She came to attention in front of the desk.
“Let’s have it, Corporal.”
“Sir. General Ormond’s regards. He says that if Captain Reiter makes himself known to you, he’s to be reminded his orders are from the emperor and he’s to return immediately to Karis with the mage.”
“And the general knows this how?”
“Runner from Lieutenant Geurin, sir.”
Hodges, Reiter figured. The boy was fast.
“Does the general want a response?”
“No, sir.”
“All right. Check with the major before you head back. I’m sure he’s got something you can take as long as you’re going.”
“Yes, sir!” The messenger snapped off a perfect salute, spun on one heel, and left the tent.
“She must be good on a horse,” the general said as the flap closed. “Even a scent of a beastman drives the big dumb brutes wild, and we can’t be sure we got all of them. I suspect there’s a few slinking around between Bercarit and the border.”
Was the girl’s beast one of them? He wasn’t sure how he felt about her finding him.
“I know Geurin’s father.” From the general’s tone, his opinion of the father was close to Reiter’s of the son. “It’s his uncle you have to watch, though. Smarmy bastard got himself a place at court. Looks like you’re returning immediately to Karis, Captain.”
“I don’t have the mage, sir.” The tangle hung limp from his fingertip.
“I’d lend you one of mine, but they’re all men.”
“It has to be a woman, sir.”
General Denieu took a long swallow of wine. “Then I guess you’ll have some explaining to do when you get to the capital.”
Mirian had no idea how long she’d been walking. Staggering. Stumbling. The best she could say about her pace was that she continued to move forward and time was passing.
Walking in the city, she’d never had to worry about the time. The clock on the Pack Hall and the clocks on the larger of the guild buildings rang every quarter hour. At home, there was the standing clock in the hall, the carriage clock in the parlor, the old mantel clock in the kitchen, and, if he was in the house, her father’s pocket watch. She’d asked for a watch of her own for the Lady’s Gift at Summer Solstice although it seemed unlikely she’d receive one; her mother considered women who carried watches overly masculine.
“But why do you need to know what time it is, Mirian?”
She hadn’t really had an answer for that. She still didn’t. Knowing how long she’d been walking wouldn’t get her to Karis any faster.
It took her a moment to realize that the track had ended, that she’d stepped out onto a rough road, traveled enough that only a narrow ridge of grass remained down the center line. She stopped and frowned and tried to remember what direction she’d been traveling and what direction she needed to travel in now. Her head ached almost as much as her feet and legs, and trying to pull up a coherent thought was a little like trying to pull matching ribbons from a sale bin.
Eventually, she worked out that turning left would take her back to the Aydori Road, the somewhat obvious name the Duke of Pyrahn had given the road that led to the bridge over the river. She didn’t want to go back to Aydori. Not yet. Didn’t think she could, even if she wanted to.
“Sometimes, you can only go on,” she announced to a pair of sparrows as she turned right. Yesterday morning, she’d been a different person. Today, she was walking to Karis.
It seemed to be taking a very long time.
Squinting up at the sky, she wondered what time it was. Afternoon, certainly, but how much past noon? The pocket watch she wanted had a beautifully enameled case—leaves piled one on the other, a hundred shades of green lying in a circle smaller than her palm. The pocket watch she’d likely get, if her father could overrule her mother, would be less beautiful and more practical. She was practical. She admitted it. Sensible, as she’d told Tomas Hagen.
Something on the ground stuck to her foot. Pulling her skirt in against her legs and looking down, she saw the something was black. When she lifted her foot, her sole was red. Although her broken blister had started bleeding again, it wasn’t her blood.
She found Tomas just off the road, a pile of damp, black fur, barely breathing.
His left shoulder looked like raw meat. On the one hand, he’d been lucky; the bone had stopped the silver from reaching any internal organs. On the other hand, she could see shards lying like ivory inlay about to be decoratively set into the exposed muscle.
Laying her bundle on the ground, Mirian sat, and gently lifted Tomas’ head into her lap. The Pack were very hard to kill; everyone knew that. Silver killed them because silver kept them from healing. There were professors at the university, Healer- and Metal-mages, working together studying why this was so, but as they couldn’t ask the Pack to injure themselves for science, the common belief was they weren’t making much progress. Tomas wasn’t healing so, once again, he must have silver in the wound.
Calling the metal to her was second level metals. Second. Until last night, she hadn’t even had first. But she’d cleared the metal out last night; therefore, she could do it again. She had to do it again, or Tomas Hagen would die. If duress was required, that would have to be duress enough.
Spreading her hand a hairsbreadth above the wound, she tried to think of silver but was so exhausted her mind kept wandering.
A tremor ran the length of Tomas’ body.
“Oh, Lord and Lady, Mirian, at least you’re not tied to a tree!” She bit her lip. Hard. The pain cleared her head enough for her to grab the litany of silver and hold it tight. Deadly and beautiful. Beautiful and deadly. Deadly and…“Enough! I want that shot out!” The silver slapped up into her palm, warm and no longer entirely solid. She tossed it aside and stared down at the wound. Was less bone visible than there’d been only a moment ago, or did she imagine what she wanted to see so badly?
First level healing maintained body temperature. Healer-mages neither sweated nor shivered. As society frowned on ladies sweating, Mirian’s mother had been thrilled when she’d passed the level. Mirian had never been able to master second level, a healing sleep, until she’d used it to stop Armin and, in all honesty, she hadn’t been thinking of healing when she’d touched the Imperial soldier. At third level, the professors began teaching the healing of light wounds, the students learning on pinpricks and small cuts sliced into the back of their hands. They spent weeks healing themselves before finally moving on to healing equally small wounds on each other.
Tomas’ wound was not small, and Mirian had never healed as much as a hangnail on herself.
She spread her hand just above the wound again and thought of flesh and bone and skin all growing back together. Thought of Tomas up and running. Thought and thought and never managed to find the place where she knew.
When she moved her hand, nothing had changed.
Tomas had certainly healed quickly from his more minor wound. Although, he’d changed almost immediately…
Did the change, and its reworking of flesh and bone see the wound as a flaw and correct it?
If he healed as he was, taking the time that kind of a wound required, he’d never use the leg again.
But if the injury was corrected…
“Tomas! You have to change.” She didn’t know if he could even hear her. “Tomas!”
Another tremor, more powerful than the first. Was he trying to change?
“Look, you think I smell amazing, so pay attention to me! You have to change!” Bending forward, she exhaled over his muzzle, unsure of how much more of her scent she could get to him given that his head was in her lap. “Tomas!” Another exhale. “Change!”