The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [211]
“I’m not sure any wound is lucky,” Aspar said, relieved to find that the wind no longer whistled through his cheek when he talked.
“It is when another fingerbreadth could have brought your death,” the leic replied cheerfully. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve more of you to tend to.”
“What about her?” Aspar said, pointing with his chin to where Leshya lay, bundled up in wools, her unconscious face pale even for her.
The leic shrugged. “I don’t know much about Sefry,” he said. “The wound was pretty bad, and I did what I know to do. She’s in the hands of the saints now.” He patted Aspar’s unwounded shoulder. “You had better rest, especially if you’re really so foolish as to try to ride tomorrow.”
Aspar nodded, still regarding the Sefry. The ride to the castle was a memory seen through a fog of pain and blood loss. Winna had stayed with him, though, keeping him in his saddle. She’d left only a few moments ago, answering a call from the princess.
He understood that Sir Neil and the Vitellians were pretty banged up, but Leshya had the worst of it by far. They’d found her pinned to a tree by an arrow.
He put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up, went over to stand by her in the candlelight. His shadow fell across her face, and she stirred.
“What—?” she gasped, eyes fluttering open.
“Be still,” Aspar said. “You’ve been hurt. Do you remember?”
She nodded. “I’m cold.”
Aspar glanced over at the fireplace. He was sweating, himself. “I thought you’d taken off,” he said.
“Yes,” she murmured, closing her eyes. “Couldn’t do that, could I?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Don’t you? But—doesn’t matter. I didn’t.”
“Werlic. Thank you.”
She nodded, and her eyes opened again. They shone like violet lamps.
“I have to go with them tomorrow,” he said, “to Eslen.”
“Sure,” she said. “I know that.”
“Well, the thing is, I need you not to die while I’m gone,” he explained.
“. . . Don’t take your orders, holter,” she said. “But stay here with me until you leave, yes?”
Aspar nodded. “Yah.”
He settled on the floor next to the bed, and soon fell asleep. When he woke again, it was morning, and Winna was gently shaking him awake.
“It’s time to go,” she said.
“Yah,” Aspar said. He looked over at Leshya. She was still breathing, and her color looked better. “Yah.”
Cazio dribbled a bit of water onto z’Acatto’s lips. In his sleep, the old swordmaster grimaced and tried to spit it out.
“Well,” Cazio said, “that’s a good sign.”
“He has to drink,” the healer said. “He’s lost a lot of blood, and blood is made from water.” The Hornish healer spoke Vitellian with a funny accent, as if he were singing.
“Blood is made of wine,” z’Acatto contradicted, cracking one eye half-open. “The original wine, the wine of Saint Fufiono, that’s what flows in our veins. Water is what they drown babies in.”
The healer smiled. “A little watered wine wouldn’t hurt,” he said. “I’ll find some.”
“Wait,” z’Acatto wheezed. “What country are we in?”
“You’re in Hornladh and the Empire of Crotheny.”
Z’Acatto winced and let his hand drop. “Cazio,” he said, “do you know that no drinkable wine has ever been produced north of Tero Gallé?”
“We don’t find our wines difficult to drink,” the healer said.
“Please,” z’Acatto went on, “I have no wish to insult, but that only means you have no sense of taste, at least not a cultivated one. How did I come to this hellish place? A man’s last drink should remind him of all that was good in life, not send him to Lord Ontro weeping.”
“First of all,” the healer said, “you aren’t dying, not that I can tell.”
“No?” z’Acatto’s brows lifted in surprise.
“No. You’ll be long in bed, and longer recovering your strength, but I’ve stopped your bleeding, and none of your wounds seem likely to go septic.”
“You’re mostly bone and gristle, in other words,” Cazio put in.
“If I didn’t know better,” the healer said, “I would say whoever shot you was intentionally trying to wound, not kill. Since no one is that good a shot, I’d say you have the saints to thank.”
“I’ll thank