Back From Chaos

  For the first time in many years, Klast knew the agony of indecision. In the past, he would simply have bundled Brensa up and carried her bodily to Bargia castle. Now, for the first time since Rand had taken him, he faced choices, neither of which satisfied his duty. For the first time, he understood that choices could not always be solved by logic alone. He had rediscovered part of what it meant to be human. It proved a most unwelcome sensation.

  The conscious part of his awareness focused on Brensa and the need to tend her. He moved slowly around the fire, always trying to remain in sight, explaining everything in a steady, calming monotone.

  “Brensa, I am making you a medicinal tea. It contains willow bark for pain and fever, valerian to help you sleep and goldenseal for healing. The valerian will make it taste and smell terrible, but I hope you will drink it all, as you need to sleep in order to recover. I would sorely like to examine your wounds, but I think that may have to wait until you are calmer.”

  Klast always carried a small leather pouch on his belt containing a variety of medicinals. He had studied the uses of many herbs and had found that skill beneficial on several occasions, both for himself and for others when they had been ill or wounded. Herbalists and healers tended to be unavailable when one travelled by stealth.

  Brensa merely eyed him as he worked. Her wary expression never wavered. She did not move.

  When the pot boiled, Klast spread the men’s dirty blankets on top of each other near the fire for a bed. He left his own on the ground beside them and looked at Brensa.

  “Brensa, it is much warmer by the fire. You will be more comfortable on these blankets. They are not clean, but at least they are softer and warmer.” He indicated his own. “You may wrap up in mine on top. Can you make it to the fire? I will leave to fetch more fresh water while you move, so you will not be watched. When I get back, I will heat it in the cook pot for you to clean yourself with if you can manage it, especially where you are bleeding. This is important to avoid sickness.”

  When she showed no sign that she would come closer, he grew more concerned. He added, very softly, “Brensa, let me help you. You need not fear me. You are safe now.” He watched her a moment longer, looking for the slightest response that might show she understood. Seeing none, he slipped quietly out of the cave, hoping she would find the courage to do as he bade her. If she could not, Klast feared she would be beyond his abilities to save her. It was imperative that she understand.

  ~30~

  TEA

  Brensa watched him go. She had seen sadness in his eyes as he spoke. It was the first time he had shown any emotion in all the times she had met him. She waited a while, then painfully crabbed her way on her backside to the blankets. If he meant to harm her, what difference did it make where she died? She wrapped his blanket around her and lay down on the others. It was more comfortable, and definitely warmer. The back of the cave had felt so cold and unyielding.

  His blanket smelled of smoke, and horse and male sweat. She made sure a corner of it was under her face. The others reeked of rancid grease, stale bodies, spilled ale, and sour wine.

  She was still in so much pain that she curled up again in a tight ball against it. She thought over what Klast had said. Warm water to clean herself? But that would mean uncovering. She did not think she could reach between her thighs. The pain from her ribs made movement difficult. And she did not feel ready to confront what she would find there … the evidence of her shame and ruin. No, she would just drink the tea and wait to die.

  When Klast returned with the water and noticed that she had made it to the blankets, she saw him nod, apparently relieved. She watched him set the water for washing on to heat, pour the now steeped tea into one of the chipped, clay mugs and set it in front of her.

  Then he backed away, urging softly, “Please drink the tea, Brensa. It will help.”

  While the larger pot heated, he sliced meat and vegetables into the smaller kettle to boil a stew. The meat smelled a little high even from where she lay, and the vegetables looked shrivelled, but they were all the cave held. When he had finished, he turned back to her and checked to see if she had drunk the tea. It still sat in front of her, untouched.

  He squatted between her and the fire and indicated the cup. “I urge you to drink this draught. Its taste will not be to your liking, but I must insist that you drink it all.” His voice held a calm authority that cut through her apathy. “I can help you sit and hold it, if you cannot.”

  “No!” She shrank from him, clutching the blanket tightly under her chin.

  Klast smiled benignly at her, an expression that looked somehow out of place on his face, though she could not have said why she felt that way. “Then you must drink it, Brensa, or I shall find it necessary to assist you.”

  She shrank further back. He pushed the mug closer, so she could reach it without getting up, sat back on his haunches again, and waited as though he expected her to obey.

  The threat that he would touch her, even if only to help, was too much. Slowly, painfully, Brensa sat up, the blanket still clutched tightly around her with one hand. With the other, she reached for the cup and dragged it toward herself. The mug was still warm but not hot. She ventured a sip. The taste was so bad she almost choked.

  He gave her a rueful, understanding look. “Terrible isn’t it? It works best if you hold your breath and drink it in one draught.”

  She took a deep breath, downed it as instructed, then gagged, but the tea stayed down.

  He handed her another cup. “Mint,” he explained, “for the taste.”

  The shock of the taste blocked her fear long enough that she took the next cup reflexively from his hand. She gulped half of that and stopped for breath. The rest went down more slowly. Klast reached for the empty cup. She hesitated, looked at his hand, thrust the cup convulsively into it and quickly withdrew.

  “The water is warm now, Brensa. I will bring it and leave so you can wash.”

  She jerked her head and whispered, “I cannot,” then lay carefully down again, pulled his blanket back under her cheek and shut her eyes against him. She heard him wait a moment, sigh, and quietly withdraw from the cave. Alone now, she allowed herself to release the breath she had been holding.

  ~31~

  SELF-DOUBT

  The tea had the desired effect. Brensa slept for several spans. Klast used that time to think through the situation, not the least of which was his own reaction. He became uncomfortably aware that something had changed in him. Something had opened that he might never be able to seal again. That knowledge unsettled him immensely. He had depended for so long on his ability to repress emotion. His missions had depended on it.

  He worried, too, about what might be taking place at court. Were Gaelen and Marja safe? Had Sinnath devised another scheme to thwart their union? Would what Klast had learned have changed anything, even if he had been able to inform Gaelen? Would Gaelen even believe him? Sinnath had been one of the elder Lord Bargest’s closest and most trusted advisors. The only evidence Klast had was one overheard sentence. He knew Marja distrusted him. Would she convince Gaelen that he had made up the story as a way to get rid of him? Klast chafed at this forced constraint. Too many questions. No answers. As a man of action, it ate at him.

  Klast watched Brensa as she slept. She looked so small and fragile, so like those Rand had used. It encouraged him that she had shown some progress. Just speaking and taking the cup were significant tokens of trust. Physically, too, she seemed stronger than he had feared. He wondered how soon she would be able to manage the trail down to the ravine and into Bargia. And would she come with him? That still concerned him greatly, as he knew she would never allow him to carry her. She would choose to walk on her own, no matter how difficult. He hoped she would wash and eat when she woke. Her wounds needed tending, and he was afraid that forcing her would erode the tenuous trust he was building.

  Klast had never watched a woman sleep before. He eschewed the company of
most men and avoided women even more. He had had several offers from the whores at the inns and taverns his duties took him to but had not felt the desire to accept, not even from the clean, comely ones. He preferred to keep to himself. Besides, pillow talk could be deadly for a spy.

  So now it felt oddly fascinating to see the rhythmic rise and fall of Brensa’s chest. She still lay half on her side, but he could see her breathing, the way her chestnut curls, though matted, spilled over the blankets, the small hand under her cheek holding his blanket in her clenched fist. Covered as she was, he could not see blood on her skirts, so she looked unhurt except for the tight, pained expression on her face and the occasional spasm that drew a tiny moan from her lips.

  Klast tried to decide if she was attractive and came to the conclusion that she must be. He remembered her as she had been: petite, lively, with a bright smile on her gamine face, her high, clear voice. He could not remember the colour of her eyes. Fool, he berated himself, you were lax in your duty because she was just a girl. You did not observe her as you would had she been a man. Was that why their attackers had been able to take her, because he had considered her insignificant and watched her less vigilantly? Could he have avoided her abduction?

  She mewled in her sleep again, and he checked her to see that she was all right. No change. How would he convince her to wash and let him attend to her wounds? He knew how to be very persuasive with any number of difficult sorts but felt at a loss with this young woman. This was new territory. Perhaps his uncertainty stemmed from the unwelcome awareness that this had become more than just another mission. This had importance for himself. Now it had become imperative not to use deception, a technique he would have used without hesitation on previous missions. Somehow, he knew he had to be honest with Brensa. Klast had never felt so unsure of himself. His confidence had evaporated.

  ~32~

  TRUST ME

  Once Klast felt confident Brensa would not wake, he took advantage of the time to set snares for rabbits, so they would have fresh meat. As he did so, he mulled over his options. He needed to assess the extent of her injuries in order to plan how soon they could leave for Bargia. He had already made the difficult decision that his first duty was to keep her safe rather than rush her beyond her capacity. Gaelen would have to wait.

  As he set his snares he kept his eyes open for any herbs and wild vegetables he could bring back. He had formed that habit years ago, so it took little attention from his thoughts. When he made his way back to the cave he had wild garlic, onions, fiddlehead ferns and chamomile. The chamomile would make a soothing addition to the water for washing.

  On his return a span or so later, he found her still asleep in the same curled position. He put the water back on the fire, added the chamomile to steep, and decided he must risk pressing the issue of washing and seeing to her hurts. His efforts would come to nought if she died from festering fever. Meanwhile he added his fresh items to the stew and kept it simmering. He would also need to convince her to eat.

  He had discovered a hive while he was out and set about making a balm: honey from the hive to prevent festering, goldenseal from his pouch to promote healing, and chamomile to soothe the pain. He had no pieces of cloth available, so he would have to use one of Brensa’s undershifts, torn into strips and cleaned by boiling. He would use them to bathe her and if necessary to bandage her. He doubted it would take much to convince her to give it up, stained as it was with the reminders of her rape.

  As he finished stirring the salve he felt eyes on him, and turned to see that she had wakened. Her position had not changed. Only her eyes followed him. He had expected her to sleep longer.

  Her eyes widened slightly as he approached her, but she remained rigid. Klast squatted in front of her, set down the bowl of balm, and let his hands rest loosely between his knees to show he meant no threat.

  “Brensa, there is something we must do. We must clean your wounds. I also need to take your skirts, to wash them in the stream below. And one of your shifts is needed for cloths and bandages. Do you understand?”

  Brensa shrank in on herself. Not a good sign. Klast lowered his voice to almost a whisper.

  “Brensa, I must do this. I swear I will be as gentle as I can, and will touch you no more than necessary. I have no wish to harm you. Please believe me.” He opened his hands wide in supplication. “It must be done now. I will turn away so you may remove your skirts and cover back up. Then I will take them to wash. I cannot bathe you until we have clean cloths. If you cannot manage, I will need to do it for you.”

  Klast watched her for a moment more, then stood, turned away and tended to the stew, hoping fiercely that she would act. After a moment or two he heard furtive movements. She gasped in pain a couple of times but did not stop. Finally he heard her settle and her breathing slowed. “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Her whisper was barely audible.

  Klast turned slowly, and found her once again wrapped tightly in his blanket, atop the others. He set camomile tea in front of her, gathered her skirts, told her he would return after washing them and left the cave.

  When Klast returned he spread her skirts around the fire to dry. He tore one undershift into large squares and some long strips. Darker spots still showed where the blood had been, but they were faint. He placed the cloths into the pot with the boiled water and chamomile and set the pot next to her pallet.

  “Would you like more tea before we begin?” She nodded. He refilled her cup and poured himself one as well, hoping the gesture would help calm her fear. The water needed to cool anyway. Then, the tea drunk in silence, he regarded her a moment longer and said simply, “It is time.”

  Klast’s movements were deft and gentle. He had tended men’s wounds many times, and had learned how to be quick without causing undue pain. At first Brensa submitted rigidly, but when he touched her thighs, she whimpered. He felt her go limp, and watched her retreat into that inner world that admits no pain or shame. She would feel nothing now until she chose to return. He fervently hoped she would make that choice.

  Klast was relieved to see only minor tearing. She was badly bruised and swollen, but the bleeding had slowed to spotting. She would heal. He cleaned the area and applied the honey balm, then quickly covered her again with the blanket. He had also noticed a purple bruise deepening just above her waist and probed carefully to see if any ribs were broken. Thankfully they appeared intact, but the ribs would cause considerable pain when she moved. He carefully raised her up again, and lifted her arms to wrap the bandages around her chest. She cooperated as if in a trance, showing no response. He worked quickly, lowered her gently back onto the blankets, covered her again with his own and retreated to let her come back to herself.

  Klast left Brensa alone again and went out to check his snares. When he came back with three hares, he found her awake. She sat on the blankets, arms wrapped tightly around her knees, rocking rhythmically back and forth, keening. How Klast knew what to do he could never have explained. Instinct took over. He sat beside her, scooped her onto his lap, and cradled her head in his huge hand, against his chest.

  She, too, responded from old memory, and curled up against him, still keening softly. He rocked her, crooning the refrain of a melody long forgotten, a lullaby. Before long he felt a wetness coming through Brensa’s skirts. His first thought was that she had begun bleeding again. Then he realized there was no colour, so it could not be blood. She had lost control of her bladder. For Klast this was good news. It meant the swelling had gone down, making it possible to pass the tea he had served her. But he understood that to Brensa, it meant further humiliation.

  “It is all right. Your skirts can be washed again,” he murmured softly, rocking her all the while. “It is my fault. I should have left you something to use. “

  Brensa’s sobbing continued for a time, then slowly subsided into intermittent sniffles and hiccups. She gave no indication that she had heard or understood him. Klast noticed th
at his blanket, the one she had used to wrap herself in, lay aside on the ground. She had managed to shrug it off before she lost control.

  He relaxed his hold and reached for it, “Here, if you can, take off your skirts again, and wrap up in the blanket, I will take the wet things down to wash them.” Then he turned away once more, and waited for her to comply. She did so, still sniffling and taking broken, shuddering breaths. When she became still once more, he took the wet things and left, assuring her again that it was not her fault. She did not meet his eyes but kept hers resolutely shut to hide her shame.

  When he returned he found her sitting close to the fire wrapped in his blanket. She watched him, wary still but much calmer, the beginnings of trust in her posture.

  ~33~

  HOME

  Gaelen’s party got no more sleep that night. By the time they had buried the dead and discussed the events of the night, dawn heralded the new day. They made a hasty breakfast, packed up and moved on. By evening, Bargia castle would welcome them with hot food, soft beds and old friends.

  The events of the night would make their homecoming bittersweet, not the victory celebration they had hoped for. Two families would receive the grim news of their loved one’s death.

  Gaelen was anxious to meet with Sinnath and Janest to see if they knew anything of who attacked them and why. He had been away too long and needed information on events in Bargia since his departure. His people would be eager to see their new lord, and they would look for assurances that their lives would go on much as before. A period of mourning needed to be set for the elder Lord Bargest and Gaelen’s brother, Lionn. And Gaelen wanted to firmly establish Marja as his wife and lady in the eyes of the people, a duty he believed essential to consolidating peace and order.