Vortigern, then at Bron. “This man is the one you have sought, my lord: a man born of no earthly father. I Saw it as I tended his wounds just now.”
* * *
MAYHAP MY TEMPERAMENT—for good or ill—does spring from my mother’s folk, who were of Erin, land of gnarled thorn trees and mists and hidden springs. But she died when I was four, before I could know her more.
Since spring, when I had returned to my father’s court—and been welcomed by him, I must grant him that much—I had told many tales, but never my own. Neither of my birth, nor of what was to come—my own life unfolding, glimpsed in the swirling blood Gamma had paid to the scrying waters before she died.
Now I could—almost—imagine Gamma standing before me, pursing her lips and telling me that for a healer, compassion comes before all.
Because the prisoner’s body showed scars on battle scars, marks of old sword wounds faded to thin white lines and newer ones still puckered and red. Even apart from the most recent marks, gift from Vortigern and his men. And I had to force myself to consider either scars or wounds as I demanded of him, “Have you utterly lost your wits?”
The prisoner looked at me, eyes hard in his dirt-smeared face.
We were alone in the underground cell’s cramped, rank-smelling space; Bron had given me a long look, and then had muttered something about consulting the auguries to see if what I said were true and gone, drawing Vortigern with him.
There was an energy, a quick, nervous hum beneath the still-muscled control that kept the prisoner prone on the floor, where Vortigern’s final kick had sent him. That was part of what had made me mark him for a fighting man, even more than the battle scars. For the past three days, that energy had been turned towards flicking Vortigern’s temper on the raw. Now the part he had played was—at least partly—fallen away, leaving him free to regard me with a keen-edged, intense focus behind his gaze.
All he said, though—and so flatly that his voice sounded almost indifferent—was: “I might ask you the same thing.”
Truly, one does need patience above all else when treating with men made ill-humored by the pain of their wounds. And to any who think me over-quick, let me say that I had many times before that day had injured warriors heave pots of their own waste at me—and never once had I let my temper slip.
I had not even intended to lose my temper with this man, now. But I was so tired that my eyes felt as though they had been salted like meat for the winter. And there was as well that future, glimpsed in the scrying waters months before.
If that vision was will be , and not merely a shifting may be , I had only this brief window of time to choose for myself how I might serve Britain’s honor now. Before I was caught in the web of what harpers would one day turn to story and song.
The knowledge made me snap back through gritted teeth, “I apologize. Were you enjoying Vortigern’s attentions? I could call him in here again. He might be willing to break another two or three of your ribs while you play the babbling fool. Though if you had half a grain of sense, you would at least pretend to be knocked unconscious when he gets to work on you. Men like Vortigern want those they hurt to be able to feel the pain.”
The prisoner looked down at the length of linen I had bound tightly about his cracked ribs to keep their jagged edges from shifting and piercing a lung. Something hard crossed his face, like a cloud across the sun. And then his hand shot out, so swiftly that I had no time to react before he was dragging me forward, close enough that I could smell the blood and sweat on his tattered clothes. “Maybe I want it to hurt. Did you ever think of that?”
His hand had wrapped itself around my throat in a grip like a vise. My chest burned and my vision blurred. His breath was hot on my face. “You realize all I’d have to do would be to squeeze, and—”
I did
* * *
MAYHAP MY TEMPERAMENT—for good or ill—does spring from my mother’s folk, who were of Erin, land of gnarled thorn trees and mists and hidden springs. But she died when I was four, before I could know her more.
Since spring, when I had returned to my father’s court—and been welcomed by him, I must grant him that much—I had told many tales, but never my own. Neither of my birth, nor of what was to come—my own life unfolding, glimpsed in the swirling blood Gamma had paid to the scrying waters before she died.
Now I could—almost—imagine Gamma standing before me, pursing her lips and telling me that for a healer, compassion comes before all.
Because the prisoner’s body showed scars on battle scars, marks of old sword wounds faded to thin white lines and newer ones still puckered and red. Even apart from the most recent marks, gift from Vortigern and his men. And I had to force myself to consider either scars or wounds as I demanded of him, “Have you utterly lost your wits?”
The prisoner looked at me, eyes hard in his dirt-smeared face.
We were alone in the underground cell’s cramped, rank-smelling space; Bron had given me a long look, and then had muttered something about consulting the auguries to see if what I said were true and gone, drawing Vortigern with him.
There was an energy, a quick, nervous hum beneath the still-muscled control that kept the prisoner prone on the floor, where Vortigern’s final kick had sent him. That was part of what had made me mark him for a fighting man, even more than the battle scars. For the past three days, that energy had been turned towards flicking Vortigern’s temper on the raw. Now the part he had played was—at least partly—fallen away, leaving him free to regard me with a keen-edged, intense focus behind his gaze.
All he said, though—and so flatly that his voice sounded almost indifferent—was: “I might ask you the same thing.”
Truly, one does need patience above all else when treating with men made ill-humored by the pain of their wounds. And to any who think me over-quick, let me say that I had many times before that day had injured warriors heave pots of their own waste at me—and never once had I let my temper slip.
I had not even intended to lose my temper with this man, now. But I was so tired that my eyes felt as though they had been salted like meat for the winter. And there was as well that future, glimpsed in the scrying waters months before.
If that vision was will be , and not merely a shifting may be , I had only this brief window of time to choose for myself how I might serve Britain’s honor now. Before I was caught in the web of what harpers would one day turn to story and song.
The knowledge made me snap back through gritted teeth, “I apologize. Were you enjoying Vortigern’s attentions? I could call him in here again. He might be willing to break another two or three of your ribs while you play the babbling fool. Though if you had half a grain of sense, you would at least pretend to be knocked unconscious when he gets to work on you. Men like Vortigern want those they hurt to be able to feel the pain.”
The prisoner looked down at the length of linen I had bound tightly about his cracked ribs to keep their jagged edges from shifting and piercing a lung. Something hard crossed his face, like a cloud across the sun. And then his hand shot out, so swiftly that I had no time to react before he was dragging me forward, close enough that I could smell the blood and sweat on his tattered clothes. “Maybe I want it to hurt. Did you ever think of that?”
His hand had wrapped itself around my throat in a grip like a vise. My chest burned and my vision blurred. His breath was hot on my face. “You realize all I’d have to do would be to squeeze, and—”
I did
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