1 The Outstretched Shadow.3 (83 page)

 But as soon as it had come, it was gone. He knew what to do. He had to heal Jermayan with his magic. Fortunately, Idalia had taught him enough of the Healing spells to manage that. It was a simple spell, but costly—and with Jermayan unconscious, he couldn't ask him to share the cost. Kellen would have to pay the entire price.

 Unless… ?

 He glanced up at Shalkan hopefully, but the unicorn shook his head.

 "I can't," the unicorn said, shaking his head unhappily. "I'm sorry, Kellen. He's not a virgin."

 So it was all up to him alone. And when it was over, Kellen would be laboring under some sort of new responsibility or geas, as the Wild Magic exacted its payment—and it was barely possible that this price might be something that ran counter to his current mission. On the other hand, if Idalia ever found out that Kellen had let Jermayan take the blow meant for him, and then let him die afterward when he could have saved him, he knew she'd kill him. Twice.

 He quickly stripped off Jermayan's surcoat, trying to be as gentle as possible. The armor followed, though it was like trying to peel a crawfish out of its shell. At least he could see the pieces of the armor and their fastenings, which was more than he could do when he was taking off his own. Then he lifted the padded undertunic to get a look at the wound. He bit down hard on a pang of nausea as he discovered he had to pull the undertunic out of Jermayan's side: the Centaur's mace had been spiked; there were deep punctures in the flesh, and Kellen suspected broken ribs besides. A serious wound, but not as bad as the gash in the surcoat had suggested. One of the spikes must have caught in the fabric and torn it.

 I can't cast a circle on bloodstained ground. … He looked around for a clean place to cast his circle, then, as gently as possible, eased Jermayan onto his own cloak and dragged him there. The Elven Knight groaned in pain, but did not rouse to consciousness.

 Since he was not as good a Wildmage as Idalia, there were things Kellen would need to cast the Healing Spell, and thanks to Idalia, he had them with him. Kellen covered Jermayan with his bloodstained surcoat for warmth, then went to Lily and rummaged through her packs, looking for knives, bandages, waterskins, and the leaves and herbs he would need.

 The mule was skittish and upset, disturbed by all the blood and trying to pull away. But she was tied securely to Valdien's saddle, and Valdien— trained to war—stood steadily. Kellen was grateful; he didn't have the time to soothe her fears or try to catch her if she bolted. Jermayan needed help now, before he bled to death.

 He took the jar of allheal as well. Jermayan had said it was really only useful for minor abrasions, but there was a lot of bruising involved in the wound. He wasn't sure how far he'd be able to heal Jermayan, and he wanted all the help he could get.

 In a way, though, he was glad that he had something to concentrate on besides what he'd just done. If he thought about all those dead bodies—

 So he wouldn't think about them.

 "Can you find us somewhere to camp?" Kellen asked Shalkan as he gathered what he was going to need. "Someplace not too near here—with water?"

 He still didn't know who'd attacked them, or why—whether they were just common hill-bandits, or something more sinister—and he still didn't have the luxury of waiting around to find out. And even though they'd killed all of them, that didn't mean they didn't have friends who might come looking for them, and even tomorrow would be too soon for that.

 "I'll take care of it," the unicorn promised, trotting off.

 His arms filled with supplies, Kellen hurried back to Jermayan. He took off his own armored gauntlets and drew a circle around them both with his dagger. Then he built his fire of bits of dried twigs and charcoal from his packs on a patch of earth scraped bare of leaves. When the charcoal had kindled, he sat cross-legged on the ground beside the Elf, and closed his eyes to assume the spell-trance that was so like, and yet unlike, the battle-trance.

 Taking his knife he cut a few strands of Jermayan's hair, then added a bit of his own. He curled the strands into a tight lock, then touched them to the blood from Jermayan's wound, remembering what Idalia had done to heal the unicorn colt.

 Cautiously, he ran his thumb along the knife blade, wincing as the flesh parted easily. Quickly, he added his own blood to the spell, and dropped the small bundle into the fire, along with the dried leaves of willow, ash, and yew for good measure, burned them along with three drops of his own blood.

 Still in that dispassionate state, he closed his eyes again and gathered his own power in a knot around his heart, slowly pushing it outward until it met the physical barrier of the scribed circle with a faint sensation of resistance.

 Grant me the strength to heal my friend, he promised the Powers, and I will pay the price for the healing.

 It was done. Now all that was left was to await their answer and hear their price.

 He opened his eyes, held in the calm, still center of the trance, to see the faintly glowing dome of his protections above them. He knew he'd done all that he could do with his Wildmagery, and that the rest was up to the Gods, so Kellen began cleaning and bandaging Jermayan's wound as well as he could, wiping the still-oozing blood away with a dampened cloth, applying allheal to the bruised flesh, making a thick linen pad to place over the ugly wound in Jermayan's side.

 Kellen wasn't sure how extensive the healing would be—or if he would be granted one at all, after having killed so many men—but the one thing he was certain of was that the Wild Magic didn't look favorably on those who tried to use it as a replacement for everyday common sense.

 Suddenly, as he worked, he had an abrupt sense of heatless force pressing down on him, as if giant hands, impossibly heavy, were thrusting down on his shoulders. He felt Power flow through his hands into Jermayan's flesh, and all around him the golden summer sunlight went brilliantly green, as if he'd suddenly been plunged into the heart of an emerald.

 He felt the Power flood into him, strong and sweet, intoxicating, and he lost himself in it, forgetting everything, simply being, and knowing that beneath his hands, the wounds were closing, blood ceasing to leak from the damaged veins, flesh knitting.

 And from somewhere within him there came a voice:

 You will know what you must do when the time comes.

 Then, all at once, as suddenly as it had come, the sense of Presence was gone. Kellen fell out of the spell-trance, so suddenly that he felt giddy and chilled, and was a little surprised not to feel himself thudding down onto the ground beside his mentor.

 Huh. He opened his eyes and shook his head a little. The dome of protection was gone—but then, it had done its work and there was no more need of it.

 Cautiously, Kellen lifted the cloth covering Jermayan's wound. The ugly oozing gash was gone. Only faint bruises remained, and a few dull silvery marks, as if the injury were sennights, even moonturns, in the past.

 Well, I know it worked, anyway.

 "That was—peculiar," Kellen muttered aloud, breathing a shaky sigh of relief. He certainly didn't recall Idalia mentioning anything of the sort happening to her during a healing. He felt almost as if he'd been forgiven, though he wasn't quite sure for what.

 And he was suddenly bone-weary, having paid an immediate price of his own strength for the healing and the protective circle.

 Even Jermayan's color was better, the Elven Knight having gone from a swoon into a natural sleep. He was breathing easier as well.

 So the healing was more than just cosmetic, it had worked as well as Kellen could ever have asked if he'd dared—even though Kellen had no notion of what his greater price might be for the spell he had worked here today. So I'll know what to do when the time comes, will I? That's useful, I don't think.

 Kellen sat back on his heels, able to stop and take a deep breath himself for the first time since the fight had begun. He crushed out the little fire he'd built, reaching for his gloves and gauntlets and putting them on again before getting stiffly to his feet. As soon as Shalkan got back, he'd wake Jermayan and they'd move. He forced himself to try to think and plan, though at the moment his head felt as if it were stuffed full of feathers.

 How had those bandits—or whatever they were—managed to appear out of nowhere without any of them—even Shalkan—noticing them? Had they had magic? Had they been sent by the enemy? If someone had sent them, more might be on the way.

 And if they'd only been bandits and nothing worse, then at the very least, a valley full of dead men wasn't going to be a pleasant place to camp, and where there were some bandits, there would probably be others, even in Kellen's admittedly limited experience.

 And on top of everything else, Idalia had warned him to move on quickly from anyplace where he used his magic, as it was likely to draw unwelcome attention. So whether the bandits had been sent by the enemy or not, he probably had the enemy's attention now—or at least, would have it soon, if he was still here.

 Steeling himself against the sight, Kellen went back among the corpses to reclaim the rest of Jermayan's armor and sword. The blood hadn't bothered him while he was fighting—not after Jermayan had been hit—but it was different now. Now the sight of the bodies made him sick, and knowing that he was responsible for killing a good half of them, well…

 For the first time, he was able to count the enemy numbers. Six men and two Centaurs, all looking pretty much like what Kellen imagined hill-bandits would look like; dirty, unshaven, and under their armor, their ill-fitting clothing was clearly stolen from their victims. He took the best of the round shields that the bandits had been carrying for himself—after today, he thought it might be a pretty good idea for Jermayan to teach him to fight with one.

 Once he'd done that, he led Valdien and the mule over to where Jermayan was. That took even more coaxing; Valdien was excited by the scent of blood and kept dancing away when Kellen reached for his bridle, and Lily was plain and fancy spooked. But Kellen managed that task as well—it helped that he was far too tired to lose his temper with either of them.

 He hoped Shalkan would get back soon; if he didn't, he'd have to find some way to go on without him and meet him on the way. It was already midafternoon, and as soon as the sun got much farther over the canyon wall, it would be dark down here, and Kellen didn't want to chance trying to lead either Valdien or Lily down an unfamiliar trail in the dark.

 By the time Kellen was able to lead the animals back to where Jermayan lay—making a wide circuit around the actual battlefield—the Elven Knight was awake and trying to sit up.

 "I wouldn't move if I were you," Kellen said. "I'm not sure how badly you're still hurt."

 Jermayan grunted and lay back, apparently agreeing with Kellen's assessment.

 "The bandits?" he asked tersely.

 "If that's what they were," Kellen said doubtfully. "Dead. All of them."

 "Good," Jermayan said with satisfaction. He pressed his fingers against his side, wincing as he probed the site of his injury, and then sat up. His face was pale, but determined.

 He looked around, taking in the circle drawn in the dirt, the remains of the fire. "It seems I owe you my life," he said.

 "I owe you mine," Kellen said, feeling his inadequacy engulf him like a wave. "I'm… sorry, Jermayan. I just… froze."

 And that was when everything fell apart for him.

 Kellen dropped to his knees, retching, his stomach heaving, tears streaming down his face as he sobbed between bouts of vomiting. He felt, more than saw, Jermayan getting slowly and carefully to his feet; felt Jermayan kneel beside him, and felt the Elf's hands steadying him as his stomach emptied. He wept for himself, for a loss of something he could not name, for the blood on his hands and his soul. He wept that he had been so weak that Jermayan had been forced to put himself in danger. He wept that he had simply not been good enough.

 And he wept with rage, at the men who had forced him to kill.

 "All the practice in the world cannot prepare you to see a man die," Jermayan said simply when Kellen was able at last to listen. "But you did not let your feelings overmaster you—or we would not be here now."

 "But—" Kellen groaned. He'd failed. He'd gotten Jermayan hurt, nearly killed! "I—"

 "Hush. And listen to one who is briefly your master," Jermayan said gently. "You have crossed a great abyss today. You have chosen death. With your two hands, you have delivered it. Are you sorry?"

 "Yes. No. Both." There was nothing left in his stomach, but Kellen remained bent over, gut aching, throat raw, tears still burning down his cheeks.

 "Good. It is a wretched thing to take a life, but it was what needed to be done today. These outlaws could have turned aside from us; they could have broken off combat at any time, and we would not have pursued them. They did neither. We cannot know if they deserved the death they won, but if we had not slain them, they would have slain us, and our task requires that we live. Do you hate them? Do you anger, still?"

 That Kellen was sure of. "Yes!" He'd killed today. He would never forget that, never forgive it. Never!

 "Do not; we cannot know what drove them. Perhaps their minds were not even their own. Let it go. Forgive them."