Fire spun around, looking straight at him for the first time. He struck a handsome figure and fierce, a tiny new scar running into his lip, his cloak hanging over armour of mail and leather. She said, "You don't mean Small?"
"Of course," he said, "Small. Anyway, Brigan thought you wanted him. He's downstairs."
Fire ran.
She had cried so often and so much since she'd found Archer's body, cried at the slightest thing, always silent tears rolling down her face. The way she began to cry when she saw Small, plain and quiet with his hair in his eyes, pressing against his stall door to reach her, was different. She thought she might choke from the violence of these sobs, or rip something inside her.
Musa was alarmed, and came into the stall with her, rubbing her back as she clung to Small's neck and gasped. Neel produced handkerchiefs. It was no use. She couldn't stop crying.
It's my fault, she said to Small over and over. Oh Small, it's my fault. I was supposed to be the one to die, not Archer. Archer was never supposed to die.
After a long time, she cried herself to a place where she understood that it was not her fault. And then she cried more, from the simple grief of knowing that he was gone.
She woke, not from a nightmare, but to something – something comforting. The sensation of being wrapped in warm blankets and sleeping against a warm breathing back that belonged to Small.
Musa and several other guards were having a murmured conversation with someone outside the stall. Fire's bleary mind groped its way toward them. The someone was the king.
Her panic was gone, replaced with an odd, peaceful emptiness. She pushed herself up and ran her bandaged hand lightly along Small's wonderful barrel body, swerving to touch the places where his fur grew crooked around raptor monster scars. His mind snoozed gently, and the hay near his face moved with his breath. He was a dark lump in the torchlight. He was perfect.
She touched Nash's mind. He came to the stall door and leaned over it, looking at her. Hesitation, and love, obvious on his face and in his feeling.
"You're smiling," he said.
Naturally, tears were the response to these words. Angry with herself, she tried to stop them, but they squeezed out nonetheless.
"I'm sorry," she said.
He came into the stall and crouched down in the space between Small's head and chest. He stroked Small's neck, considering her.
"I understand you've been crying a great deal," he said.
"Yes," she said, defeated.
"You must be tired and sore from it."
"Yes."
"And your hands. Are they still very painful?"
There was something comforting about this calm interrogation. "They're a bit better than they were."
He nodded gravely and continued to stroke Small's neck. He was dressed as before, except now he carried his helmet under one arm. He seemed older in the darkness and the orange light. He was older, ten years older, than herself. Almost all of her friends were older; even Brigan, the youngest sibling, was almost five years her senior. But she didn't think it was the difference in years that made her feel like such a child, surrounded by adults.
"Why are you still here?" she asked. "Shouldn't you be in a cave somewhere inspiring people?"
"I should," he said, shouldering her sarcasm lightly, "and I came here for my horse so that I might ride out to the camps. But now I'm talking to you instead."
Fire traced a long, thin scar on Small's back. She thought about her tendency lately to communicate more easily with horses and dying strangers than with the people she had thought she loved.
"It's not reasonable to love people who are only going to die," she said.
Nash thought about that for a moment, stroking Small's neck with great deliberation, as if the fate of the Dells depended on that smooth, careful movement.
"I have two responses to that," he said finally. "First, everyone's going to die. Second, love is stupid. It has nothing to do with reason. You love whomever you love. Against all reason I loved my father." He looked at her keenly. "Did you love yours?"
"Yes," she whispered.
He stroked Small's nose. "I love you," he said, "even knowing you'll never have me. And I love my brother, more than I ever realised before you came along. You can't help whom you love, Lady. Nor can you know what it's liable to cause you to do."
She made a connection then. Surprised, she sat back from him and studied his face, soft with shadows and light. She saw a part of him she hadn't seen before.
"You came to me for lessons to guard your mind," she said, "and you stopped asking me to marry you, both at the same time. You did those things out of love for your brother."
"Well," he said, looking a bit sheepishly at the floor. "I also took a few swings at him, but that's neither here nor there."
"You're good at love," she said simply, because it seemed to her that it was true. "I'm not so good at love. I'm like a barbed creature. I push everyone I love away."
He shrugged. "I don't mind you pushing me away if it means you love me, little sister."
Chapter Thirty
She began to write a letter in her mind to Brigan. It wasn't a very good letter. Dear Brigan, I don't think you should be doing what you're doing. Dear Brigan, people are swirling away from me and I am swirling apart.
The swelling of her hands had gone down, and no places had blackened that hadn't been black before. There would likely be a surgery, the healers said, when more time had passed, to remove the two dead fingers on her left hand.
"With all your medicines," Musa asked one of the healers, "you really have nothing to help her?"
"There are no medicines to bring a dead thing back to life," the healer said crisply. "The best thing right now will be for Lady Fire to start using her hands again regularly. She'll find a person can manage quite well without ten fingers."
It was not like it had been before. But what a relief to have permission to cut her food, button her own buttons, tie back her own hair, and she would do it, even if her movements were clumsy and infantile at first and her living fingers burned, even if she sensed pity in the feeling of her watching friends. The pity only made her more stubborn. She asked permission to help with practical tasks in the healing room – dressing wounds, feeding the soldiers who couldn't feed themselves. They never minded if she dribbled broth onto their clothing.
As her dexterity improved, she even began to assist with some of the simpler aspects of surgery: holding lamps, handing the surgeons their supplies. She found that she had a strong stomach for blood, and infections, and men's insides – even though men's insides were rather more messy than the insides of monster bugs. Some of these soldiers were familiar to her because of the three weeks she'd spent travelling with the First. She supposed that some of them had been her enemies once, but that feeling seemed gone from them, now that they were at war and in pain and in such need of comfort.
A soldier she remembered quite well was brought in one day, an arrow embedded in his thigh. It was the man who had once lent her his fiddle – the enormous, craggy, gentle tree of a man. She smiled to see him. They had quiet conversations now and then, she easing his pain as his wound healed. He saying little about her dead fingers, but an expression on his face, whenever he looked at them, that conveyed the depth of his empathy.
When Brocker arrived he took her hands and held them to his face, and cried into them.
With Brocker came not only Roen but Mila, for Brocker had asked the girl to serve as his military assistant, and Mila had accepted. Brocker and Roen – old friends who had not seen each other since the time of King Nax – now were practically inseparable, and Mila was often with them.