CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THEY lived among the seskeesh for nearly a fortnight. For the first week Gabrielle hardly roused, alternating between sleep and the apparent-sleep of her healing trance. Féolan and Derkh did little but keep vigil for the first two days, subsisting on Féolan’s remaining supplies.

On the third day, when Gabrielle seemed less likely to die at any moment, Féolan left the cave for some time. He returned with a straight shoulder-high branch, which he proceeded to lash to one of his arrows. When he was satisfied with his work, he tossed the makeshift spear to Derkh.

“Ever gone fishing?” he asked.

“Sure,” Derkh replied dubiously. “But not with one of these.”

“Then this is your big chance to learn,” announced Féolan. “The stream where the seskeesh drink is full of trout. It’s time we dug for our dinner.”

“Are we out of food?” asked Derkh.

“Not really. There is plenty of travel biscuit still—we packed extra, so as to outfit you better if you really were bent on leaving us. But it makes for a dreary diet, day after day.”

Derkh turned away abruptly, hiding his face. He was still Greffaire enough to be mortified at the way his throat tightened with this news. He had not really considered why Féolan and Gabrielle had followed him so far into the mountains, but as he trudged to the nearby brook he realized that he had assumed it was to prevent his departure. But it wasn’t. They had come to help him.

His mind was a kaleidoscope of memories: Gabrielle, exhausted and grief-stricken, laboring to the point of collapse to save Derkh’s life. Féolan, peering into the cart where Derkh lay feverish, taking him not to the executioner but to the surgeon’s tents. Féolan kneeling before him, offering his own life for the slaying of Derkh’s father. Gabrielle’s quiet hurt, when he refused her table. How often must they prove their friendship, before you will trust in it?

The trout proved as elusive as quicksilver, flashing away from his spear almost before it broke the water. But Derkh was determined that, in this at least, he would not fail his friend, and by late afternoon he had caught two smallish fish and a large bullfrog. He returned to the cave just as Féolan was changing the bandages on Gabrielle’s still form.

“That’s a good start,” Féolan said with a nod.

The little catch caused quite a stir among the three seskeesh. The female poked at Derkh’s catch, and then left the cave with the young male. They were back before the sun was down with a heap of bloody fish—a dozen at least.

Féolan’s grin, broad and untroubled, was worth being shown up for. “Looks like you’ve met your match, my boy. Though I wager you cook better than they do.”

The tables were turned later that week, when Féolan emerged from the woods with a deer slung over his shoulders. The seskeesh were clearly amazed, and when Féolan separated a back haunch for himself and Derkh, then turned the rest of the carcass over to his hosts, they crowded around noisily, patting him so enthusiastically on the head and back in their excitement that Derkh feared a little for his safety.

When at last the seskeesh retreated with their prize, Féolan and Derkh turned back to Gabrielle. She was awake, watching them—and she was smiling. When she spoke, her voice was weak but clear. “I see you have become one of the family,” she said.

GABRIELLE WORKED UNTIL she must rest, and rested until she could work. For days her life held to this elemental rhythm, interrupted only for the briefest waking to sip some water or broth, or to empty her bladder. The work was exhausting, weakened as she was, and the balance delicate: She must not push herself too hard or risk collapse, yet she dared not leave such a wound unattended for long. The first long night, she thought only to mend and strengthen the heart-path puncture. It had taken a huge effort just to prepare for the drawing of the weapon. She had made a weak join in the tear where it had widened each side of the blade and then envisioned a kind of mental brace of healing light behind the artery wall, ready to be lashed together as the knife tip retreated. That was her moment of greatest danger. Though she threw the full force of her mind against it, the wall she had created barely held, so powerful was the surge of blood. It had taken the last of her will and strength to make a patch too flimsy to stand up to the least movement. She would not normally have trusted a patient for two minutes to such a weak vessel wall, but she had no choice. As oblivion swallowed her she had just one prayer—that she would sleep quietly.

Day by day, Gabrielle’s stamina improved and the periods of healing grew longer. As her exhaustion eased, however, the pain pressed in harder on her consciousness. Her sleep was uneasy now, every inadvertent movement stabbing her awake. And waking was a trial she wanted to endure as infrequently as possible.

Day and night held little meaning in this twilight existence, so she did not know that nearly a week had passed when the uproar from the seskeesh prodded her awake. She only knew she felt better: the pain was a steady companion, not a consuming fire. And she was hungry. At the thought of food her stomach cramped and yawned, and Gabrielle realized that her shaky weakness was at least partly due to her long fast.

Féolan and Derkh both seemed overcome to see Gabrielle awake and lucid. They must have kept a long vigil, she thought, as she watched Derkh’s bruised eyes fill with tears. Féolan was bent over her hand and seemed unable to speak. Her heart twisted, and she felt her own throat prickle and tighten.

“Don’t,” Gabrielle gasped. “Don’t make me cry. It will hurt like blazes. Please!”

Derkh dashed his eyes with the back of a hand and managed a wan smile.

“Your face still looks awful,” offered Gabrielle.

The smile broadened. “There wasn’t any healer around to take care of me,” he explained.

Gabrielle was tiring already. She closed her eyes and managed one last piece of conversation:

“If that was meat I saw in that fracas, I hope you saved some for me. Turn it into something a sick person can eat, and I will sing your praises forever.”

GABRIELLE WAS STILL in no shape to hike, when they left the cave six days later, but she didn’t have to. She was carried tenderly to within a few miles of the Skyway Pass and as far south into the Maronnais hills as the shy seskeesh dared venture. The great female laid her into Féolan’s waiting arms, caressed her face with a giant hand and slipped away. Gabrielle knew there was no need for further words or gestures—nestled in the great creature’s arms, she had sent her thanks every step of the long way—but she still could not stay her weeping.

“Where to now?” asked Derkh.

“A track skirts the mountains the length of La Maronne,” answered Féolan. “It’s not much more than a footpath, but locals and supply carts do travel it. We’ll rest there and hope to flag down a cart for Gabrielle.”

“From there to the outpost by the Skyway Pass, I suppose?” Derkh’s face darkened at the prospect of facing more suspicious soldiers.

“Don’t worry, Derkh. It will be all right.” Gabrielle sniffed up her tears and smiled at Derkh. He brightened in response. He had changed, Gabrielle realized, remembering his tears in the cave. Some of the prickly self-protective caution had been left behind in the mountains.

Féolan winked at Derkh, adjusted Gabrielle’s weight and started trudging south. “She’s right, lad. If you’re going to make friends in Verdeau, the king’s daughter is a pretty good place to start.”