Warlord (29 page)

I wiped my nose on my tunic, and tried to force myself to think about other things. But the images flooded into my head.

Gils convulsed, limbs jerking in spasms, his head thrown back, gasping for air.

Yers staggered, almost dropping the lad in horror. But Isdra stepped closer to Yers, taking more of Gils's weight. They both managed to hold steady as Gils stopped thrashing as quickly as he had started.

My head came up, my eyes popped open. I looked out over the grasses, but I didn't see them. Instead, I went over that horrible moment again and again, with the eye of a healer. A cold, unemotional eye.

Gils convulsed, limbs jerking in spasms, his head thrown back, gasping for air.

The patient had convulsions.

I
moved then, my hand on his forehead. Gils was warm, but not extraordinarily so. "Gils?" I called his name, but there was no reaction, no indication that he was aware. I placed my fingers at his neck, feeling a slow, weak pulse.

The patient had not had a fever.

Quickly, I checked for any kind of head wound, or perhaps he was choking. But his head showed no sign of injury and his throat was clear. There was no sign of other injury, it had to be the plague, and yet there was no odor, no real sweat on his body. But the headaches could cause these kinds of problems, if they were severe enough. Gils's breath was rapid and labored, perhaps
...

No head wound. No odor, no sweating. Breathing was rapid and labored.

Again, Gils jerked in spasms. His breathing was slowing, as was the beat of his heart. I looked around, finally focusing on Keir's face, a question in his eyes. I met his gaze, and let my tears fall, answering with a shake of my head.

His heart had slowed, his breathing had slowed. My throat was as dry as a bone, my heart was racing. Seen now, with a cold eye and distance, I knew—

I swallowed hard, and faced the truth. Gils had not died of the plague.

But the only thing that I could think of that might cause those symptoms was poison.

I stared at the satchel, numb.

Iften spun on his heel, and glared at me with eyes filled with hate. He paused as he stepped past me. "You and your poisons made it to the Heart. But we of the Plains can learn to use poison, too. Remember that, Xyian."

I remembered, all right. I also remembered that Iften had been alone with my brother at one point, when Keir had used him as a messenger. That attack in the market, they'd used a lance fletched with Iften's pattern. Keir had no proof, but...

Monkshood caused convulsions. Monkshood, the poison my brother had offered me, to 'preserve my honor'. I'd left it behind in my room when I'd given myself to Keir.

Left it in my room for my brother to find.

Was it possible that Iften had poisoned Gils?

I sat staring for some time, before the stinging of my hands brought me back to my task. I forced myself to concentrate on the tasks at hand.

I dug deeper into the satchel's depths, pulling out all the contents for the first time. My medicines were there and I set them out by my feet. When I found the jar with the right salve, I stopped for a moment to rub some into my hands. I bit my lip as the medicine stung. That meant it was working.

At least, that's what I told my patients.

I stoppered the jar, and continued to empty out the satchel. Clean cloths for bandages. A small leather pouch with . . . could it be?

The gurt spilled out into my hand, the familiar white pebble cheese of the Firelanders. My stomach rumbled, but I winced at the idea. It was so dry ... my stomach gurgled again, and I shrugged, popped one into my mouth, and chewed.

It tasted wonderful.

I crammed in another piece. Of course, it was only the hunger that made it taste good. Or maybe that my nose was so stuffed that I couldn't smell it. I kept eating as I continued my hunt.

More of my familiar medicines, and the scrap of leather that held the bit of mushroom that Iften had spit out. I set them all aside and kept digging.

An unfamiliar jar proved to be sweetfat. I recognized the smell. I wondered what kind of grasses they used to make it, even as I set it down.

A small wooden box, with flint, steel, and tinder.
Bless you, Gils.

Another small pouch, with leather working tools. A battered tin pot. Another small pouch, with ... kavage beans!

Dried meat, wrapped in a few folds of leather. A wooden comb. I started to cry over my riches when my fingers closed over a last item.

The spring knife that Marcus had given me.

I'd thought my tears had gone dry.

I'd been wrong.

I crushed the kavage beans between two river stones. They boiled in the small battered pot, over a tiny fire that I managed to get started on the third try with the flint and steel.

I drank the first bowlful before it really cooled, and set the crushed beans to boil again as I worked at the dried meat. Tough chewing, but my belly didn't care.

There were berries by the water, hanging fat from low bushes only as high as my ankle. I almost plucked some, but the words of Joden's song rang in my head. About what white berries did to your bowels.

I decided I wasn't that hungry.

After the second bowl of kavage, my headache was gone. I repacked the satchel, and put what was left of the meat and gurt back into one of the pockets. I boiled the kavage beans a third time, carefully feeding the fire twigs and dried grasses. They curled in the small flame. The third time made a very weak and bitter brew. I drank it anyway, with the crushed beans, and sucked on the bits that remained.

I took my tunic off, and strapped the knife to my arm, as Marcus had taught me.

Keir was dead. Marcus had probably joined him, if not by another's hand, then by his own.

"Death comes in an instant."

Oh, Marcus.

I closed my eyes for a moment, then put my tunic on, and sat back on the matted grass. The sun was higher now, and I was warm enough. My little fire was dying, but I had no further need. I stared at it as my hands took up the wooden comb, and worked on my hair. Greatheart grazed nearby. The goats had wandered off.

I didn't want to think. Didn't want to feel. I sat numbly, and combed my hair.

The comb hit a bad snarl and I yanked in frustration. Might as well take this trick knife and cut it all off.

Marcus spoke. "If the sweat is as bad as you say, maybe we should cut her hair. It will be hard to keep clean, and will tangle."

"No," Keir answered softly. He was beside me, running his fingers through my hair, pulling it off my face. "No need. I'll braid it for her. I'll not see it cut."

I closed my eyes at the memory, and the pain washed over me again. Keir . . .

I flushed with shame, knowing now what I'd asked of Isdra. She'd been prepared to follow Epor into death, and I tried to stop her, with the weakest of arguments. How hollow my words seemed now that I wanted to do exactly the same thing. There are no words, no medicine, to heal this wound. I was mortified that I had even thought I could.

My tears welled up again, the pain that I so desperately didn't want to feel rising within my chest. We all like to think we're strong, until we are faced with our own loss. I opened my eyes, and stared at the comb in my hands.

Goddess above, what was I to do?

My breathing slowed. Death held no fear for me, if I'd ride at Keir's side to the snows.

I dropped the comb, and twisted my wrist. The blade popped out, just like it was designed to do. Bright and sharp. Xymund had intended that it be used to end my life, back at Water's Fall.

It was sharp enough.

I looked at it for long moments, feeling a strange sense of peace. I knew the hows of the deed. I was a healer, after all.

"No." I gripped his arm with my good hand and tried to pull myself up. Keir helped me without even thinking about it. "I want a bath now. I stink. I don't care what the water is like."

Keir blinked and frowned. "Gils needs to check
—"

"Gils can check it after 1 have bathed."

"Gils said
—"

"Who is the healer here?" 1 took a step.

His lips quirked. "Master healer, if I remember right."

I smiled. "The Master wants a bath."

He smiled. "Then, Master, you shall have one."

I smiled even as I sobbed, placing the blade against my wrist. Better to die at my own hand than at Iften's.

Keir would be waiting.

Marcus would be waiting.

Papa would be waiting. . . .

Chapter 16

"The price of privilege is responsibility."

I stayed my hand. Papa, no. I want—

But I heard Papa's voice as he spoke those words, remembered the lessons at his knee. I saw the faces of the people of Xy, kneeling in the hallways as I'd walked through the castle. Remembered the babies' faces and their cries as I'd delivered them from their mother's body in the tents of the Plains.

Guilt washed over me. I was their queen. Even as I had pledged myself to Keir, I'd pledged myself to them as well. To lead them, protect them, to rule over them all.

I moaned, and started to sob all over again. I wanted to die. It would be so easy. I wanted Keir so badly, as Isdra had wanted Epor. I couldn't imagine life without him. I squeezed my eyes shut as the tears welled up and rolled down my cheeks. The blade was cold against the thin skin of my wrist.

Except Isdra hadn't made her choice, had she? Gathering Storm had forced one on her, hadn't he.

Arrogant bastard.

Anger cut through my pain and grief. The warrior-priests and that bastard Iften had done this. Killed my Warlord, destroyed his plans and dreams for his people. They'd tried to kill me, to make sure that my skills were lost. They'd isolate their people from new ways and new ideas to preserve their power and position, at the cost of their people's lives. They wouldn't truly lead. Not like my Keir has.

Had.

My pain welled up again as I corrected myself.

But Keir's dream wasn't dead, so long as I lived. I frowned at the blade pressed against my skin. Reness had supported him, Osa had expressed interest. Even Liam might be looked to for support.

And Xy needed me, needed Keir's dream, and a ruler who cared for her people.

I stared at the blade. It would be so easy.

And so selfish.

I closed my eyes, and rocked as my grief returned. It would be so hard without Keir with me. Long days of pain and loneliness. I couldn't do this. It was too overwhelming.

So easy just to go.

I tried to wipe my nose on my sleeve. Besides, maybe Keir wanted me to join him. I puffed out a breath. Except he'd helped save me, hadn't he? I shivered at the memory of my Keir, all silver in the moonlight, riding so far behind me.

The knife trembled in my hand.

If I did this, if I joined him in death, Keir's dream and hope for his people died with me.

I took a long, deep breath.

I took another.

If I killed myself, those miserable, rotten, tattooed bastards would win. Iften, that murderous bastard, would win.

If I killed myself, our unborn child would die too.

Oh, Goddess.

I pulled the blade away from my wrist, and started to work it back under my sleeve.

My heart was broken. It felt as if my life was broken as well, shattered with his loss. I'd grieved for my father's death, but this was beyond any sorrow I'd ever felt. Part of my soul was gone, shriveled and black, a physical wound that would never heal.

I'd seen people live with pain, adapting to their injuries, re-building their lives. But it was never the same.

I'd never be whole again.

I would see to our peoples, as best I could. I would see to our child, if indeed I was pregnant. Only then would I join Keir in the snows.