Missed Connections (45 page)

Sure enough, Andar is restless as soon as the envoy leaves. Clef keeps an eye on him while he attends to other tasks, but Andar does not stop fidgeting. Finally, Clef's curiosity gets the better of him and he delivers Andar's afternoon meal himself.

"What has you so upset?" he asks, setting the tray upon Andar's lap. It's piled high with freshly baked flatbread, cheese, sliced bell peppers, a bowl of chickpea paste, and mint tea.

Andar is sitting up under his own power, the blankets pooling about his waist. He is shirtless, and the white bandages are crisp against his dark skin. He attacks the meal as though it were an enemy to defeat, crunching peppers between his teeth and ripping the flatbread into more manageable pieces. He is obviously agitated, scowling as he tears through the dough. Clef kneels next to his pallet and waits. He watches Andar sweep a piece of flatbread through the paste and plop it in his mouth.

"Well," Clef says. "It is good to see your appetite has returned in full force."

Andar pauses, another huge helping of chickpea paste balanced on a piece of bread. After a moment, he shoves it into his mouth. He has the grace to look contrite as he chews, scratching the stubble on his cheek. "I received a message from the front," he says. "For my victory on the causeway, they have promoted me to the Companions."

Clef feels his eyes widen of their own accord. The Companions are the Commander General's handpicked few—generals who answer only to the Commander General himself. Andar certainly deserves it; over the past week, he has had several visitors, all singing the praises of the one who had routed the South's causeway. "It is a great honor," Clef says. "Why do you look so distraught?"

"Because I am
here
," Andar says, slamming the bread back onto the tray. The tea sloshes, some of it spilling over. "What sort of Companion am I, lying in bed while the battle rages on?"

Clef puts his hands on his hips. "The sort who understands how little use you would be until you are healed."

"I am healed," Andar says, sounding petulant. "The wound feels much better. I can use the privy without difficulty."

"Yes, that is certainly the same as fighting a war."

Andar bristles, but recovers soon enough to deliver a harsh glare at Clef. "I am needed, I swore—"

Clef rides over him. "You swore to what? To protect your country? Well, I swore to protect the people who protect the country. It's your job to fight the war. It's my job to ensure you are capable of doing so. Until
I say otherwise
, you are exempt from duty."

For a moment, Clef is certain that Andar will retort, and that they will be arguing all afternoon. However, the fight leaves him with one great exhale, and he shakes with head with a chuckle. "Clef, you are… an obstinate man."

Despite himself, Clef grins. "I've heard every tale and every excuse. You soldiers are all the same, with your bravado and martyrdom. It will not work on me."

Andar tries, anyway. "I do outrank you, Brother."

"Out there, perhaps. In here, you do as I say."

"Obstinate
and
domineering," Andar says, not unkindly. He sighs, looking up Clef imploringly. "Will you at least let me assist around the basilica? I could carry boxes, fold linen—anything to get my muscles working again."

Clef hesitates, considering him. Andar has been following instructions to the letter, and he does look worlds better for it. So long as Clef assigns him menial tasks that won't result in straining the injury, he can't see the harm. At the very least, keeping busy will distract Andar from the fact that he cannot return to the front.

"All right," Clef says, leveling a finger at Andar's pleased expression. "Tomorrow, I'll have you handle folding the laundry. But I want you to promise me that you will cease immediately if you don't feel well. I mean it—you could set yourself back if you ignore the wound's protests."

Andar is already nodding, pulling apart some more flatbread. "Yes, yes, as you say. Thank you, Clef." He glances up, and gives Clef a genuine smile. "Really."

Clef finds himself smiling back. "Don't make me regret it."

*~*~*

Enlisting Andar's help around the basilica turns out to be a godsend. The North takes advantage of the South's temporary ceasefire, moving up against Embergrass troops. Thankfully, Crestfall is still far enough removed from the battlefield that Clef and his patients are not in any immediate danger. However, the casualties are high, and the sudden influx of injured soldiers has Clef and his clerics working around the clock. Andar is strong and capable, adapting easily to the numerous menial tasks Clef asks him to complete, freeing experienced clerics to more important work. Clef has kept an eye on him, noticing the way he walks while favoring his left side, but Andar has not once complained—and soon too much of Clef's time is monopolized for him to make a thorough inspection.

As always, Clef swallows his hunger, hides his exhaustion, and does his best to be the Elder Brother his clerics need. He ignores the way his vision blurs, the way his head pounds, and the increasingly troubling news from the Northern front lines. He has seen so many injured soldiers that he is surprised there is anyone left on the battlefield at all.

When a messenger rides ahead to tell him a cart of wounded will soon arrive, Clef fights the urge to weep.
The more ground we gain, the sooner we lose it.
He manages to nod, and dispatches Cerie and a few others to meet the cart and gauge the severity of the injuries. Clef heads to the desk in the main room so he can write down the date and time of the new arrivals.

"Elder Brother!" Cerie shouts from outside, startling Clef nearly out of his skin. "Please hurry!"

The icy fear in her voice has Clef running, nearly tripping over pallets in his haste to reach her. He brushes by Andar on the way, who barely manages not to drop his pile of linens. Clef races out the door, ignoring the way the cold wind whips about his face. Soldiers and clerics are working together, loading the injured onto litters in order to bring them inside, but Cerie is in the cart herself.

When Clef reaches her, she is kneeling over one of the patients. Her hands are covered in blood as she tries to stave off the oozing leg wound. She looks up at Clef with skin as white as a sheet. "She looked—so I checked and—"

Clef immediately realizes the severity of the injury and takes over, nearly shoving Cerie out of the way and shouting commands at her. "My tools, Cerie, quickly." She is gone before he finishes the sentence, and he rips the soldier's breeches further to get at the wound. The blood gushes out, coating Clef's hands in a thick layer. Whoever struck managed to slice the soldier's thigh, opening a vital artery and—
No.

Clef looks up, quickly masking his concern to give the soldier some encouragement, and his heart leaps to his throat. It's Elaeda. Her dark hair is matted to her head with dirt and blood, and her face is covered with dirt, but Clef recognizes her. She is unresponsive, head lolling to the side.
She's only been back in the field for a couple of weeks. She's only…

Cerie arrives, nearly stumbling into the cart in her haste. Clef seizes one of the rags and presses it against the wound. "Hold on," he says, pleading with her. "You're in good hands now, so hold on just a few minutes more." It's a miracle she has survived this long; something must have held off the blood loss before she arrived at the basilica.

"I'm sorry," Cerie is saying, panic-stricken. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to make it worse."

Clef has no time to console her. He tries to keep pressure on the wound while attempting to wrap the cloth around Elaeda's thigh. Someone puts a firm hand on his shoulder and squeezes. Clef shakes them off, gritting his teeth. The hand returns immediately, shaking him.

"Clef." It's Andar, sounding solemn. "Clef, she's not bleeding, she's…"

Slowly, Clef realizes that Andar is right. Blood is still oozing from her leg, but she is not bleeding profusely.
No.
He swallows thickly, scrambling to feel for her pulse.
No.
Nothing. She is gone. She has probably been gone for several minutes.
No!

He pitches the soiled rag across the cart in anger, vision blurring with tears of frustration. "Why did I save her, if only so she could die once again?
Fuck
this
thrice-be-damned
war!" From the corner of his eye, he can see Cerie quail, looking wretched. Clef tries to pull himself together, pinching the bridge of his nose with bloodied fingers.

"Clef," Andar says, reaching for him. "You did your—"

"Do not say it," Clef manages through clenched teeth. "Especially not when it wasn't good enough."

He pushes by both Andar and Cerie, marching back inside. He leaves Julia in charge, retreating to his quarters to collect himself. No one should see him like this. A savior should not look so hopelessly defeated.

*~*~*

Clef is not surprised when someone knocks on his door two hours later. He turns away from the window, shutting out the cold and making his way to the door. Seeing Andar on the other side is unexpected, though, and Clef finds himself staring at him for several moments.

Andar is balancing a tray on one hand and holding a bucket in the other. "May I come in?"

Dumbfounded, Clef moves aside, closing the door behind him. There is steam rising from the bucket, suggesting hot water. The tray is carrying bread, tea, and the thick lentil soup Clef knows they were preparing for today. "Andar, what is this?"

Andar makes a disappointed noise as he sets his burdens down on Clef's table. "Your confusion suggests that no one takes care of you often enough." He looks over his shoulder. "Come, wash up. Then you will eat. I have heard you do very little of that." When Clef continues to stare, Andar huffs in annoyance. "Quickly, now. The water will not stay hot forever—especially since you keep an arctic wind in here with you." He makes a face. "Why is it so cold?"

"Keeps me alert," Clef says quietly, pulling off his robes until he is bare to the waist. His skin rapidly pimples with gooseflesh. It's a relief to dip his hands in the water, and he washes methodically, scrubbing away blood and grime.

Andar hands him a small, rough towel. Clef pats himself dry before grabbing a clean white shirt. He grabs his diadem, as well. When he pulls them on, he feels much better, and the soup smells much more enticing.

"Have you eaten?" he asks, grabbing the bowl.

"Before I came up," Andar says. "It's all yours."

Clef eats slowly, savoring every bite, every spice. Andar remains, but he does not speak a word. Clef doesn't ask why he stays, and finds he does not mind the company. Once he's finished, he sighs with satisfaction. "Thank you."

Andar stares at his face for a long time. "You ought to rest more," he says simply.

Clef realizes that he's washed off his face powders, and probably looks like death warmed over. Suddenly self-conscious, he ducks his head. "You know I do not have time for that."

After a moment, Andar gives a bitter chuckle. "Yes. We are fond of giving advice we do not intend to follow."

"Advice we cannot afford to follow," Clef says to the floor. "The war pushes us beyond our limits."

Andar comes closer, surprising Clef by reaching out for his hair. "Is this war?" he asks, fingering one lock of silver. "Has it aged you?"

"No," Clef says. "That's just me."

"I like it," Andar says unexpectedly, releasing the strands to brush his fingers against Clef's cheek. Clef is leaning into the touch before he realizes it. By the time he thinks to move away, a tangible awkwardness has arisen between them.

"My apologies," he says, avoiding Andar's gaze.

"No," Andar says, firmly shaking his head. "It is I who should ask forgiveness. I did not intend—" he clears his throat, looking rueful. "The war brings out the barbarian in all of us."

Clef cocks his head, considering Andar's flushed skin. "Perhaps war merely forces us to abandon all pretenses."

Andar looks directly at him, brown eyes unwavering. "Perhaps." After a few seconds, when Clef is just suppressing the urge to shift beneath the gaze, Andar closes his eyes briefly. "I came to speak with you, as well."

This makes Clef frown. "Is something amiss?"

The hollow laughter that escapes Andar's throat startles them both. "I met with an envoy just now. The news she brought was troubling." At Clef's insistence, Andar elaborates. "Crestfall is not our only outpost to suffer heavy losses. I'm sure I don't have to tell you how the Mountaineers and Tendovians are slowly squeezing us dry. The Commander-General has asked if I am available for consultation. After some consideration, I've deemed it necessary to return to the Companions."

Clef is overcome with concern so quickly that the feeling surprises him. "But, your wound—"

"It is well enough."

"It isn't." Clef starts wringing his hands. Worry is rapidly giving way to frustration. "We both know you are not leaving to provide
consultation.
They're requesting the same leadership that saved Crestfall. You could do permanent damage to yourself, or worse."

"I could die," Andar says simply. "Or worse, so could we all. I will not sit idly by while Tendoves and the Red Mountains use us as pawns for their own empires. I intend to route the North and South myself, and force them to sue for peace."

"This is my duty, then?" Clef turns away from Andar's implacable expression, folding his arms to stop them from quivering with anger. "I'm to patch you up and send you off to your certain death?"

"Nothing is certain."

But it's too much after Elaeda. Clef runs his hands through his hair, fingers ripping through the tangles. With his clerics and patients, he has mostly been able to bottle the rage and despair. Andar has already seen too much, and Clef cannot hide from him. He feels helpless, cheated—and the feelings are compounded by the fact that Andar has come to defy him personally.

The warm, strong hands that grip his shoulders make Clef start. Andar holds him firmly, speaking softly into his ear. "I did not come here to belittle what you've done for me, Clef. I came to ask for your assistance."