Edward discovered that he was growing faint from holding his breath too long. What was now on the other side of this rock? Out of the corner of his eye he watched the streaks of blood, half-expecting them to disappear, but they didn't.
The voice when it came was very soft, like a single stirring of wind in the grass. “Take off the splints, Edward."
There was no doubt about the words, though, nor the meaning, and no Shakespearean mumbo jumbo either. Exam time. Finals.
Edward looked down at the white cocoon of bandage that extended from his toes to the top of his thigh. Then he looked at Creighton, who was staring back at him expectantly.
A cripple on the run could hardly be any worse off. Edward began to fumble with pins and bandages. In a moment, Creighton handed him the knife again. Then it went faster. No use wondering how he was going to wrap the whole thing up again.
He wasn't. He knew that. He ripped and tugged until his leg was uncovered—damned good leg, not a thing wrong with it.
Creighton doubled forward until his face was on his knees, and stayed there, arms outstretched.
Oh, Uncle Roland, what do you say now?
Edward pulled his legs in under him—no trace of stiffness, even—and adopted the same position, kneeling with head down and arms extended.
God or devil, it was only right to thank the numen for mercy received, wasn't it?
A few moments later, the pony jingled harness and began to munch grass. A bird chirruped, then others joined in, and soon the glade exploded into song. The sky was light, leaves rustled in a breeze that had not been there a minute before. The world had awakened from an ancient dream.
Creighton straightened up. Edward copied him. Then they scrambled to their feet, not looking at each other. There was no one else present, of course.
Edward closed the knife and offered it.
"Leave it,” Creighton said gruffly. “And the bandages also.” He strode over to turn the pony.
Feeling very thoughtful, Edward gathered up the bandages, the splints, the crutch. He laid them tidily alongside the bloodstains. He limped after Creighton in one shoe and one bare foot, but when he reached the dogcart, Creighton silently handed him the second crutch.
He hobbled all the way back to the circle again. The grass was trampled where he and Creighton had knelt. On the other side of the stone, where the numen had been, there was no sign that it had ever been disturbed. What else would you expect?
He stooped to lay his burden with the other offerings. Then he changed his mind and deliberately knelt down first. He bowed his head again and softly said, “Thank you, sir!"
He thought he heard a faint chuckle and an even softer voice saying, “Give my love to Ruat."
It was only the wind, of course.
33
WHEN PLAYING CHILLY NARSH, THE TROUPE WAS forced to compromise on classical costuming. In her herald role, Eleal had worn long Joalian stockings under her tunic and still shivered; she had never experimented with real Narshian menswear. It was even more fiendishly uncomfortable than she had suspected—and difficult! In warmer lands the deception would not have been possible at all, for although she had not matured in the way T'lin had so crudely mentioned, she had progressed to the point where she would not be mistaken for a boy if she paraded around in just a loincloth. So there were advantages to the Narshland climate after all, but she would never have managed to dress without Embiliina's motherly assistance.
The breechclout was a band with a tuck-over flap. Then came well-darned wool socks and the diabolical fleece leggings, cross-gartered all the way up, the tops held by a web strap that looped around the back of her neck. How fortunate that she had little bosom yet to worry about! On top went a wool shirt for the mountains, so often washed that it was thick as felt, and a smock that reached halfway down her thighs; then boots. She pinned up her hair under a pointed hat that tickled her ears. She eyed herself disapprovingly in the looking glass. As she had been warned, the garments were all shabby castoffs. One of her leggings had a hole in the knee and the other was patched.
"How does it feel?” Embiliina Sculptor said, smiling.
"Drafty!"
"Mmm.” Gim's mother chuckled mischievously. “Men seem to like the freedom. If you need to, er ... well, pick a good thick bush to go behind, won't you, dear?"
Her smile was so inviting that for a moment Eleal wanted to throw herself into this so-kindly lady's arms. Her eyes prickled and she turned away quickly. She was no longer a mere waif supported by a troupe of actors and given odd jobs to make her feel useful. In some way she did not understand in the slightest she was important—a Personage of Historic Significance! She must behave appropriately. Perhaps in a hundred years poets like Piol would be writing great plays about her.
She headed for the bedroom door. Without her specially made boot, her walk was very awkward. Not just Clip, clop, but rather Step, lurch ... “Fortunately,” she said brightly, “my dramatic training has taught me how to portray boys."
"Er ... yes. This way, dear."
Gim was waiting in the kitchen, bareheaded, but otherwise already wrapped in outdoor wear. He had a lyre case slung on his shoulder. He smirked bravely when he saw Eleal, but the smirk faded quickly. His eyelids were pink, as if he was fighting back tears. It was all very well to trust a god, but she wished Tion had provided a more convincing, experienced champion to escort her.
His father looked even more worried, trying to act proud.
"Oh, dear!” Embiliina said. “Have you said good-bye to your sisters?"
"They're asleep, Mother!"
"Yes, but did you go in and see them so I can tell them you did?"
"Yes, Mother,” Gim said with exaggerated patience. He turned to his father. “I don't suppose I can go and say goodbye to Inka, can I?"
Kollwin shook his head. “I don't think Dilthin Builder would be very happy to have you hammering on his door at this hour. Your mother will tell Inka in the morning and give her your love."
"And tell her I'll write?"
"And tell her that you'll write. Now you must hurry. The entire watch must be searching for Eleal Singer by now. The priests will have half the city roused. Keep your eyes open. Hurry, but don't be rash. And especially look out for pickets around the trader's camp—they must know she escaped on a dragon."
Gim's fair face seemed to turn even paler. “What'll I do then?"
"You're the hero, son. I think you leave the girl by the wall and go on alone to investigate—but you'll have to make your own judgment."
Gim nodded unhappily. “The guards may just arrest Dragontrader and seize his stock!"
"No. That'd need a hearing before the magistrates—but I suppose they may even drag them out of bed for something this big. Off with you, my boy, and trust in the god."
The ensuing farewells became openly tearful. Eleal turned her back and tried not to listen. She could not help but think that no one had ever said good-bye to her like that.
She had no baggage except a few odd clothes Embiliina had insisted on giving her, and they were easily tucked into the top of Gim's pack. He was already burdened with the lyre, but he made indignant noises when Eleal offered to carry either. He strode off along the dark, windy street, long legs going like swallows’ wings. Suddenly he slowed down and peered at her.
"Why're you limping?"
"I'm not. It's just your imagination."
"Good!” Gim said, and speeded up again. He seemed to have forgotten that she was the heroine and he only her guardian, but she would never ask him to go more slowly, not ever! Soon she was panting in the heavy fleece coat that had been added to all her other ridiculous garments. She grew hot, except where the night wind reached. Perhaps men would be better behaved if they dressed more comfortably.