The Red Wyvern - Katharine Kerr [71]
“Nevyn!” Caradoc called out. “A moment of your time, if you please?”
He dismounted; then oddly enough, like a servant he took the bridle of Owaen’s black gelding, which was snorting and tossing its head. Owaen dismounted with a great deal of care, which he needed, since he was holding his left hand up and out from his body. His face was almost as pale as his ash-blond hair, but his ice-blue eyes showed no feeling at all. He looked briefly at Nevyn, then away.
“What’s this?” Nevyn said. “An accident?”
“Just that, my lord,” Caradoc said. “And I’ve seen stupider ones but not very often.”
Owaen shot his captain a murderous glance. The little finger on his left hand stuck out at an impossible angle, and there was a blood-spotted bruise forming in the palm.
“Looks very bad,” Nevyn said. “Hold your paw out a little more, lad, so I can see it better.”
Behind them the rest of the men were dismounting; most were leading their horses away, but Branoic threw his reins to a friend and strolled over. He was enormous, Branoic, the tallest man in the silver daggers, broad-shouldered and a little fleshy at the moment after a winter of eating at the king’s bounty.
“It’s broken, isn’t it?” Branoic said.
“You hold your leprous tongue,” Owaen said, “or I’ll cut off your black and crusted balls. Well, if you’ve got two, which I doubt.”
Branoic laughed, then set his hands on his hips and watched Nevyn study Owaen’s injury.
“Broken it is,” Nevyn said. “And badly so. How did it happen?”
Owaen glared at the cobbles as if he hoped to shatter them by sheer malice.
“His horse got a stone in its hoof,” Branoic said, grinning. “And so he picked the hoof up with his left hand, but he didn’t hold it very firmly, and so the horse took exception to the liberty he’d taken with its person.”
“I thought Owaen was going to slit the poor beast’s throat,” Caradoc put in. “But I stopped him. It’s a good horse, except for its delicate temperament.”
“Give it to me,” Branoic said. “I can handle it.”
Owaen turned on him like a striking snake, but in his rage he forgot his injury. All at once sweat beaded his face; he swore under his breath. Caradoc grabbed him by the elbow and steadied him.
“Branoic, that’s enough!” Caradoc snarled. “Get out of here and right now.”
“Captain.” Branoic ducked his head Caradoc’s way and turned on his heel.
Nevyn watched him striding off across the ward to catch up with his fellows. Although he should have been used to it by then, at moments Nevyn still found himself amazed that the soul inhabiting that body had been for many incarnations a woman, and one he had loved. With a shake of his head he turned back to the immediate problem.
“Small injuries often hurt the worst,” Nevyn said to Owaen. “The hand’s not gone dead on you, at least. You need to get a chirurgeon to set it.”
Owaen let fly with a string of curses, ending with a sensible question.
“How long will it take to heal?”
“Weeks, and you won’t be able to hold a shield, you know, with it bound up against the other fingers. You’ll have to stay out of the fighting.”
“What? I can’t do that.”
“Will you fight without a shield, then?”
Owaen started to answer, then merely glared at the offending finger.
“What if I have the chirurgeon just cut it off?” Owaen said at last. “A clean cut should heal quicker than a break.”
“True, but ye gods! They don’t grow back, you know.”
“I don’t give a pile of horseshit about that. I can steady a shield with four fingers well enough. I want this god-cursed thing healed and done with before we reach the Holy City.”
“It’s your choice.” Nevyn rolled his eyes heavenward. “Tell Caudyr that I said he should let you have your way.”
Some while later, as he was sitting on the dais in the great hall with the prince, Nevyn saw Owaen and Caradoc walking in. Sure enough, Owaen’s hand was bound with