The buccen embraced one another, tears running down their faces.
"Come on, Beau, let's go tell Loric."
The next day Tipperton again accompanied Beau on his rounds, each buccan in his own way administering to the wounded. When they came to the Chakia infirmary, they found Phais sitting up in her bed, a veiled Chakia at her side and feeding the Dara her first good meal in days, meting out small spoonfuls. Even though Phais was eating, she was yet weak, exhausted. Still, as Beau had said, her color was much better.
The Dara spied the Warrows nearing and smiled, and Beau said, "Oh, my, Phais, but you are looking quite splendid."
Phais reached out and took Beau's hand, her grip weak. " 'Twas thy ministrations, Beau."
Beau looked down, shaking his head. "The credit is due to Lady Aris."
"Aris? In Arden Vale?"
Beau nodded. "Yes. She is the one who gave me the gwynthyme. Without it I don't think you'd have survived. The arrow was poisoned, the wound deep."
"It was Vulg poison," said the Chakia, her voice soft.
"Vulg poison?" asked Tip. "How do you know this?"
"Nought else is so baneful, and this was delivered deep."
"Oh," said Tip, looking at Phais, the Dara nodding in agreement.
Now Tip took up his lute. "What will you have, my Lady?"
Phais sighed. "I would see my beloved."
"Loric?" asked Tip, then slapped himself in the head and growled, "Of course it's Loric, you ninny." He turned to the Chakia. "Surely you can allow Alor Loric in to see his beloved."
Her veils shifted as she looked at the buccan. "Nay."
"But it would do her a world of good," protested Tip.
"He is male," said the Chakia.
Tip's mouth fell open and he gestured at Beau, then tapped his own chest. "You let these two males in."
"He is a healer; you are Chak-Sol."
Tip's eyes widened. "But wait, Loric is Chak-Sol, too."
The Chakia stopped her spooning of the thin stew and looked at Tipperton. "Which holt?"
"Urn, the Red Hills."
Now the Chakia resumed her spooning. "I will speak with Lord Berk."
The following day, Alor Loric visited his love, and he held her gently, tears streaming down his face.
Days passed, and mid-October came and went, and even as the hillside trees turned to gold and scarlet and orange, the healing of wounds progressed and the number of funerals declined, until there were no more who would die from this battle, the survivors on the mend. Even so, the wound of Dara Phais healed slowly, as sorely damaged and poisoned as she was.
And still Tipperton made the rounds with Beau and played his silver-stringed lute.
And came the waning days of October, leaves now russet and brown and falling to swirl in the chill wind. And still Phais lay abed. Yet in this time under the ministrations of Beau and the healers, others improved, some slowly, some rapidly. And some were declared fit, and these asked for horses and arms and armor, and they rode away to join the allies in harassing the Swarm. And as each or several rode away from the mineholt, Tipperton stood and watched them go, wondering if any would prove to be a linchpin and bring Modru tumbling down. After all, perhaps Beau was right, for it truly did seem, like ripples on a pond, a given event led to other events, all intermingling. As Beau would say, all is connected.
And so Tip would watch them ride away and wonder what the future would bring. And when they were gone from sight, he would turn and enter the mineholt once more, the warders closing the side postern behind.
The final day of October came, and with it the first snowfall, lightly powdering the ground, but it was melted away by midafternoon. On this day as well, Phais was allowed to rise from her bed for the very first time.
Weak and trembling she did so, Loric at her side. And he escorted her to the privy, for she swore that e'en had she to crawl, she would no longer use the pan.
In celebration Tip took up his lute there in the infirmary and played the song he only knew as "Chakian Singing." And when the Chakian heard him, they gathered 'round and sang, their sweet voices filling the chamber and echoing down the halls, and folk stopped to listen wherever they were.
Loric wept to hear their words, for in Chakur did they sing, yet he never spoke of it in any of the days thereafter.
Autumn marched into November, and more snow swirled down, yet in the Dwarvenholt all was snug and secure.
And no word came from the allies as to how fared the war.
In mid-November Phais began reaching and stretching and bending, her body pulling against scar tissue, and in late November she was fit enough to leave the infirmary. On the same day she was discharged, after moving her goods into Loric's quarters, she took up her sword and followed him to the great exercise room, where she drilled with her lover at blades.
On the first day of December a great blizzard flew. By Modru 's hand, some whispered. He is the master of cold, and it is his season.
Yet in the Dwarvenholt all was warm.
Some ten weeks after she had been wounded, Phais declared she was fit to ride, and nigh dawn three days later, she and Loric, Beau and Tipperton, went to the infirmary to bid the Chakia good-bye. And as they did so, Tipperton stood on a chair and played one last song, and when he was done he jumped down from the seat and stooped to place his lute in its velvet bag and then into the leather one. One of the Chakia came to Phais and turned her back to all others, and she drew aside the veils at her face to kiss the Dara good-bye, and that was the moment when across the bed Tip stood with his enwrapped lute… and Tip's eyes widened at the sight of the Chakian's face. "Oh, my," he said. "Oh, my."
As they passed from the Chakia quarters and into the main Dwarvenholt, Tip said, "She was so beautiful and didn't look at all like a Dwar-"
"Hush, Tipperton," admonished Phais. "Speak of this no more."
Beau looked at Tipperton's yet surprised face. "Huah," grunted Beau. "I wonder what this is all connected to?"
Phais frowned at Beau, and he, too, fell to silence.
They came to the main gate chamber, and there stood Bekki and his grandsire, Berk. At hand were three saddled ponies and four horses, two saddled and two laden with goods.
Berk looked at the two Waerans as they drew on their quilted-down winter gear. "Take care, little healer," he said to Beau. "You, too, Troll-slayer, Chak-Sol." Now he turned to Phais and Loric. "Farewell, Guardians, may Elwydd keep you all."
Lastly Berk embraced Bekki and slapped him on the back, yet all he could manage to say was, "Chakka shok, Bekki, Chakka cor."
"Aye, Grandsire, holtwarder," replied Bekki, wiping his eyes.
Bidding farewell, the five of them led the animals out through the side postern into the frigid air, their breath blowing white in the chill.
Pulling on his gloves, Tip mounted, as did they all.
He looked about at the snow-laden peaks rearing into the frozen sky, ice glittering in the diamond-bright cold winter sun. It was the fifteenth of December and a scintil-lant blanket lay over all.
Taking up the reins of his pony, he said, "Come on, my friends, let's ride. We've a coin to deliver."
And down from the mountain they rode.
It's all connected, you know.
Follow Tip and Beau further into danger… further into adventure… further into the fire.
INTO THE FIRE
Book 2 of the HeL's Crucible Duology by Dennis L. McKiernan available now in hardcover from Roc Books
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