Gordath Wood

by Patrice Sarath

  “She’s helping Talios, sir.”

  Good. He felt a measure of relief.

  “From now on she takes her evening meal with me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  That should cement her position in camp. Everyone would make the correct inference, and it would effectively separate her from the rest of the army.

  The wind buffeted the surgery tent, and Kate shivered. The tent kept out most of the cold, but the brazier could barely warm their hands as they wound thread for sewing wounds.

  She thought longingly of her ski gear back home, last season’s lift tags still on the zipper, and sighed. Talios threw her a look.

  “Too bad we don’t have buffalo chips.”

  He gave her another look, the one she got when she said something he didn’t understand. She said, “When the settlers went West, they crossed plains like this one, and they used dried buffalo dung for fuel for their fires.”

  “Hmmm. Your people tell the most fanciful stories.”

  She knew he was kidding, but it stung. “It’s true. And it’s not a story.”

  Except it kind of was. She remembered her history teacher, Mr. Winick, talking about the legends of the West and how they had changed America. “We are like no other nation,” he said, “because our myths are still half true. Wild Bill Hickock and Geronimo. OK Corral and Billy the Kid. Give it a thousand years,” he would say. “Then we can start talking about myths.”

  “Really.” Talios’s voice was so dry it almost crackled. “In your country there’s a creature whose dung produces fire?”

  She couldn’t help it; she giggled, the laugh turning into a cough. “Come on. You know what I mean. Don’t you have buffalo here? Big shaggy cows?”

  He shook his head. “No. What of these settlers? Where were they going? What did they settle?”

  He wanted the whole story? They traveled West and set up towns and farms all across North America, sometimes living in peace with the native people, usually stealing their land and calling on the army to back them up. They brought disease, death, and disaster to native tribes and called it progress. Killed their way of life, trampled on their beliefs. Said it was in the name of God.

  Built the most powerful nation in the world. Perhaps many worlds.

  Kate sat poised between the two stories, the one she had been taught from grade school on, and the one Talios would understand, the tale of conquest, of a triumphant nation.

  I am part of that nation.

  As clearly as if the tent flap opened into the wintry evening, she saw two roads before her. She could accept the role that was being laid out for her, consigning her, if she were lucky, to a small, short life as a soldier’s wife, or to a more brutish existence. Or she could take all her potential and put it to use as her parents intended. She could still go into public service, accomplish great things to great acclaim. Just not exactly the way they had all expected it to go.

  She could barely articulate the possibilities, but for a moment, just a moment, she saw herself as she might become in Aeritan, rejecting the easy myth for the harder truths and bringing something of value to this strange world. She could become great here.

  Talios was looking at her with mild interest. She coughed again, swallowing against a dull ache in her throat. “Talios,” she said, “can you teach me how to read and write?”

  By the time Grayne came to get her, darkness had fallen. He found them at a table littered with scraps of ink-stained paper, heads together under the lamplight. Kate looked up, trying to rub the ink from her fingers. Talios sat back.

  “Lieutenant. What errand have you been sent on this time?”

  “The general wants her.”

  Kate looked between the two men. Even in the shadows she could tell something was wrong.

  “I see. You’ve been promoted, then. From errand boy to procurer,” Talios said, his voice savage.

  “You should know all about that, Talios,” the lieutenant spat.

  Talios laughed sourly. “Hit a nerve, Lieutenant? Go ahead, take her. Go ahead, my lady—” He jerked his head toward the door flap. “Humor him. The General’s in enough of a bad way that you’re in little danger. Just stay out of reach, and you’ll be fine.” At her faint gasp, he snapped, “God’s sake, girl, show some backbone!” Almost immediately, though, he relented. “You will be fine. Come back tomorrow, and we’ll continue our lessons.”

  Kate fumbled to her feet and followed Grayne out into the night. A cold blast of arctic—no, she told herself, northern— wind caught her under her shirt, and she shivered and hastened after Grayne toward the soft glow of warmth that was Marthen’s tent. She still could not believe Talios’s cavalier attitude, but gathered up her determination anyway. If Marthen tried anything, then she would just kick him in the ribs.

  Marthen sat stiffly on his bed, propped up, wearing slippers instead of his tall boots. His middle was thicker, the bandages making him look big around the belly. She nodded nervously.

  “Sit,” he said with his usual curtness. She sank onto the low camp stool, edging it as close to the door as possible. Meat steamed in the shallow dish on the table. His dinner was on a tray on his lap.

  They ate in silence, and Kate relaxed some. Talios was right; Marthen was still incapacitated. She couldn’t imagine him trying anything. She wondered how he would manage to ride, if they had to move out. Maybe that’s why we’re stuck out here, she thought.

  She felt him watching her and looked up. His eyes were dark spots in the dim lamplight. She suppressed a shiver of revulsion. He seemed so monstrous, even as helpless as he was, with his bulky torso. He had always struck her as a little . . . off-center. Now I think he’s getting crazier. The silence was driving her crazy now, and she swallowed against the soreness in her throat.

  “Thanks for inviting me to dinner,” she said. The words sounded too loud in the silent tent. Kate listened to what she said, and winced. Lame, much?

  He didn’t say anything, and she took a breath and went back to the mushy meat on her small plate. Marthen’s orderly had made small biscuits to go with the meal, and she picked one up and wiped up the sauce with it. It was surprisingly good, and for the two bites it took to eat it, she gave it her full attention.

  “Go,” he said. Mouth full, Kate jerked her attention back to Marthen. He said nothing more, and she got to her feet, chewing hurriedly.

  “Thank you,” she said again. “Good night.”

  For a moment she hesitated, and his expression changed: fury and something else. She fled, practically tearing through the tent flap. Once outside, she breathed deeply in the cold air, then turned toward her little tent.

  She almost bumped into Colar. He stood there in the darkness, just having come from the tent he shared with his father, wrapped in his warm jacket. Kate took a step back, too startled to say a word. He said nothing, too, and they parted, but not before Kate could see by the turn of his body that he looked to see where she had come from.

  Not the latrines—that was where he was going.

  Kate burned with shame. He had just seen her come out of the general’s tent.

  The temperature sank steadily throughout the day, so that as Lynn and Crae approached the hills that led to Trieve, she had to zip up her red vest to her chin. The cold wind tore at her hair and went through her fine, thin shirt, the slit sleeve flapping around Crae’s crude bandage. It hurt. She had all she could do to concentrate on staying in the saddle. The pain was a constant that took all of her attention. If she moved her arm unduly, she wanted to scream. Crae fashioned a sling, and that helped, but she still rode almost in a stupor.

  They could not go faster than a brisk walk. Crae had tried to move them out, pushing the horses into a smooth lope, but Lynn had almost fallen after a few moments, and so without a word between them they kept the horses at a walking pace. At least, Lynn thought, leaning forward in the saddle to help Silk up a steep grade, we haven’t had to stop and rest them as often.

  The sky had c
louded over as the day eased toward evening. It feels like snow, she thought. She could almost smell it in the air. The foothills rose toward a jagged line of mountains on the horizon, and the whole effect was chill and dour.

  He turned and glanced at her, one hand on his horse’s hindquarters. “How are you?”

  “Morphine’s sounding good.” At his look she added, “I’m okay. Let’s not talk.”

  He regarded her a moment longer, then nodded and turned, giving Briar his heel. A few moments later, he pulled up again, and she drew Silk up next to him. They stood at the top of a rise along the road, following as it rose in a series of hills up to a terraced mountain, about six or seven miles away, as best Lynn could estimate. A large house topped the hill, a few lights already twinkling. The road dipped and curved but mostly rose like a pale dirt ribbon through scrub forest and pastureland divided by tumbled rock walls.

  The road itself was broken and jagged, the ancient paving stones crumpled upward and cracked. It was hard to tell because of the terrain, but once Lynn knew what to look for, she could detect the rolling waves of dirt caused by the earthquake in Gordath Wood. The series of upthrust earth traversed the fields and cut athwart the road, disappearing in the distance.

  Lynn broke the silence first. “Are we too late?”

  Crae glanced back at her. “I think if we can still ask that question, we’re not.” He shrugged the least amount. “I don’t know how much time we have, for sure.”

  She nodded. “Stupid question anyway.” She pointed her chin at the distant house. “Trieve, right?”

  “Trieve. Where you will be well cared for. I promise.”

  “Okay.” She thought that if she could just get out of the damn saddle, she would be happy enough with that.

  Are we too late ? Crae thought his reply bespoke too much wishful thinking, but he had no other. He squinted through the darkening afternoon at the lights shining from the House of Trieve. A welcome sight indeed, but if the earthquakes had made it this far, he wasn’t sure what they would find when they topped the terraces and knocked on Lady Jessamy’s front door. And he had promised Lynn she would be well cared for.

  He glanced over at her. She huddled in her red vest like a bird in winter, hunkering down against the cold. Her dove-gray skirt was bedraggled and muddy where it draped over her fine boots, and her uncovered hair was damp with mist. Tendrils curled wildly around her face. Her hands were rough, and the cold had raised the color in her cheeks and also touched her nose with a bright shade of red.

  She did not look like the type of guest Jessamy was used to. Maybe she should cover her hair, he thought a bit guiltily. But no—that would raise other questions, such as her family, her holdings, whether she was noble or smallholder.

  Whether she was pledged to Crae. He felt warmth creep up his cheeks. He didn’t know what would be worse—that Jessamy would assume that he had made a match or that she would know that Lynn was unworthy of one.

  At least, his pragmatic side pointed out, Lynn would be unaware of that particular insult. And not even Jessamy could fail to give welcome and protection to her, if Crae asked for it.

  When they reached the bottom of the terraces, Crae halted.

  He always marveled at the engineering that went into the steps, a staircase for giants. He dismounted, throwing his reins over Briar’s head. “Stay in the saddle,” he told Lynn. “This is not any easy climb.”

  She nodded. “You’d think the stairs would make it easier.”

  Crae shook his head. “It’s one of Trieve’s defenses,” he said, and they began walking up. “Deceptive, how hard it is to ride up this hill.”

  Lynn made a disparaging noise. “First Red Gold Bridge, now this. You people don’t seem to like your neighbors.”

  If you only knew, he thought. “We have our reasons,” he said, his words coming short as the climb steepened. “And Red Gold Bridge is walled for another reason.”

  “The gordath.”

  He nodded without speaking, concentrating on the steps. Lynn leaned forward, taking her weight off Silk’s back, and he noted it, even as his breath came short and he began to curse the imaginative Trieve builders.

  In front of the wide gates Crae stopped, breathing hard and leaning against Briar. Lynn kicked her feet from the stirrups and slipped from the saddle, crying out as she accidently jostled her arm. Both horses stood like lumps, their sides bellowing. As they recuperated, a small woman came running out to meet them, her cheerful blue kerchief slipping back from her forehead. She wore a dark blue dress, its split skirt floating around her. “Crae!” she shouted. “Crae!” Behind her a group of men and women spilled out of the house, hurrying after her.

  Crae started to bow, but Jessamy would have none of it. She reached up and gave him a vigorous hug. Then she stepped back and said, “What do you think you are doing, leaving your commission and Stavin behind to go to war without you?”

  Ah, yes. He should have known she’d have something to say. “Jessamy—” he started, but she shook her head.

  “There’s nothing you can say that will convince me.” She was as tart as ever.

  “Jessamy, we beg guesting from you. This is Lynna, a foreigner in Aeritan. She is hurt and needs attention.”

  He watched with growing dismay as she turned toward Lynn, taking in Lynn’s bare head and wild, unkempt hair, then the rest of her. Lynn straightened under her regard, and gave her back stare for stare. “Lady Jessamy,” she said, and he was reminded anew of her uncouth accent. “I am pleased to meet you.”

  Jessamy made no response. She turned to Crae. “I see you have a story to tell. Well, come in, Crae, for we have much to talk about.” She gestured to one of the men waiting by the gate. “Take the horses, please.”

  She turned to go when he caught her by the elbow. “We both ask for guesting, Jessamy.”

  Her displeasure turned to shock and anger. He shook his head slightly, and her protest died. Finally, though, she did what he expected, though he knew he would hear no end of it. She took both of their hands in her small rough ones and took a deep breath.

  “You are welcome here, guests of Trieve. Let no harm come to you within these walls.”

  He bowed, and Lynn copied him clumsily.

  A man came to take the horses, and they followed Lady Trieve’s rigid back into her home.

  The front doors opened onto the great room as he remembered it, a barren entry hall with a gray stone floor and stone walls that rose about five feet from the floor. The wall facing the terraces had a few glazed windows, the small panes of wavy glass set in carved moldings rising almost to the tall ceiling. At the other end of the room stood a dais with a long, plain wooden table and chairs. It was covered with papers and ledgers.

  “Crae,” Jessamy said over her shoulder as she headed toward the dais. “You have your old room. We haven’t moved anything, though Stavin said that we should just dump it all out, you visit so rarely. Calyne, see to our visitor.”

  A woman with sternly covered hair came forward and smiled at Lynn. “You look terribly hurt. Come. We’ll find a warm bed and have the doctor look. He’s got a knack with breaks and has worked wonders with the livestock.”

  “Oh,” Lynn said faintly. “Well. I suppose so long as he doesn’t think I need to be put down.” She threw Crae a backward glance as the woman put an arm around her and led her off in a gathering crowd of women.

  He nodded reassuringly. “I’ll come look for you later. You’re in good hands,” he said.

  She had time to smile before she was swept away.

  The great room emptied, and it was just Crae and Jessamy. His best friend’s wife looked up at him, the kerchief sliding off her head. Impatiently, she reknotted it.

  “Tell me what is going on, Crae.”

  If only I knew where to begin, he thought. “We need your guardian, Jessamy.”

  The women tucked Lynn into a short bed that barely contained her length, clucking at the state of her. With a chorus of “You p
oor dear,” and “There, there,” they helped her off with her boots and her clothing, making small cries at the ruined shirt. “I can mend this,” one of the ladies said, taking a professional interest in the seams and the buttons. Lynn cried out when they removed her sling, but they soon had her in a warm, billowy nightdress and turned down the covers. Someone put a bed warmer down at the foot of the bed, and she slid in gratefully, almost bursting into tears. The bed was hard, but the blankets were warm and the pillows more than adequate.

  Everyone looked up when the livestock doctor came in, filling the room with his heavy boots and big jacket. He sat down on the edge of the bed and unwrapped her arm.

  “Hmmm,” he said, holding it with rough hands that matched his craggy face. Lynn took a deep breath, trying to let her tension go. Before she could react, he pulled the break straight. It hurt beyond anything she could imagine, and she almost screamed at the top of her lungs. “Right. Needs a splint, bandages, a healing draft, and you’ll be right as rain in a month.”

  She had been mostly joking earlier, about the morphine. Now, not so much.

  When they finished and let her be, all she wanted to do was sleep. The medicine they made her drink tasted of herbs and honey. The room was dim, only a little fire crackling on the hearth. The shutters clattered against the wind, but the room was warm, as was the bed. Lynn lay propped up against the pillows, her splinted arm resting on another pillow, and let herself sink into sleep. Calyne rested at the foot of the bed in a little chair, her feet propped up before the fire, a quiet, comforting presence.

  Lynn was barely aware when the door opened, a little lantern light slipping in the doorway. Someone spoke to Calyne in a low voice.

  “She is resting,” she heard. “The doctor said it will heal well.”

  Again the voice, and Calyne opened the door a little wider. Lynn heard someone come in, felt them approach and bend over her. “Heal well, Lynna,” he whispered, and she smiled.

  “Joe,” she whispered drowsily, and fell into sleep.