Redoubt: Book Four of the Collegium Chronicles (A Valdemar Novel)

by Mercedes Lackey

  The cat sauntered in just as he said that, and cat and priest exchanged a long look. Understanding came over the priest’s face. “Ah! No, is—” he looked at the cat again. “Is old bed. I am to be having bed of Old Harald.”

  Oh, well that was all right, then. Mags felt very much better about the arrangement. He had to wonder, though, if Franse was such a bad hunter, who had shot the enormous bears that had provided the furs for the bed? Had it been Old Harald?

  Well, he’s a priest, maybe people give him things. Or he gets them from the temple. Or they belonged to his former Master.

  Franse offered the cat the other leg from his bowl, but the cat wasn’t interested. “Is not to be liking—” Franse fished a bit of beet from his bowl and held it up.

  “Beets,” Mags supplied.

  “Ah! Reaylis not liking beets,” Franse explained, and he demolished the last quarter with relish.

  Mags was very, very conscious that he had a considerable debt to discharge here, before he could even think about trying to get back to Valdemar. He was also conscious that he faced a danger he hadn’t even been aware of when he’d escaped—because he didn’t think he’d be able to face off one of those demons again, and he knew he was unlikely to be rescued by someone like Franse a second time. But first things first: Discharge the debt.

  He slowly became aware as he finished his meal that the pain of his wounds was increasing, and Franse must have seen that in his face. The priest hastily slurped the last of his broth, collected their crockery, and hurried out, coming back with a pot that smelled very familiar. Mags was certain that several of Bear’s salves and balms smelled exactly like that. The man gestured to Mags to take off his shirt, which Mags did, a bit self-consciously, only to be surprised at the fact that his entire torso was wrapped in bandages, as well as both arms. How had the priest managed all that alone?

  Franse unwrapped his chest and back first, and Mags tried not to wince at the extent of the lacerations. Neat lines of stitches showed that some of them had been bad enough to require sewing up. But they were healing, and quickly, and there was no sign of infection. It appeared that all the lacerations were on his chest and shoulders. This man might not call himself a Healer, but he was certainly every bit as good as Bear, and maybe better.

  Franse handed him the pot and mimed him spreading the creamy yellow salve inside the pot on his chest wounds. Franse dipped his fingers in the pot and worked on Mags’ shoulders while Mags took care of the rest. When his chest was rebandaged, they took care of his arms. Franse mimed, face going a little red, that he was going to have to take care of his legs himself. “Must to being make morning eat,” he muttered, and hurried out.

  It gave him a very strange, slightly shuddery feeling to work on his own wounds this way, to see the damage under his hands. It wasn’t bad on his calves, but his thighs had some tears that could have killed him if they’d gone deeper.

  Good thing he’d been able to keep it somewhat away with that torch.

  When the priest came back, Mags handed him the pot, and he handed Mags another mug. “To be make sleep,” he explained, at Mags inquiring look. Mags hesitated, but only a moment. After all, Franse had had ample opportunity to do whatever he wanted by this point. If the priest had wanted him dead, the simplest thing to do would simply have been to let the demon do it. And if he’d wanted Mags incapacitated, he could have tied him up. He drank the bitter stuff down and got into the bed again, feeling the salve killing the pain in his wounds and the medicine in the tea starting to work on him.

  He deliberately was not allowing himself to dwell on how far he was from home, how hard it would be to get there. Right now he couldn’t even move outside the garden, so right now the very best thing he could do would be to let the medicine make him sleep and do whatever he could to heal his wounds. Worry about leaving once he had the ability to leave.

  He drifted off to sleep hearing Franse in the main room, droning away aloud. Prayers, he assumed. After all, the man was a priest . . .

  * * *

  He woke to the sound of something that sounded a lot more joyful than the droning of last night, a song that lifted his heart and put a smile on his lips without him being able to understand a word. Franse was evidently a good singer as well as a very devout fellow; whatever this morning hymn was saying, he was putting a lot of feeling into it. His voice was a rich tenor, and the song made Mags think of the songs on Midwinter Eve in Valdemar.

  Mags got up and went out into the main room, where he found a crude basin ready for him on a little table right by the doorway, something that looked like soap, and a rough towel, as well as the pot of salve and a roll of new, clean bandages. That was what told him that it was all for his use.

  He felt much better after a good wash; the stuff wasn’t soap, but it was a root that cleansed in much the same way as soap did. He rebandaged his arms and legs and left his chest to do last, and Franse arrived from outside in good time to do the actual bandaging.

  Franse took the basin away or, rather, started to, and that was when Mags noticed that he was . . . well . . . just a little clumsy. He tripped several times in the rough floor, saving himself each time with a muttered curse. He went out to dump out the water in the basin, and when he came back, he started to put the basin down just a little short of the shelf it was supposed to fit on. Mags was close enough to make a lurch for it and save it—and that was when he understood why Franse was not, and would never be, any sort of a hunter.

  “You don’t see very well, do you?” he asked, breaking the silence.

  Franse shrugged.

  Mags thought about this. “There are things,” he said, slowly. “Round pieces of glass. They can be put on your face in front of your eyes so you can see better.” He made circles with his thumbs and forefingers and mimed Bear’s lenses.

  Franse gave him a look full of skepticism. “How?” he asked, squinting at Mags doubtfully.

  “Like . . . like jewelry!” Mags replied. “Wire or wood around the lenses, wire behind the ears or leather tied so—” He mimed that as well. Did the Karsites have long-vision tubes? He thought they might. “You know the tubes? Generals have them, that can make far things look near?”

  But Franse shook his head. “Not for the seeing of generals, me,” he replied without rancor. “Not Old Harald, not me. We are low—low—no great ones come to us.” he brought his hand down to the floor.

  “Humble,” Mags offered.

  “Aye.” Franse sighed. “Humble. Such things . . .” He shook his head.

  His attitude suggested that while he understood what Mags was telling him, that there was some object that would allow him to see clearly, he didn’t think someone like him would ever be allowed to have it.

  “My friend has such a thing,” Mags said, because suddenly he realized how he might get himself safely back home. If Franse could be persuaded to come with him, in return for a pair of spectacles, he could go in the disguise of Franse’s servant or helper. He already knew how to play at being a deaf-mute. He would never have to say a word. Franse could do all of the talking; surely people would give them food, or there would be food and shelter at the temples . . .

  Why, they might even be able to get donkeys or even horses and get to the Border in no time!

  “Aye?” Franse looked glum. “A demon-horse rider not humble is . . .”

  “He’s not a d—not a Herald,” Mags corrected. “He’s a Healer, but he does all of his healing as you do, with herbs and salves. No—” he closed his eyes as Healers often did to concentrate, held out his hands flat, and wiggled the fingers to suggest the Gift working. “Only herbs, knives, needles, salves, bandages.”

  “Aye?” Interest returned. “And he such a thing is given?”

  “So he can see well to make his medicines,” Mags explained. “It is not easy to make such a thing in Valdemar, but it is not difficult either. A humble man could have such a thing.”

  “But I am not a Healer of the North.” Franse
’s face fell again.

  “But I must get home safely,” Mags said, very quietly.

  Franse gave him a sharp glance, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned to the fire and ladled out big bowls full of acorn-and-berry porridge for both of them. Finally, Franse produced spoons. Mags was relieved; he was beginning to think Franse didn’t possess such a thing. But it appeared that he had two at least, besides the big one in the pot, all three carved of wood and dark with age and use.

  He helped with the cleaning of the place as best he could, moving stiffly and carefully to keep from hurting himself. He discovered that Franse had some pretty clever solutions to not being able to see well—keeping the medicinal and culinary herbs in two separate cave-chambers, for instance. Franse had a broom, and unlike Franse, Mags could actually see where the dirt and dust-balls were. When he was done, the floor was cleaner than it had been in a long time. To his great disappointment, he got tired very quickly. But he did manage to get another rabbit, this one just outside the garden, and two squirrels from trees that overhung it. The cat fetched all three like a dog. They ate very well that night, then sat quietly at the fire. Franse wove rope by feel; Mags carved a spoon. He could certainly understand why Franse only had two. Carving a spoon wasn’t that hard, but when you lived alone, the last thing you wanted to do was to cut your hand. Even if you were as good with herbs and the like as Franse, having to do things one-handed could make things very difficult.

  Franse was awkward as company as well as physically, and it wasn’t just because his Valdemaran was pretty scant and mostly limited to telling Mags what to do. More and more, Mags got the feeling that Franse was a hermit not only because he had served with a hermit, but by virtue of his very nature. He liked silence. He liked doing things alone. He just wasn’t very good with people, and he was extremely shy. Although . . . that might have been because he was so self-conscious about not being able to see.

  In fact, unless Mags was very much mistaken, he probably had more and longer conversations with the cat than he had ever had with people, including his former master.

  And then there was the cat . . .

  Now, Mags didn’t know anything at all about Vkandis Sunlord. He didn’t think too many Valdemarans did, unless there were some followers of this god who, for whatever reason, had gone across the Border to set up in Valdemar. But he did know this: Not once had he ever heard about a Karsite priest helping a Herald or a Herald Trainee. Karsite priests were usual right in the front lines, sending curses and other nastiness at the Valdemaran troops. Not once had he ever heard of a Karsite priest invoking the blessings of Vkandis on a Valdemaran. Yet Franse had done all that. And Mags had the distinct impression it had been at the direction—even the urging—of that cat.

  The cat, if he understood Franse correctly, was something like a Companion, but he’d never heard of mobs of cats accompanying the Sunpriests into battle against Valdemar, and something that odd would certainly be noticed.

  Vkandis had helped, had blessed, him, a Herald. He’d felt that himself. He’d felt a warm force, a great and powerful force, joining with him to drive off the chill poison of the demon’s claw marks. Something that odd had never happened before to his knowledge; he was certain if it ever had, the smallest child in Valdemar would be aware of it.

  There was something in this equation that he was missing, and he wished desperately for Mindspeech so he could ask directly.

  But at the moment it was looking as if he might as well wish for a gryphon to fly him home. He was just as likely to get the one as the other.

  12

  Franse did not bring up the subject of eye lenses again. Then again, Mags was in no shape to travel yet. His second morning in the priest’s home was much like the first, although he did exert himself to hunt squirrels outside the garden with Franse’s nodded permission. He had to lie down and sleep, or at least rest, right after the noon meal, which was convenient for Franse, since he did some sort of prayer or ceremony he was somewhat secretive about at that same time.

  A lot of the awkwardness of the previous night was gone. Franse was warming to him (and he to Franse!) a lot faster than he would have thought. He decided that some of the priest’s apparent misanthropy was nothing more than shyness. Some was acute embarrassment over his own clumsiness. The more time Mags spent with him, however, the more a latent hunger for company seemed to awaken in him.

  And that cat . . . was abetting that.

  The third day proved that.

  After a long staring session with the cat just after breakfast, Franse abruptly announced that he was going to show Mags where there were birds to hunt for meat, and the two of them had ended up at a secluded pond Mags would never have guessed was there. Not only did Mags manage to bag several ducks and a goose, but Franse was able to teach him how to fish, so they returned to the cave with not only dinner but provisions to smoke and dry for the winter.

  The cat highly approved of the bird guts and heads, and the guts, heads, and tails of the fish. Franse was happy with the feathers and promptly used all of the body feathers to restuff a flat pillow. Mags saved the flight feathers to redo the fletching on the arrows, grateful that this was a basic skill every Trainee learned early.

  This put the young priest in a very good mood, though mostly that consisted of smiling at Mags shyly, motioning at the duck in their stew, and saying “Is good!” a lot, with Mags nodding in agreement.

  He was beginning to think about trying to broach the idea of him leaving as soon as the larder was full of meat and fish. With two people fishing, that part would go pretty fast, and the small animals and waterfowl around here seemed to be utterly unaware that a human could actually kill them. Probably because with his bad eyesight, Franse would have to be within a horse length of them to hit them. The expedition to the pond had gone well, Mags’ wounds were sealed, and he was feeling more energetic—and he couldn’t put this off for too much longer. Trying to get through these mountains in winter would be a nightmare.

  He still wasn’t sure how he was going to avoid the demons . . . but maybe Franse had some sort of talisman or could make some object holy to Vkandis that would protect him.

  Or maybe—he could go back to his first idea. Franse could seal up the cave for a few days or a fortnight and come with him. That would make things both easier and faster, if he would.

  He caught the cat and Franse staring at each other again during dinner and sighed, knowing what they were doing. Mindspeaking. Things would be so much easier if he could Mindspeak again! They both turned to look at him. “What is?” Franse asked, looking concerned.

  “Oh . . . I used to be able to do that,” he said without thinking. At Franse’s puzzled look, he added, “Head-talk,” and pointed from Franse to Reaylis and back.

  “So?” Franse looked startled and went into another of those staring sessions with the cat. Then he looked back at Mags. “Reaylis saying is, you are—” he waved his hand in the air between them, miming a wall. “He tries head-talk, nothing.”

  Mags looked back at them, intensely frustrated. How could he explain that he had been kidnapped, drugged, and hauled into Karse against his will, and he didn’t know if it was a hit on the head, the drugs, or something else entirely that had stolen his Mindspeech?

  “I got hurt. Before demon,” he said, finally, and mimed someone hitting him on the back of the head. It was as good an explanation as any, and what was Franse going to be able to do about it, anyway? He was like Bear, he didn’t have a Healing Gift, and Mags had no idea if the drugs had been gone from him long enough that they shouldn’t be affecting his Mindspeech or not. If they weren’t, it wasn’t something Franse could fix, and if it was the drugs, without knowing what drugs they were in the first place, how could Franse counter them?

  Franse’s face in the candlelight grew very thoughtful, but he said nothing. They both finished the meal with a great deal of content, all things considered. They even had a sweet afterward: crab apples baked all day in a
little honey on the hearth. It was wonderful to have something sweet, but he really missed breads. The closest thing that Franse could manage was acorn flour, which wasn’t really even close.

  “Do you ever help people on a farm or village around here?” he asked, as they both chased the last tiny bits of honey out of their bowls with their fingers. You didn’t waste food in Franse’s house, table manners be damned.

  He shook his head. “Was village near. Gone.” His face closed in. “Black-robes.”

  Those were the Karsite priests he had cursed before, and this was the second time he had demonstrated contempt, even hatred for those who should have been his brothers. There was something going on here that was very important for Nikolas to know; the problem was . . . how was he to get it out of Franse? Franse would probably tell him, but how could he ask the right questions?

  “Can you tell me about the black-robes?” he urged, but Franse only looked frustrated and spread his hands. “No—” and he mimed speaking with one hand.

  Mags sighed. “You don’t have the words.” Dammit. I think I really, really need to know everything about this. And he’d tell me if he could. But I can’t understand him.

  Franse only sighed. “Sleep,” he suggested.

  Mags nodded. Maybe sleep would improve things.

  Maybe when he woke up, his Mindspeech would be back.

  Maybe a gryphon would appear to carry him to Valdemar . . .

  As he climbed into his bed, another thought occurred to him. If Vkandis had helped him in the fight with the demon, maybe Vkandis approved of him finding out what was going on.

  So before he drank his mug of medicinal tea and pulled the fur blankets up over himself, he thought, very, very hard. Vkandis Sunlord, if ye want something heard, I’ll be yer messenger, but yer gonna haveta help me hear it m’self.

  * * *

  There was a heavy weight on his chest. A terribly heavy weight on his chest. It felt like a warm bag full of apples. Or bricks wrapped in fur. Or—