Redoubt (29 page)

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 instance. 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.

The cat, if he understood Franse correctly, was something like a Companion, but he’d
never heard of mobs of cats accompanying the Sunpriests into battle against Valdemar,
and something
that
odd would certainly be noticed.

Vkandis had helped, had blessed, him, a Herald. He’d felt that himself. He’d
felt
a warm force, a great and powerful force, joining with him to drive off the chill
poison of the demon’s claw marks. Something
that
odd had never happened before to his knowledge; he was certain if it ever had, the
smallest child in Valdemar would be aware of it.

There was something in this equation that he was missing, and he wished desperately
for Mindspeech so he could ask directly.

But at the moment it was looking as if he might as well wish for a gryphon to fly
him home. He was just as likely to get the one as the other.

12

F
ranse did not bring up the subject of eye lenses again. Then again, Mags was in no
shape to travel yet. His second morning in the priest’s home was much like the first,
although he did exert himself to hunt squirrels outside the garden with Franse’s nodded
permission. He had to lie down and sleep, or at least rest, right after the noon meal,
which was convenient for Franse, since he did some sort of prayer or ceremony he was
somewhat secretive about at that same time.

A lot of the awkwardness of the previous night was gone. Franse was warming to him
(and he to Franse!) a lot faster than he would have thought. He decided that some
of the priest’s apparent misanthropy
was
nothing more than shyness. Some
was
acute embarrassment over his own clumsiness. The more time Mags spent with him, however,
the more a latent hunger for company seemed to awaken in him.

And that cat . . . was abetting that.

The third day proved that.

After a long staring session with the cat just after breakfast, Franse abruptly announced
that he was going to show Mags where there were birds to hunt for meat, and the two
of them had ended up at a secluded pond Mags would never have guessed was there. Not
only did Mags manage to bag several ducks and a goose, but Franse was able to teach
him how to fish, so they returned to the cave with not only dinner but provisions
to smoke and dry for the winter.

The cat highly approved of the bird guts and heads, and the guts, heads, and tails
of the fish. Franse was happy with the feathers and promptly used all of the body
feathers to restuff a flat pillow. Mags saved the flight feathers to redo the fletching
on the arrows, grateful that this was a basic skill every Trainee learned early.

This put the young priest in a very good mood, though mostly that consisted of smiling
at Mags shyly, motioning at the duck in their stew, and saying “Is good!” a lot, with
Mags nodding in agreement.

He was beginning to think about trying to broach the idea of him leaving as soon as
the larder was full of meat and fish. With two people fishing, that part would go
pretty fast, and the small animals and waterfowl around here seemed to be utterly
unaware that a human could actually kill them. Probably because with his bad eyesight,
Franse would have to be within a horse length of them to hit them. The expedition
to the pond had gone well, Mags’ wounds were sealed, and he was feeling more energetic—and
he couldn’t put this off for too much longer. Trying to get through these mountains
in winter would be a nightmare.

He still wasn’t sure how he was going to avoid the demons . . . but maybe Franse had
some sort of talisman or could make some object holy to Vkandis that would protect
him.

Or maybe—he could go back to his first idea. Franse could seal up the cave for a few
days or a fortnight and come with him. That would make things both easier
and
faster, if he would.

He caught the cat and Franse staring at each other again during dinner and sighed,
knowing what they were doing. Mindspeaking. Things would be so much easier if he could
Mindspeak again! They both turned to look at him. “What is?” Franse asked, looking
concerned.

“Oh . . . I used to be able to do that,” he said without thinking. At Franse’s puzzled
look, he added, “Head-talk,” and pointed from Franse to Reaylis and back.

“So?” Franse looked startled and went into another of those staring sessions with
the cat. Then he looked back at Mags. “Reaylis saying is, you are—” he waved his hand
in the air between them, miming a wall. “He tries head-talk, nothing.”

Mags looked back at them, intensely frustrated. How could he explain that he had been
kidnapped, drugged, and hauled into Karse against his will, and he didn’t know if
it was a hit on the head, the drugs, or something else entirely that had stolen his
Mindspeech?

“I got hurt. Before demon,” he said, finally, and mimed someone hitting him on the
back of the head. It was as good an explanation as any, and what was Franse going
to be able to do about it, anyway? He was like Bear, he didn’t have a Healing Gift,
and Mags had no idea if the drugs had been gone from him long enough that they shouldn’t
be affecting his Mindspeech or not. If they weren’t, it wasn’t something Franse could
fix, and if it was the drugs, without knowing what drugs they were in the first place,
how could Franse counter them?

Franse’s face in the candlelight grew very thoughtful, but he said nothing. They both
finished the meal with a great deal of content, all things considered. They even had
a sweet afterward: crab apples baked all day in a little honey on the hearth. It was
wonderful to have something sweet, but he really missed breads. The closest thing
that Franse could manage was acorn flour, which wasn’t really even close.

“Do you ever help people on a farm or village around here?” he asked, as they both
chased the last tiny bits of honey out of their bowls with their fingers. You didn’t
waste food in Franse’s house, table manners be damned.

He shook his head. “Was village near. Gone.” His face closed in. “Black-robes.”

Those were the Karsite priests he had cursed before, and this was the second time
he had demonstrated contempt, even hatred for those who should have been his brothers.
There was something going on here that was very important for Nikolas to know; the
problem was . . . how was he to get it out of Franse? Franse would probably tell him,
but how could he ask the right questions?

“Can you tell me about the black-robes?” he urged, but Franse only looked frustrated
and spread his hands. “No—” and he mimed speaking with one hand.

Mags sighed. “You don’t have the words.”
Dammit. I think I really, really need to know everything about this. And he’d tell
me if he could. But I can’t understand him.

Franse only sighed. “Sleep,” he suggested.

Mags nodded. Maybe sleep would improve things.

Maybe when he woke up, his Mindspeech would be back.

Maybe a gryphon
would
appear to carry him to Valdemar . . .

As he climbed into his bed, another thought occurred to him. If Vkandis had helped
him in the fight with the demon, maybe Vkandis approved of him finding out what was
going on.

So before he drank his mug of medicinal tea and pulled the fur blankets up over himself,
he thought, very, very hard.
Vkandis Sunlord, if ye want something heard, I’ll be yer messenger, but yer gonna
haveta help me hear it m’self.

* * *

There was a heavy weight on his chest. A terribly heavy weight on his chest. It felt
like a warm bag full of apples. Or bricks wrapped in fur. Or—

He opened his eyes. It was dark, very dark, and Franse had long since put out the
lanterns and the candles in the main chamber. He shouldn’t have been able to see.
But he could. The heavy weight on his chest was the cat, and every hair on it was
glowing, faintly. Its eyes were glowing too, a deep, luminous blue, just like a Companion’s
eyes. Just like Dallen’s eyes.

The cat stared hard into his face, pupils dilated to pinpricks. He stared back and
found himself falling into those blue, blue eyes, just as he had fallen into Dallen’s
eyes when he had first been Chosen . . .

But this time was different. This time, it wasn’t as if he were joining something.
This time it was as if he were being examined, rather as a Healer would examine him
to find out what was wrong. He felt as if he were being prodded, poked, turned around
about and even upside down and shaken a little, then put back on his feet. It wasn’t
unpleasant,
but it was entirely disconcerting. Behind the entity doing the prodding and poking,
he sensed something very much larger, warmer, interested in a detached fashion. He
sensed a question from the first entity, a response from the second, though he couldn’t
tell what the question and answer were.

Then came the distinct feeling that the first creature was poised, like a hunter with
a spear, about to make a single, decisive strike.

And a moment later—it did.

There was a moment of absolutely blinding sensation—not
pain,
though it was something like pain. Something absolutely overwhelming.

:There, that should do the trick, I think. Can you hear me, Horse-Boy?:

His eyes flew open again; he had not known they were closed. That had been a mind-voice!

:Of course it was a mind-voice,:
the cat said, sounding amused.
:It was my mind-voice. I fixed you.:

He stared at the cat, aghast, amazed, and very nearly delirious with joy.
:You fixed me! Reaylis! You fixed me!:

The cat purred.
:Naturally. You called on the Sunlord and offered yourself as a go-between. In order
for you to do that, I had to fix your Mindspeech. So I did.:
The cat licked his whiskers.
:Mind you, I’d have done it before if I’d known you were actually broken and not just
headblind, with or without Vkandis telling me to.:

He blinked.
:Uh . . . why?:

The cat purred again.
:Because I’m a
cat,
silly. Cats do what cats will do, and neither man nor god can do anything about it.
That’s why Vkandis made us His instruments. He has an interesting sense of humor,
does the Sunlord. Now, I want you to sleep and let that heal. It’s raw right now.
It won’t be good to use until morning, and even then we will have to go slowly and
carefully, just as with your physical wounds. Tearing mental channels open is bad..:

He wanted desperately to try to call Dallen. He also knew that if a
cat
told him not to do something, it was probably a good idea not to do it.

:All ri—:
he began.

:There’s a good Horse-Boy.:
And the next thing he knew, there was sunlight reflecting off the rock from the tunnel
and the smell of hickory-and-acorn porridge cooking.

The cat was nowhere in sight. He
wanted
to leap to his feet and run out into the main room, he
wanted
to try calling Dallen. He
wanted
to do a lot of things.

But he’d been hurt and healed so many times by this point that he knew how stupid
it would be to do any of them just yet. Calling Dallen would be dangerous. Leaping
up and running into the next room would hurt him. So, one step at a time.

He got up, put on his trews, and walked gingerly out into the main room. Franse looked
up at his footstep.

:Reaylis says—:
Mags heard tentatively in his mind. Franse’s mind-voice was not unlike Franse himself:
clean, strong, simple on the surface, complex beneath, shy.

:Reaylis is right,:
he replied with relief.
:Now we can finally talk!:

* * *

The talking was slow, with pauses for Mags to rest when he began to get an odd ache
just behind the point between his eyebrows. They ate while they talked, and as Dallen
had often pointed out, this was not at all bad, being able to eat and have a conversation
at the same time without being in the least impolite.

:We begin with you, De—:
Franse glanced at the cat, who had appeared as if summoned.
:Pardon. Reaylis says I must call you Horse-Boy from now on. Or Mags. He prefers Horse-Boy.:
The young priest grinned, shyly.
:I think I prefer Mags. So, we begin with you. Why are you here, how do you come to
Karse, and why is your Horse not with you?:

Mags grinned back ruefully.
:Don’t ask for much, do ye?:
He had a long drink of tea and thought.
:Shortest story I can. Yer leaders hired some sorta folks we never seen afore t’muck
up things in Valdemar. From some place farther away than we ever heard of.:

Franse considered this, then nodded.
:I did not know of this until now, but it was not important to us, so there is no
reason why I should have known. Reaylis knew of this, tells me it is true, and that
he cannot penetrate the fog that is about them. So we can tell you nothing of them.:

Mags sighed. Well, damn.
:I got no idea how or why, but they seemta recognize me. They tried takin’ me a while
back, an’ nothin’ came of it. They tried again, and this time they nobbled me. Whacked
me up aside the head an’ drugged me. When I woke up, m’Mindspeech was gone, an’ I
was in a wagon.:
He described briefly how he had tricked them, how he had gotten away, and how his
mind-voice still hadn’t come back.
:Then that demon came after me, and you and Reaylis got rid of it.:

Franse nodded slowly through all of this.
:These Gifts—all but Healing—they are anathema here. Children who have them are put
to the fires. Only Healing and magic are permitted. The only reason that I escaped
was because of Old Harald and Reaylis. They stole me from my parents before the black-robes
came to the village and made it appear that I had gone out through a window and a
demon had taken me. The demons take many who are caught outside their walls after
dark.:
He glanced down at the cat.
:Suncats are the holiest creatures of Vkandis, so it says in our Holy Writings. And
yet I am sure if the black-robes caught sight of so much as a hair of Reaylis’ tail—:

:I would be a pretty fur collar,:
the cat put in, wrapping his tail around his feet, neatly.
:They give lip service to the concept of the Suncats, but if they could catch any
of us, we would be quite, quite dead.:
The cat yawned.
:It is a good thing that we are cats, and easier to hide than horses.:

Mags had to chuckle at that.

:So I am in hiding, and Reaylis is in hiding,:
Franse continued.
:There was a village near here that I did some healing for, and sometimes performed
the offices of priest. I pretended that I was itinerant, a priest without a home temple;
there are many such red-robes, for there are many more villages that are poor and
cannot support a temple than there are priests to tend them, and so long as we don’t
interfere in any way with what the black-robes want, they ignore us. But the village
produced too many Gifted children. The black-robes declared it cursed. They took the
people away, burned the village to the ground, and sowed the ground with salt.: