The Wizardwar - Elaine Cunningham [78]
Keturah quickly forgot such thoughts when she saw the griffin rider. He was still strapped into the saddle. Blood poured from a cut on his scalp. One leg was bent at an improbable angle.
She quickly loosed the straps and ran her hands lightly over his neck and down his spine, then gently probed his skull. Nothing other than his leg seemed broken, praise Mystra, so she carefully dragged him away from the giant beasts.
All that night, she alternated between tending the wounded man and gathering enough wood to keep a circle of fires burning. The fire was a riskDhamari's latest hound was not far off her trail-but a small thing compared to the risks this young man had taken on her behalf.
Keturah did not have to summon strange and dangerous creatures that night to ward off her trackers. Creatures came of their own volition, answering the lure of fresh meat in great supply. In a summoning as complex as any that gathered humankind together, the scavengers roared and howled the invitation to dine. Then-again, far too like the Halruaans for Keturah's comfort-they fell to snapping over the scraps.
In all, the night was long and grim, and not a moment passed that Keturah expected might be her rescuer's last. The voices of the scavengers seemed to call his name, as well.
To her astonishment, the young man's eyes opened shortly before dawn.
For several moments they followed her movements as she dipped a cloth in her tiny kettle and placed it on his forehead.
"I'm alive," he observed grimly. It seemed to Keturah that he was neither surprised nor pleased by this realization.
"You're lucky. I've seen fewer wounds on a defeated army."
He hauled himself painfully into a sitting position and regarded her thoughtfully. "Do you have experience with the military, or is that a figure of speech?"
Her lips twitched. "If you're asking if I'm a camp follower, the answer is no.
I must say, though, that I find it admirably optimistic for a man in your condition to ask."
She expected the youth to be mortified. Instead, he responded with a surprisingly deep chuckle.
"It's been many years since anyone accused me of optimism!"
It was on the tip of Keturah's tongue to mock his choice of words-after all, her rescuer-turned-patient looked to be even younger than she-but something about him stayed her teasing comment. She studied him for a long moment. "You are wearing a magical disguise," she decided.
Astonishment flooded his face. "It should be undetectable," he said ruefully. "Gods above, the spells involved are complicated enough!"
"That explains a few things," Keturah mused. "Some of the spells you tossed at the wyvern were far beyond most wizards of your apparent years.
Maintaining such a disguise can be distracting even without the feather-fall spell, for which I thank you. I suppose that's how you were overcome during battle."
"You're too kind," he said dryly. "Actually, to the best of my recollection, I think I was knocked senseless by a passing seabird. The stupid thing couldn't maneuver around the battle."
Keturah burst out laughing. "A man whose magic defies wizardly scrutiny, who rides griffins and casts spells like the king himself, downed by a clumsy pelican!"
After a moment the man's lips twitched. "I suppose the situation has a certain ironic appeal." His smile faded quickly, and he regarded her for a long moment. "Well?"
"That's a deep subject." She shrugged at his blank stare. "Sorry. That was one of my father's favorite jests. No wonder he never made much of a living as a bard."
"You're not going to ask me my true identity?"
Keturah shrugged again. "If you wanted it known, you wouldn't have conjured a disguise. If it's all the same to you, I'd just as soon dispense with introductions all around."
"Your secrets are your own," he agreed. "As far as I'm concerned, we were both born this morning. We have no life but that which lies before us." This prospect seemed to please him. His smile,