She's really just a child, he thought. All children are curious.
Nothing more.
The last was less a thought than a plea to the fates; a prayer.
ELEVEN
When Marishka and Ilsabet went riding, Peto accomplished nothing until they returned. He tried to work, but the papers he read, the decisions he made, were all colored by the thought that his love might be waylaid by rebels, killed, raped… The horrors of his imagination were endless.
As a result, when two of the guards came riding back to the castle with news of an accident, Peto was the first one down the stairs to the courtyard. When he heard that Marishka had been the victim, he did not ask for details, but ordered the guard off his mount.
"Send for the troop surgeon," he ordered, "and a healer. Don't delay."
Peto rode out in the company of the second guard. When he reached the high flat meadows, he tried to relax. The rolling grasslands were hardly the place for a fatal accident, he decided. Probably everyone was being overly cautious, as they should be.
Then he saw Marishka lying so white and still among the yellow wildflowers, and sorrow filled him. "Is she dead?" he asked Ilsabet.
Ilsabet shook her head.
"Their horses bolted after stepping on a snake," one of the guards said. "Ilsabet managed to control hers; Marishka was not so lucky."
"Where is the horse?" Peto asked. He was a sol-dier, used to venting strong emotion with blood. He'd feel infinitely better if he could kill the beast.
"Dead, Baron. It ran off the side of the cliff road."
"Marishka jumped deliberately, or she would have gone over with the mare," Ilsabet said.
It was the last word either of them spoke. They sat on either side of the unconscious girl waiting for help.
Peto's campaign surgeon was a seasoned soldier. He arrived a quarter hour after Peto and examined the unconscious girl carefully, beginning with her limbs. "Her leg is broken," he said. "And the bump on her head worries me."
"Will she be all right?" Peto asked.
"I think there may also be some damage to her back. We'll have to wait until she's awake to determine the extent. In the meantime, I should set her leg while she's unconscious and save her some pain."
Peto watched the surgeon cut away Marishka's leather boots, then left the man to his work. It would not be correct for Peto to see his future bride so exposed. And Ilsabet was with her to comfort her if she woke.
Marishka had often spoken to him about the Seer's message-that nothing Marishka did would alter her fate. He hadn't understood then; he began to understand now. He'd been so worried about the rebels killing or kidnapping her, but in the end she had been harmed anyway by something as insignificant as a meadow snake. Marishka would undoubtedly tell him it could as easily have been a piece of bad meat or a fall down the always slippery castle stairs.
"No!" he whispered to whatever gods ruled this land. "You will not have her."
When Marishka finally woke, the air had cooled with evening. She lay in the same place where she had fallen, but now there were blankets beneath her and a tent erected around the spot to shade her from the setting sun. She looked from Peto to Dow, the old healer, then at the surgeon. "So much effort for me," she said.
"Whatever is needed," Peto replied.
The surgeon examined her first. Though her head hurt terribly and her stomach seemed queasy, she could move her limbs. But when she tried to sit up, she cried out in pain and pressed her palms to her head. Dow moved to her side, a bottle in his hand.
"Drink this," he said. "The mix is old, but your sister is out gathering the herbs for a more potent tea. We'll take the headache away soon enough.
"She has knowledge of what is needed?" Peto asked.
"A good deal, most of it self-taught. I think with proper training she could become a great healer."
"Nonetheless, check the herbs she brings. I wouldn't want a mistake to weigh on her conscience or yours."
"Certainly, Baron."
When Ilsabet returned she seemed out of breath and her hair had fallen loose from its clip, moving in the faint breeze like the silver grass just beginning to bloom in the meadow. She handed Dow her cache and sat, obviously waiting for praise.
He would have given it anyway. Into the already boiling water he threw mugwort, valerian, wound-wort, and the potent wild onions that were just beginning to poke through the warm soil. He added a large quantity of honey to the mix, for the herbs would be too bitter to drink without it. Though Ilsabet had not been asked for them, she separately brought potent black nettle leaves, mullein, and yarrow. "The cook at Argentine says these make an ideal poultice for bruises. I thought you might try it on her head and back."
"Perfect, child, though I don't think her back needs any treatment."
"She woke?" Ilsabet asked.
"Then dozed off again. Wake her, if you wish. She asked that you do so."
Ilsabet turned to her sister and took her hand, calling her name, embracing her carefully when she opened her eyes. They propped up Marishka's head and shoulders so she could drink the tea while Dow applied the fresh poultice to the bruise on her forehead.
They stayed in the field that night. While the others slept, Marishka had strange dreams of Sagesse and her prediction, of being cold, alone. She stood outside a tomb in a land she did not recognize. Her body had lost its color, her hair and skin had become the silver of the moonlight. She heard a howl in the distance, but it brought no fear. Instead, she fell forward and, without knowing how, bounded in the direction of the cry.
She forced herself awake. Her head pounded. Not wanting to wake anyone, she reached for the teapot. Though the steeped herbs had become bitter, she drank the brew eagerly and slept.
In the morning, the guards placed her on a pallet and carried her down the steep road. Later, safely ensconced in her room with a pot of tea on the table beside her and her head wound washed and wrapped, she dined with Ilsabet, Mihael, and Peto, eating sparingly.
Peto was surprised at the change in Marishka's sister. Ilsabet seemed pleased to help plan the wedding, offering suggestions on how to decorate the great hall for the banquet. Peto wanted to request that she swear allegiance to him at the wedding, but recalling her defiant pose some months earlier, decided not to remind her of it. If she was content to forget the past, he would do the same.
When Marishka began looking tired, Ilsabet poured her a cup of tea. Peto said goodnight, but ilsabet stayed, holding her sister's hand until Marishka slept. Later, when Marishka woke with her head pounding, her servant came in, heated the pot, and poured a cup of tea. The brew seemed somewhat more bitter than it had been earlier, but it relieved Marishka's pain. Sleep came easily.
In the morning, Marishka and Peto ate together. Though Marishka felt famished, the first bite of her meat and apple tart made her gag, and she settled for a bit of fruit and some unleavened bread and more tea brought up personally by the healer.
"She seems so pale," Peto commented to Dow.
"She's lucky to be alive. Give her time to recover," the healer replied with a chuckle. "She'll dance at the wedding, believe me."
Marishka lay back and smiled bravely, though thoughts of last night's dream, the tomb, and the wolf refused to dissipate even with the soft sunlight falling through her open window.
"Let me sit there, Peto," she said pointing to a chair beside the window. When the healer said it was all right for her to move, he carried her there, propping up her broken leg, moving a table and second chair close by. They played cards until afternoon when Ilsabet took his place.