He liked silence. He liked doing things alone. He just wasn’t very good with people, and he was extremely shy. Although . . . that might have been because he was so self-conscious about not being able to see.
In fact, unless Mags was very much mistaken, he probably had more and longer conversations with the cat than he had ever had with people, including his former master.
And then there was the cat . . .
Now, Mags didn’t know anything at all about Vkandis Sunlord. He didn’t think too many Valdemarans did, unless there were some followers of this god who, for whatever reason, had gone across the Border to set up in Valdemar. But he did know this: Not once had he ever heard about a Karsite priest helping a Herald or a Herald Trainee. Karsite priests were usual right in the front lines, sending curses and other nastiness at the Valdemaran troops. Not once had he ever heard of a Karsite priest invoking the blessings of Vkandis on a Valdemaran. Yet Franse had done all that. And Mags had the distinct impression it had been at the direction—even the urging—of that cat.
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