So I buried my face in Greatheart’s mane, and let my sobs overwhelm me. The horse could take me where he willed. What did it matter?
Stay on, stay on, stay on.
I came back to myself when I realized that Greatheart had finally come to a halt. His head hung down as he drew in air and his sides were lathered.
I felt heavy, unable to do more than breathe. It took long moments before I understood what had happened, and longer still for me to lift my head and look around.
Nothing. Nothing around us but the plains and horses.
I turned my head to scan the area. It all had that eerie glow of silver, from the moon high above. I could hear water flowing nearby. A stream, perhaps. But for miles in all directions, all I could see was horses and grass.
A sob escaped my throat. It was all I had strength for.
Greatheart took a few steps, and lowered his head. I could hear him drinking, great gulps of water. Part of me worried that he’d make himself sick. But he was thirsty, and I was too weary to care.
Down. I needed to get down.
I looked at my hands, wrapped tight in the horsehair. I had to think to get them to loosen their grip. They’d cramped so tight in the rough hair that I sobbed as they slowly let go. I slid from Greatheart’s back to fall in a heap at his feet.
Keir was dead. My beloved . . .
I curled into a ball and wept, until the blackness of despair and exhaustion claimed me.
I awoke, warm and safe, wrapped in blankets that smelled of Keir. I sighed, and smiled and reached out. . .
“Muwapp?”
I jerked up and awake, my heart pounding in terror.
An animal stared back at me, sitting by my feet, its long fur hanging down to cover my toes. It gave me a mild look, and started chewing its cud.
“Muwaaaapppp.”
They were all around me, six of them, my blanket of the night. I shivered a bit in the cold morning air, and realized that they had kept me warm. I sat still, breathing hard, letting my heart slow, recovering from the shock.
The one closest burped, and I was awash in grass-sweet breath. I laughed in spite of myself. They looked like large shaggy goats, except they had longer necks and large, floppy ears. I reached out and scratched one between the ears, and it burped again and almost seemed to purr.
“Muwapp. Muwapp.” The one at my feet got up, and shook itself like a dog.
The others rose as well, cranky and objecting, but obeying anyway. They moved to the stream to drink. The last one looked at me like I was some sort of very odd creature, and then followed the others. It left a tuft of wool behind, caught on the matted grasses. I plucked it, and held it to my nose. It had that spicy scent of Keir’s. I twirled it in my fingers, and smiled when I realized that Keir smelled like a goat.
Keir was dead.
It felt like I’d been struck in the chest, right between my breasts. I covered my heart with my hands, and bent over, moaning as the pain and memories washed over me, over and over. As the memories spilled out and re-played before my eyes.
Just when we’d sworn ourselves to each other. Just when we’d learned to trust and have faith . . .
My chest was so tight, I could barely breathe. I rocked back and forth, sobbing until exhaustion silenced my tears.
Something nudged me. I looked up to see Greatheart standing over me. He lowered his head, and sniffed my neck.
“Oh, Greatheart.” I reached up, and hugged him. He waited patiently as I clung to him, trying to get my tears under control.
When I could, I let go and tried to struggle to my feet. As I shifted to stand, I realized that my satchel was still on my hip, the strap between my breasts. I eased the strap over my head and just sat for a moment, trying to get my bearings.
I was a mess. My tunic was stained and wrinkled. My head was pounding something fierce, and my stomach was empty and growling. My hands hurt, and I opened them to see they were swollen, hot and raw. There were sharp cuts where Greatheart’s mane had sliced into my palms.
The goats were gathered at the bank of the stream, drinking and eating and chattering like old women on laundry day. Greatheart took a step and scattered them, so that he could drink, noisily sucking in water. The goats scolded with their odd sounds, but splashed through the water to the other side of the stream. I got to my feet and staggered over to kneel by the water, upstream of Greatheart.
I thrust my hands in first. The touch of the water made me hiss as it cooled my heated skin. I cleaned them as best I could, then cupped them and drank the cool sweet water. Only then did I splash my face, drying it on the sleeves of my tunic.
That done, I got to my feet, to look around in the light of day.
Grass and horses. No people. No tents. No enemies.
No ghosts.
I was just as grateful for the last.
I didn’t want to think, didn’t want to feel. My hands still hurt, so I decided to think about that for now. I walked back to my satchel, sat next to it and opened it wide. There was a salve that would help, somewhere in the mess.
The first thing I pulled out was bloodmoss. Carefully, I used a bit to close the cuts. They were still raw, still swollen, but some of the pain was gone.
The next item was my vanilla soap, dried and wrapped in cloth. I held my breath, not wanting to inhale the scent. Not now. I couldn’t think about that now. I set it in the grass, as far away as possible.
I rummaged further, surprised to see nothing broken, even the jar with the ehat musk. I wasn’t really sure what all was in the satchel. Gils had made it from an old saddlebag and a wide leather strap. He’d told me that he was putting in pockets for ‘useful things’. I could see him seated on the floor of my stilltent, looking up at—
I wiped my nose on my tunic, and tried to force myself to think about other things. But the images flooded into my head.
Gils convulsed, limbs jerking in spasms, his head thrown back, gasping for air.
Yers staggered, almost dropping the lad in horror. But Isdra stepped closer to Yers, taking more of Gils’s weight. They both managed to hold steady as Gils stopped thrashing as quickly as he had started.
My head came up, my eyes popped open. I looked out over the grasses, but I didn’t see them. Instead, I went over that horrible moment again and again, with the eye of a healer. A cold, unemotional eye.
Gils convulsed, limbs jerking in spasms, his head thrown back, gasping for air.
The patient had convulsions.
I moved then, my hand on his forehead. Gils was warm, but not extraordinarily so. “Gils?” I called his name, but there was no reaction, no indication that he was aware. I placed my fingers at his neck, feeling a slow, weak pulse.
The patient had not had a fever.
Quickly, I checked for any kind of head wound, or perhaps he was choking. But his head showed no sign of injury and his throat was clear. There was no sign of other injury, it had to be the plague, and yet there was no odor, no real sweat on his body. But the headaches could cause these kinds of problems, if they were severe enough. Gils’s breath was rapid and labored, perhaps ...
No head wound. No odor, no sweating. Breathing was rapid and labored.
Again, Gils jerked in spasms. His breathing was slowing, as was the beat of his heart. I looked around, finally focusing on Keir’s face, a question in his eyes. I met his gaze, and let my tears fall, answering with a shake of my head.
His heart had slowed, his breathing had slowed. My throat was as dry as a bone, my heart was racing. Seen now, with a cold eye and distance, I knew—
I swallowed hard, and faced the truth. Gils had not died of the plague.
But the only thing that I could think of that might cause those symptoms was poison.