I woke up hurting really badly. It was still daylight, unless it was daylight again, and I'd been having fever dreams. Looking back at it from here, I suppose I'd been less asleep than out of my head, maybe raving part of the time. I tried to get up, but my right leg wouldn't hold my weight, so I went sprawling back onto the moss and needles. Then I lay there sort of half-awake and slipped into fever dreams again.
The next time I woke up, it was to pain that made the earlier pain seem mild. Someone had pulled my breeches off and was doing something drastic to the wound. A few feet in front of me I could see a little fire. Whoever was with me took something or other out of it. Then a terrific pain knocked me out again.
I didn't know who it was doctoring me. The hand I'd seen was big, the wrist thick and downright furry.
The next time I was aware of anything, I was wrapped in a blanket so I couldn't move, and it was night. I was still lying on my stomach, and not likely to turn over. My butt hurt savagely. I must have moaned or something, because in a minute someone was next to me, feeling my forehead. Whoever it was rolled me onto my left side, raised my head a little, put the spout of a wineskin in my mouth, and squeezed once and then some more, till I shook my head that I'd had enough. It seemed to be about half wine and half water. In another minute there was a wet cloth cool on my forehead. That's all I remember from that time.
It was birds singing that woke me next. Dawn thinned the darkness. It had been midafternoon when I'd first lain down and gone to sleep. I was surprised at how much better I felt; better than I had any right to expect. I was weak and I hurt, but the pain wasn't nearly as bad as it had been.
Vaguely I remembered someone massaging my arms and legs and back while I was half-dreaming in the night. Another time there'd been a dream-like period of being touched lightly here and there, especially on both sides of my butt, while someone who wasn't Jamila recited a formula that Bhatti had taught us as novices, to help the hands take away pain.
I felt a sense of peace and went back to sleep.
I was still wrapped in the blanket when I woke up again. Beams of sunlight speared down through holes in the forest roof, their high angle telling me it was sometime around midday. A burly man squatted a few meters away, looking at me. He had close-cropped white hair that could have been flaxen-blond or prematurely white, and grew halfway down to his eyebrows. Definitely not a Lizard. But there was something strange about him.
My stomach growled and felt like it was puckering inside me. "You don't happen to have something to eat, do you?" I asked.
He tipped his head back and laughed. Then without saying anything, he opened a packsack and took out bread and cheese plus a handful of wild onions. I could hardly eat them lying on my stomach, but he couldn't simply unwrap me without rolling me over. He spared me that by raising me to my knees and sort of unpeeling me from the shoulders down. I felt weak, but stronger than I might have expected.
I ate breakfast like that, on my knees—dry bread and cheese with onions, along with about half a liter of water. When I'd finished, he gave me another good swig of wine. I was tightly bandaged with something or other, cloth or leather, around the hips and lower belly. Even if it had been possible to sit, I wouldn't have cared to try. And while I'd be able to take a leak like that, I had my doubts about anything more.
Whoever he was, my benefactor had washed my torn and bloody breeches and draped them to dry on a bush at the edge of the glade.
When I'd eaten, I grabbed a stout sapling and tried pulling myself to my feet. I made it, too, then almost fell over. My white-haired friend propped me up till the dizziness passed. Then, on my own, I hobbled painfully a few meters off and peed. That taken care of, it was time to find out some things.
"My name's Luis," I said. "Luis Raoul DenUyl. What's yours?"
He grinned, not saying anything for half a minute. I wondered if he was a mute; some places they don't destroy mute babies. But it must have been him who'd done the laying on of hands in the night and recited the healing formula.
Then I became aware of his eyes. They were clear and steady, but the colored part was a different blue than any I'd ever seen, a strong violet blue, and the black in the middle wasn't quite round, but kind of oblong up and down. The sort of thing you could overlook, or tell yourself was an illusion.
"Mine's Tom," he said, "Tom Jones." His Merkan was as good as anyone's, his voice deep and sort of velvety, but clear enough, and as loud as it needed to be in a quiet place.
"Glad to know you, Tom," I said, and we shook hands. "Really glad. How the heck did you find me? Back in here away from the road and with no path to follow."
His grin widened. He had a wide mouth and big strong teeth. Especially the corner teeth, the dog teeth, and that's what they reminded me of, a little. "I was looking for a good place to lay over," he said, "and here was a nice creek for water." He paused. "Besides, I was looking for someone to travel northeast with."
So he was a member of the Order, had to be, on the same mission as mine. A Brother with a powerful muse. "Where did you come from?" I asked.
"West," he said. "Here. Have a swig." This time he handed me a small flask, not holding much more than a hundred millies by the feel of it.
I stared at it, uncertain for a minute, then drank, only a little swig. It tasted like wine but felt stronger than whiskey, with a spreading warmth that had nothing to do with how hot it was. It reached my knees and eyelids at the same time. Tom helped me down on my belly again, and as I drifted off, I felt his hands and heard the formula being spoken. I wanted to ask if he knew anything about Jamila, but I couldn't even get the first word out before I was asleep.
I must have been dreaming continuously till evening. Not fever dreams this time—I was over that—but wild and vivid nontheless. Jamila was in them. We kept killing guys, Lizards, and they kept killing us. We must have killed each other every way there was, till killing and being killed seemed like nothing at all, and we felt like old buddies.
Supper I ate by twilight and about half conscious, then had another swig of drugged wine.
You'd think I'd wake up with a real headache after that, but the next time I came to, in the cool of morning with the sun newly up, all I felt was starved. Enough to eat the ass out of a skunk, as they say in Mizzoo. Tom came up with the usual—dry bread, cheese, and wild onions—plus sausage and all the water I could drink. This time, though, he didn't bring out any wine, drugged or otherwise.
"You ready to go?" he asked me.
I wasn't ready to answer. I had a question of my own. "Do you know anything about a lady named Jamila? I lost her. Day before yesterday, unless I lost track of a day in there somewhere. We were jumped by some people the Lizards must have sent after us."
He shook his head.
"She's a black lady. Darkish brown, actually," I went on. "Tall, about my height, wears black leather breeches and shirt and carries a sword. And strong! A warrior. Not like any other woman I've ever known."
"I never met the lady. Haven't seen her. And she doesn't sound like someone I'd forget."
"No, you wouldn't. Well, shit!"
Anyone who's in good shape as a warrior doesn't really cherish his life, even without the dreams I'd just finished having. It's not that you'd throw away your life, but you're willing to spend it—hopefully spend it smart. To be attached to life screws up your performance; the stronger the attachment, the poorer you do. That's true for anyone actually, and I had no trouble with it.
But I'd fallen in love with Jamila. Which was fine. It's all right for a warrior to be fond of someone, admire someone, like to be with someone—love someone—but you need to have the same attitude toward their life as your own: Be willing to lose it. Just then I wasn't managing that.
"Where'd you have in mind to go?" I asked.
"Adirondack."
Definitely a Brother. "Ah. I'll have to walk; it'd be a mistake for me to try riding."
He nodded. Carefully, gradually, I got up without help, and carefully went over to where my breeches still hung. They were dry, and awkwardly, very carefully and with Tom's help, I pulled them on. Bandaged like I was, I couldn't fasten them, but we got them on me so they'd stay up. I was going to sling my pack on my shoulders next, but he took it and started strapping it to my saddle skirt. Obviously he'd been taking care of the mare, too.
"I'm not sure we ought to take her," I told him. "I've had nothing but trouble since I started to ride." Tom raised his eyebrows. "It made us too easy to follow," I said, at the same time thinking that riding hardly accounted for the things that had happened.
"We'll chance it," he answered. "She can carry your pack, and I'll lead her. That'll make it easier on you while you get your strength back. We can sell her down the road somewhere."
I shrugged. He started out, keeping the pace slow, leading the horse when he could have ridden. I followed, walking carefully, not taking what you'd call a stride, but not actually limping—a sort of half walk, half toddle. Either I hadn't been hurt as badly as I'd thought, or Tom was a very good healer. My bet was, he was a very good healer.