‘Or?’ Farnor said, picking up the doubt in his voice.
Gryss threw a mask of certainty across his face which had behind it too many long years of experience, as village healer and negotiator, to be penetrated by Farnor.
‘Or nothing,’ he said, his voice carrying the same certainty. ‘It was a nasty and painful injury and you were fretting about everything else that had happened. Both your head and your body needed to get away from it, needed a rest. So they took one when you showed no signs of taking it for them.’
Farnor looked at him suspiciously, but Gryss’s mask deflected the gaze as easily as a stout shield would deflect a weakly thrown spear.
Not wholly convinced, but seeing that no further information was to be had from Gryss, Farnor began to get dressed.
‘What are we going to do?’ he asked, in a low voice, as Gryss helped him thread his right arm into his shirtsleeve.
‘Nothing,’ Gryss said. ‘What can we do? I’m not going to the castle again.’ He became conspiratorial. ‘I’ve told your father that the gate was locked as we agreed, so at least he and Yakob won’t go wandering up there.’
It was important to have the lies consistent, Farnor learned.
‘So all we can do is wait,’ Gryss went on. ‘See what happens when Nilsson gets back, and hope that Jeorg will reach the capital safely.’
Farnor exhaled unhappily.
Gryss became fatherly. ‘You take it easy. Get your-self properly well. That was a brave thing you did, but your arm’s going to be very sore for a day or two so you’ll be in no position to be doing anything strenuous, let alone adventurous.’
Farnor shook his head. ‘I’ve had enough adven-tures,’ he said. ‘I think I’m beginning to value a quiet life now.’
Gryss looked at him, his eyes full of compassion but his mouth twitching into a smile. ‘That’s old man’s talk,’ he said, his smile rumbling into a chuckle. ‘There’s plenty of time before you come to that kind of conclu-sion with any conviction. You just do as I say. Take it easy for a little while. You’ll be ready for action again in no time.’
It was an injudicious remark, Gryss realized as soon as he spoke it.
‘You think something’s going to happen?’ Farnor asked, his face alarmed.
Gryss shrugged awkwardly. ‘No. I don’t think so,’ he said uncertainly. ‘But…’
His doubt hung in the silent sunlit air of the homely bedroom. He made no attempt to resolve it, and Farnor, sensing they would be futile, pressed no more questions.
‘It’s only a month since Dalmas Day,’ he said, qui-etly, after a moment. ‘Who could’ve foreseen all this?’
‘Who indeed?’ Gryss agreed. And who’d have fore-seen you changing so much in so short a time, Farnor, he thought. ‘It’s the way of things,’ he said, affecting a worldly ease that he did not feel. ‘It’s not much fun, but everything’ll settle into some kind of order eventually. What we’ve got to do is keep our wits about us, that’s all.’ His mouth tightened into a thin line. ‘And keep our faith in the basic rightness of things.’
Somewhat to his surprise however, Farnor did not seem disposed to discuss the matter. He was struggling to fasten a loose kerchief about his neck with one and a half hands. Gryss stepped forward to help him, but he shook his head. ‘I’ll have to get used to it,’ he said. A sheepish grin appeared, putting to flight the grimness that seemed to have taken possession of his features. ‘My mother’s only waiting for half a chance to start looking after me and I’m not too sure I can cope with that.’
Gryss nodded understandingly. Farnor’s mood, like a fever, had passed some inner crisis; perhaps one that he himself did not even realize had been reached.
Gryss left the farm shortly afterwards, pausing only to brave Katrin in her kitchen.
‘I know you two are up to something,’ she declared, waving a long wooden spoon at him like a regal sceptre and jerking her head in the direction of the stairs. ‘Though I don’t suppose you’ll tell me, who has to pick up the pieces when you’ve finished. But I know this, and you know I know it: that inn horse can’t lift both front feet off the ground at once, let alone rear and toss someone out of the saddle. And it’s seen many a fox before.’ Gryss endeavoured to maintain a look of innocent reproach to cover his inner quaking as she closed with him, spoon levelled ominously. ‘And that bruise on his arm never came from any rock I ever saw.’
The spoon pinned Gryss to the wall. ‘Don’t you go getting my son involved in matters he can’t handle, Har Grysstson, or you’ll have me to answer to. He’s only a boy, for all his size.’
‘He’s near enough a man, Katrin,’ Gryss risked in-gratiatingly, but with a judicious hint of sternness.
The spoon released him with disdain; he was too unworthy a foe. Retreating to her table Katrin made a disparaging noise. ‘Near enough a man!’ she echoed scornfully. ‘You’re all only eight years old. I don’t know why we bother about you so.’
When she turned, however, any mockery in her manner was gone, and the look she gave Gryss was grim and worldly wise. Simple and direct, her words cut to the heart of her need. ‘You take care of my son, Gryss,’ she said. ‘And my husband. And, for that matter, take care of us all in your dealings with that Captain and his men. Whatever else they are, they’re all fighting men. Used to brutality, to stabbing and killing and…’ She paused, struggling to form the words to the measure of her feelings. ‘And everything else that goes with such a trade,’ she said significantly. ‘There’s none in the whole valley could stand against any of them and hope to live should need arise.’
‘I understand, Katrin,’ Gryss said soberly. ‘Truly.’
But do you, healer? he thought as he walked across the yard. He gave an acknowledging wave to Farnor, watching him from an upstairs window, then bent to stroke one of the farm dogs that was routinely checking him for interesting smells.
Not like she does, he concluded. Katrin’s perception of the reality of events disturbed him. It was no different from his own, but he found himself echoing Farnor’s strange phrase: it came from a different place. Beyond a certain point, there was an unknowing between man and woman which could not be bridged by words.
As he opened the gate to the lane he gave the dog a final affectionate pat. Having seen him to the bounda-ries of its demesne, it wandered away from him, turning its attention to the lure of the richer aromas that were calling to it from all about the yard.
Gryss felt the weariness of his years closing in on him again, despite the warmth of the sunshine and the vigorous optimism of the farm life about him. As he closed the gate, he caught another glimpse of Farnor. He remembered his awkward grin as he had struggled with his kerchief and the shades about him retreated a little.
Resilience, he thought. The dominant hallmark of youth. But the very thought brought back others that he had been holding at bay.
Just stunned, he had confidently declared many times to assuage the alarm of Garren and Katrin as they had raced out to retrieve their unconscious son. But he did not really know. He had peered into Farnor’s vacant eyes, searched his pulses, done everything that he knew, but the only insight he had gained was one into his own inadequacy, his own ignorance.
‘The body is like a great, well-founded ship. Count-less unseen forces work to right it when it is disturbed.’
‘The true study of healing lies not in why our bodies become sick, but in why they remain so well against the innumerable ills that constantly assail them.’
Words that he had heard in his youthful wanderings in his search for knowledge and… whatever it is that youth searches for. Words that had seemed wise then, and which time and experience had made seem wiser still. They had returned to sustain him as he had gently lain Farnor on the grass, carefully positioning him so that he would not roll over and choke should he vomit or swallow his tongue. Indeed, they were all that sustained him in his desperation, for he had no idea what had happened to the young man. Blows to the head, he knew, could produce unforeseeable, alarming effects, but Farnor had received no such injury.