Bekki grinned fiercely as Borl declared, "So he has said, so shall it be."
Over that day and the next, in spite of all the healers could do, more of the severely wounded died, and more funerals were held.
But on the third morn, the Dylvana, Daelsmen, Baeron, and Dwarves rode out on the track of the Swarm, all upon horses but the Dwarves, and they upon sturdy ponies.
Following after went Bwen and her wagons, and though the pursuit of the Swarm would far outstrip her wains, still she and her drivers would be on their trail at need.
Behind in the Chakkaholt remained the wounded, under the protection of the Dwarves until they were fit to ride. As to when that might be, 'twould be sooner for some than others was all Beau and the Dwarven healers would commit to.
And just ere they left, Vail and Melor came to see Tip and Beau, to wish them good fortune and farewell, for Vail was riding with the scouts and Melor as a healer in the vanguard.
Too, came Prince Loden and Prince Brandt, and Chieftain Gara and Wagonleader Bwen, and DelfLord Borl, and lastly Coron Ruar. And they all bid Tip and Beau and Bekki and Loric good-bye, and asked that their regards be conveyed to Dara Phais as well.
And then they were gone, warriors riding and wains rolling down the road toward the city of Dael. And when they had passed from sight, Tipperton, Beau, Bekki, and Loric, along with others, stepped back through the side postern and into the Dwarvenholt, shutting the gate behind.
The following day, as Beau stepped out the door of the chamber he and Tip shared and strode down the hall to make his rounds, behind him Tip called out, "I say, Beau, wait for me. I'll take my lute and go with you to see Lady Phais."
Beau paused until Tip caught up and then strode onward, saying, "Uh, I dunno, Tip. These Chakia, they are mighty close."
"You mean thick with one another?"
"Oh, they're that, all right. But I mean shut to outsiders. -Like the Bosky in troubled times, though instead of a Thornring they are hedged about with iron bars. Only in this case, the Chakia, they don't let males in."
"Well, I think I'll try regardless. The most they can do is turn me away. Besides, you've other patients to treat- male patients, that is-and I might be able to cheer them."
And so when Beau made his rounds Tipperton went alongside, and he played his lute in each of the infirmaries where Beau took him, and all the wounded were glad of it.
As they finally walked toward one of the portcullised halls, Tip said, "I think I'll do this from now on, Beau. It seemed to give them heart."
"My Aunt Rose always said that good spirits make the healing go faster."
Tip sighed. "Perhaps I ought not to play and sing for them, then."
Beau looked at him in puzzlement. "Why ever not?"
"Because, Beau, the faster they heal the sooner they go into battle again, and this time they might be killed."
"Oh."
They rounded a turn and before them stood a portcullis. Beau pulled on a cord at the grille. Somewhere a bell rang.
As they waited, Beau said, "Well, I think you ought to play for them regardless. I mean, perhaps someone who heals faster will prove to be the someone who saves the world from Modru and his ilk. It's all con-"
"-nected," finished Tip. "Yes, Beau, I know."
On the far side of the portcullis, a figure concealed in layers of gossamer veils moved down the hall toward them, silken fabric floating behind.
She stopped at the grillework.
"We have come to treat my patient," said Beau.
"You may pass, Sir Beau, but your friend-"
"I've come to help with the healing, too," said Tip, and he held up his lute. "In my own way, of course. This kind of healing is needed as well."
Now Beau said, "Tip's right, you know. It will help."
Silk shifted leftward as the Chakian canted her head to the side. "Tip? Sir Tipperton? Troll-slayer? Chak-Sol?"
Tipperton swept a wide bow, as wide as a three-foot four-inch Warrow could make. "At your service, my Lady."
Without further word the Chakian stepped back down the hall to a niche-held lever which she threw and a wall-mounted crank which she turned, and silently the portcullis rose in its track.
Beau ducked under when it was high enough, Tipperton following.
Quietly the grille was lowered again and the lever lock thrown once more.
They followed the Chakian through corridors to a large chamber filled with cots, where wounded Dara and female Baeron lay. Here and there veiled Chakia moved among them, administering to their needs. Now Beau came to where Phais lay abed, drifting in and out of consciousness, virulent poison running in her veins. Thin and pale and barely awake, she wanly smiled at him, and her eyes slightly widened at the sight of Tip, though his own heart fell to see the look of her.
"While Beau has come to poke and prod," said Tip, outwardly grinning in spite of his inward dismay, "I've come to play and sing."
"Poke and prod?" huffed Beau, rummaging through his bag. "Poke and prod, indeed."
"Never mind him, Lady Phais," said Tipperton, taking up his lute. "What song would you have?"
Phais paused, her eyes closed, and Tip thought she had fainted, but then she whispered, her voice weak, "Dost thou know 'The Dancing Sprite'? I deem it would lift the hearts of all."
Tipperton grinned. "As you will, my Lady." He looked about and spied a chair and jumped upon its seat. And then his fingers ran across the strings and he began to play, silver notes filling the infirmary with lively sounds, Tipperton raising his voice in song to alclass="underline"
There was a Sprite, a lovely Sprite,
Who danced within her ring.
And when she danced her lovely dance
She didn 't wear a thing…
… And danced around in sport.
There came a lad, a handsome lad,
Her very own kind, you see.
He peeked through leaves and watched her dance,
And fall in love did he…
… Or something of the sort…
When Tipperton came to the end of the song, laughter echoed throughout the chamber, ranging from weak to hearty. In a bed across from Phais, a Baeran woman with her leg in a cast guffawed and called out, "Served him right, it did," and this brought on more laughter.
Even the Chakia tittered behind their many veils.
As Beau spent his last dose of gwynthyme and prepared a cup of tea, Tip played and sang another song and then another. And he sang several more as a Chakian slowly spooned drifting Phais her drink. And another still as Beau laid on the gywnthyme poultice.
And after each of his songs he was greeted by applause and calls for more.
Finally, though, Beau said, "Come on, bucco, I've more patients to deal with elsewhere, and they can use your songs, too."
And so Tipperton called out, "I must now leave"-his announcement to be met by a chorus of disappointed
Ohs-"yet I shall return on the morrow," and many called out, Please do.
Tip sprang down from the chair and went to Phais. "Get well, my Lady, oh please."
Phais, her eyes closed, whispered, "I fully intend to do so, my wee friend."
As they strode away, a Chakian at their side, Beau said, "I dunno, Tip. That was the last of the gwynthyme, and if it doesn't work… Oh, I should have run the cauter into the wound, even though the scars would have done ill things to her breathing ever after. I should have. I should have."
"This gwynthyme, Beau, don't the Dwarves have any?"
Striding beside Tip, the Chakian said, "Nay, we do not. Gwynthyme is a rare thing, and we have none."
"Elwydd," said Tip, a one-word prayer.
Late in the night, Tip was awakened by Beau coming into the chamber they shared. Beau was weeping.
Sitting upright, Tip asked, "What is it, Beau?"
"Lady Phais," said Beau.
"Oh, no," moaned Tip.
"No, no, Tip, it's not that she's dead or anything. It's quite the opposite: finally, finally, her color is good and her breathing truly not labored. Oh, Tip, she's sleeping peacefully. The gwynthyme has burnt out the poison at last."