Tavi hated the helpless feeling that knowledge sent through him. He’d had a lifetime to get familiar with it, when his lack of furycrafting continually put him at a disadvantage in virtually every facet of his life. He would have given anything to have a healer’s skill at watercrafting, to be able to help his friend.
The captain was right. The best thing he could do for Max was to shut his mouth and wait.
There wasn’t a sound for nearly two minutes, and every second of it felt like a week.
Then Foss exhaled a low, agonized groan, bearish body sagging forward over Max.
Max suddenly jerked and drew in a ragged, choking breath.
Foss grunted, still sagging, and his rumbling voice sounded unsteady. “Got him, Cap,” he said after a moment. “It was real close.”
Tavi heard Cyril exhale slowly himself, though he kept his face from any expression. “I thought Lady Antillus was here today,” he said. “How is it that she was not here to care for Maximus?”
Foss shook his head and slowly sat up again, drawing his arms from the bloodied water to sit down immediately on the canvas floor. “Lunch with her son, she said.”
“Ah, yes. Family lunch,” Cyril said. “How is he?”
“Bad, Cap. He’s tougher’n a gargant leather boot, but he bled out more than I’ve ever seen a man survive.”
“Will he recover?”
Foss shook his head again. “Wound is closed. He’s breathin’. But losing that much blood can do bad things to a man’s head. Maybe he wakes up. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he wakes up, and he ain’t himself no more. Or can’t walk. Or he wakes up simple.”
“Is there anything we might do to help him?”
Foss shrugged and from his sitting position fell wearily onto his back, rubbing at his forehead with one blunt-fingered hand. “Don’t know that he needs anything but time. But I’m just an old Legion healer. Maybe the High Lady knows better than me, or can see more than I can about him.”
“Crows,” the captain muttered. He turned and frowned at the recruits, still in their corner-eight of them, Tavi noted, a spear of men who would march in file together and share the standard Legion tent. “File leader,” Cyril commanded.
One of the young men, a tall and gawky youth, came to attention and saluted. “Captain, sir.”
“What’s your name, son?”
“Schultz, sir. “
“Report,” Cyril said. “What happened, recruit Schultz?”
“It was an accident, sir.”
Cyril was silent for a second, staring at the recruit, who swallowed and blanched and grew even more rigid.
“The captain knows it was an accident, recruit,” Tavi said. “Tell him the particulars of it.”
The boy’s face reddened. “Oh. Sir, sorry, sir, yes, sir. Um. We were our cohort’s strongest spear at our sword lessons. First ones to get issued live swords, sir. Centurion Antillar had us running our drills with live blades for the first time, all in a row, sir. He was going to show us to our whole cohort, sir, before they got their blades. He went up and down the line, watching us, calling our mistakes, sir.”
“Go on,” Cyril said. “How was he injured?”
The boy shook his head. “Sir, it was an accident. He had just corrected me and he was walking away from me, where he could watch the whole line of us. And I went through a number eight thrust.” The recruit shifted his feet into a fighting stance and swept his right arm straight up from down low by his leg. Such a stroke from a sword could disembowel a man, and though difficult to use, in the close press of combat it could be devastating. “And the sword… just slipped out of my hand, sir.”
“It slipped,” Cyril said quietly, his gaze level.
The recruit snapped back to attention. “Yes, sir. I haven’t ever had that happen before. It slipped and it flew out spinning and it struck Centurion Antillar in the side of the neck, sir.” He looked down at himself, and for the first time seemed to see the blood all over him. “I didn’t mean it to happen, sir. Not at all. I’m sorry, sir.”
The captain folded his arms. “He had just finished correcting you. He had his back to you. Your sword inexplicably flew from your grasp and struck his throat. You say it was an accident.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you expect me to believe that?”
The recruit blinked at him. “Sir?”
“Men have lost their tempers with their centurions in the past. Sometimes they were angry enough to kill them. Perhaps you couldn’t stand Antillar’s criticism of your technique. It’s a hot day. You’ve not eaten. Maybe you lost your temper and killed him.”
The recruit’s mouth dropped open. “Sir… “ He shook his head. “I’d never, no sir, Centurion Antillar, no sir.”
“We’ll see,” Cyril said quietly. “I will be looking into this more thoroughly. Get back to your cohort, recruits. Schultz. Don’t attempt to leave the camp. The men who I’d send to hunt you down would have orders to execute you on sight.”
The young man swallowed and saluted again.
“Dismissed.”
Schultz led his fellow recruits out of the tent, and only a second later the flap flew open again and an armored Knight entered, accompanied by the beautiful Lady Antillus. The Knight jerked to a stop upon seeing Max in the tub, his mouth dropping open. Lady Antillus drew in a breath, placing the fingers of one hand over the bodice of her blue-on-blue silk gown, her eyes wide.
For some reason he could never have put a name to, Tavi did not believe Lady Antillus’s gesture was a genuine one. It was too smooth, perhaps, too flowing to be true shock and distress.
“Great furies preserve,” she said. “What has happened to my stepson?”
“According to the recruit whose weapon struck him, it was a training accident, my lady,” Cyril said.
Lady Antillus’s expression grew distressed. “He looks horrible. I take it that Foss has seen to him?”
Foss grunted from the floor. “Aye, m’lady. But he lost a lot of blood.”
“What is his prognosis?” she asked the healer.
“Urn. What?” Foss asked.
“He’s not in immediate danger,” Tavi interjected. “But the extent of the damage that may have been inflicted by blood loss is not yet clear.”
Lady Antillus’s attention turned to Tavi, and he could feel the full, throbbing force of her personality behind that gaze. She was not a tall woman, in particular, and she had dark hair that fell in a straight, shimmering curtain to her hips. Her face was pale, with a touch of the perpetually ruddy cheeks that come to those living in the northern climates, and her eyes were the color of deep amber. She had stark cheekbones and thin lips, and taken together it made her look too harsh to be conventionally beautiful-but the grace of her carriage and the steady, burning fires of intelligence in her amber eyes combined into an impressive, attractive whole.
Once again, Tavi was struck with the notion that she looked familiar to him, but for the life of him he could not track down the proper memory.
“I don’t believe we’ve spoken, young man,” she said.
Tavi bowed to her at the waist. “Subtribune Scipio Rufus, m’lady. I, of course, know who you are.”
The Knight stepped forward, staring at the silent Max. It wasn’t until he did that Tavi realized that he was several years younger than Tavi himself. He was a little under average height and slender. His hair was long and auburn, his eyes ivy green, and his armor was of masterful quality-and completely unmarred.
“Mother,” the young Knight said quietly, “he looks like death. Shouldn’t we… do something? Take care of him?”
“Of course, we-”
“No,” Captain Cyril said, overriding her with his own voice.
Lady Antillus stared at Cyril in shock. “Excuse me?”
The captain bowed slightly toward her. “Beg pardon, lady. I ought to have said, ‘not yet.’ The centurion has endured a great shock, but his injuries have been ably closed. I judge that he needs rest, first. Any further crafting could tax whatever strength remains in him and do more harm than good.”