CHAPTER 22

FOR two days the Greffaire forces camped just far enough away from the battlefield to be free of its stench. The official reason for the delay—and it made perfect sense to Col’s troops—was to allow the men to scavenge valuable arms and armor from the dead of both sides. The true reason, which Col confessed to no one, was to give his son a chance to live. The strange “bonemender” had somehow pulled Derkh through that first night, when his own surgeons had left him for the dark road. Now she and his son would both have a second chance.

While the Greffaires tarried, La Maronne was on the move. The Verdeau troops, down to about twenty-five hundred men, marched southward toward Gaudette. Two thousand Maronnais, supported by some eight hundred soldiers from Gamier, marched west from the Eastern Gateway to meet them. Envoys galloped for Gaudette to request reinforcements from the castle garrison. And traveling faster than any of them, loping almost silently along secret forest pathways known only to the Elves, Féolan and his Stonewater warriors closed in on the Skyway Pass.

They found the battlefield easily. A valley strewn with death soon attracts clouds of carrion birds. Screened by the flanking woodlands, the Elves watched with disgust as Gref Orisé soldiers stripped the bodies of the fallen. Too late, thought Féolan. It is already lost.

But his military commander, Haldoryn, pointed out that there were too few bodies for a total defeat. “The losses were not all on the Verdeau side,” said Haldoryn. “They gather plenty of their own armor. Plus if what you say about the use of conscripts is true, those poor souls must number many of the dead.”

“So there was a retreat,” concluded Féolan. “A retreat, perhaps, to join with fresh troops.”

“That is my hope,” agreed Haldoryn. “A retreat to buy time.”

“Can we help to buy them that time?” asked Féolan. Haldoryn thought, curling his lip in distaste at the sight of a soldier hacking a gold wristband from a dead soldier. “I have no taste for killing sleeping men unawares,” he confessed. “But after looking upon this desolation, I believe I could stand it. I suggest we scout out the Gref Orisé camp.”

GABRIELLE SPENT THOSE two days in Derkh’s tent. The two guards posted outside were hardly necessary; she had no desire to take her chances among the Greffaire soldiers. Besides, in the deep healing trance she found a little oasis of oblivion, a respite from the pain of Jerome’s death. Several times a day she changed Derkh’s bandage and poultice and coaxed soups and medicines into him. The rest of the time she left the world and poured her mind into his healing, working until sleep pulled her down into blackness.

The first morning she had awakened on the ground beside Derkh’s pallet, aching and chilled. She grimaced as she rose to her feet; her clothing was stiff with dried blood and gave off an acrid, meaty smell. Her thigh, where the sword had glanced off it, had bled and stuck to her skirt; the wound throbbed. Ironic, she thought, if she healed this half-dead boy, only to die herself from an infected flesh wound. She gave her leg a hasty wash, sprinkled dried goldenseal directly on the cut and covered it with what little bandaging she could spare. Then she turned to her patient.

He was watching her. His eyes looked better this morning, she saw with relief, clear and lucid.

“Your clothes smell awful,” he said. Gabrielle nodded.

“Why don’t you change them?”

“I have no others.”

Derkh considered this while Gabrielle prepared new medicine for him. She could see the pain was starting to bite again.

“You can have some of mine,” he announced as she tipped his head up to spoon in the tea.

Gabrielle hesitated. “Your father might not ... “

“If my father is displeased, let him beat me,” Derkh replied harshly. “It is my order. They are in that carryall. Take whatever is least dirty.” He motioned with his chin.

Gabrielle took the top suit of clothes—a kind of tunic and strange, wide-cut pants. They were none too clean, but she wasn’t about to paw through her captor’s possessions. Derkh closed his eyes while she changed; the tang of young man’s sweat enfolded her as she pulled the tunic over her head, and even so she was grateful for the improvement. There was a strange intimacy to wearing someone else’s clothing.

Gabrielle gathered up her old skirt and overdress and looked at Derkh.

“Just throw them outside; someone will get rid of them.”

She went to the door and paused.

“What is it?” asked Derkh.

“Nothing,” said Gabrielle softly. “It’s just ... my father’s blood is on them.” The confession came out before she could stop it.

Derkh seemed taken aback. Maybe, like her, he hadn’t really considered that grief and loss came to enemies as well as friends.

By the morning of the second day, Gabrielle knew that Derkh was out of danger. She was glad, for a bond of trust and respect had grown between them. She herself, however, was dangerously close to collapse. She didn’t much care; exhaustion and heartsickness had taken too heavy a toll. But it occurred to her that with Derkh stable, she could slow her efforts to a more normal pace, and this might also buy the Basin troops the time they needed to regroup. Col had delayed this long for his son. Would he wait longer?

She attended to Derkh diligently that day but paced herself. Col checked on them around noon, and though he quickly regained his stern manner he could not suppress his surprised relief at finding Derkh resting comfortably, sipping at some broth.

“He will live?” he asked bluntly.

Gabriel nodded. “With rest and careful attention to his wounds, yes. He will live.”

“Lucky for us both,” he remarked. It was as close as he would come to thanking her.