He curled up in his corner, and buried his head in his arms, trying to block it all out. He could hide his eyes, but there was nowhere to hide from the sounds; the weak cries of pain, the rhythmic grunts, the soft wet sounds and throaty howls of pleasure, the creak of leather and jingle of harness.
It ain't me this time, he said to himself, over and over. It don't matter. It ain't me. He rubbed his wrists and stared in frightened paralysis at the floor, remembering how the ropes had torn into his skin, and how the men had laughed at his cries of agony.
And finally, he managed to convince himself, though he waited with shivering apprehension for the ones who hadn't yet had a turn to remember that he was in the hearth-corner, and that the bench was still unoccupied.
Not everyone had a taste for Tan's sport, though - either they weren't drunk enough, or the man wasn't young enough to tempt them, or any other of a dozen possible reasons, including that they still secretly feared the Herald despite his present helplessness.
Or they weren't convinced that Master Dark would be pleased with the results of this little diversion.
They all forgot Damen was even there - those that joined Tan in the helpless man's rape and those that simply watched and laughed, then wandered off to drink themselves stuporous and fall into one of the piles of old clothing, straw, and rags that most of them used for beds. Finally even Tan had enough; the noises stopped, except for a dull sound that could have been the Herald's moaning, or the wind.
Damen dozed off then, only to feel the toe of a boot prodding the sore spot on his rib cage from the last kick he'd gotten. He leapt to his feet, cowering back against the wall, blinking and shivering.
It was Lord Rendan again. “Go clean that mess up, boy,” he said, jerking his chin at the huddled, half-clothed shape just at the edge of the firelight. “Clean him up, then lock him in the storeroom.”
Damen edged past the Lord, then fumbled his way across the drunk and snoring bodies to where the prisoner still lay.
He'd been trussed and gagged with the harness, knees strapped to either end of the saddle, and as a kind of cruel joke, the silvery-white horse-tail had been fastened onto his rump. He was very thin, even fragile-looking, and his pale skin was so mottled with purple bruises he looked like the victim of some kind of strange plague.
Damen struggled with the strange straps and buckles and finally got him free of the saddle, but even after the boy had gotten him completely loose, the prisoner wouldn't - or maybe couldn't - do anything but thrash feebly and moan deep in his chest. Damen tugged his clothing more-or-less back into place, but the Herald didn't even notice he was there.
Get 'im inta the storeroom, 'e says. 'Ow'm I s'pposed t' do that? Damen spat in disgust, squatted on his heels to study the situation, and finally seized the man by the collar and hauled him across the floor and through the storeroom door.
The Lord lit a torch at the fire and brought it over, examining the prisoner by its light. The Herald had curled upon his side in a fetal position, and even Damen could tell he was barely breathing.
They did 'im, fer sure, he thought. 'It 'im too hard one way or 'tother. 'E don' look like 'e's gonna last th' night.
Evidently Lord Rendan came to the same conclusion. He cursed under his breath, then threw the torch to the ground, where it sputtered and went out. Damen waited for the accustomed kick or slap, but the Lord had more important matters to worry about.
When Lord Rendan wanted to make the effort, he could have even hardened animals like Tan jumping to his orders. Before Damen could blink, he had a half dozen men on their feet, shaking in their patched and out-at-heel boots. Before the boy had any idea what the Lord had in mind, those men were out the door and into the cold and dark of the night.
The Lord returned to the storeroom with another torch, and stuck it into the dirt of the floor. And to Damen's utter surprise, Lord Rendan wrapped the prisoner in his own cloak, and forced a drink of precious brandywine down his throat.
“Stay with him, boy,” the Lord ordered, laying the man back down again. “Keep him breathing. Because if he don't last till the Healer gets here - Master Dark is goin' t' be real unhappy.”
Damen began shivering, and squatted down beside the man, piling everything that could pass for a covering atop him. He remembered what had happened to Lord Rendan's younger brother, the last time Master Dark had been unhappy with the band.
Sometimes you could hear him screaming when the wind was right. Master Dark had decided to recreate a legend, about a demigod whose eyes were torn out, and whose flesh was food for the birds by day and regrew every night. . . .
Not even Tan ate crewlie-pie after that, though the carrion-birds grew sleek and fat and prospered as never before.
No, Damen did not want Master Dark to be unhappy. Not ever.
Old Man Brodie bent over and ran his hands along the roan colt's off foreleg. He let his Healing senses extend - carefully - into the area of the break, just below the knee.
And let the energy flow.
A few moments later, he checked his progress. Bone callus; good. And under if ... hmm . . . knitting nicely. No more running about creekbeds for you, my lad; I'll bet you learned your lesson this time.
He withdrew - as carefully as his meager skills would allow him to. The horse shuddered and champed at the unexplainable twinge in its leg, sidled away from the old man, then calmed. Ach ... too rough on leaving. He regretted his lack of polish every day of his life since he'd failed as a Healer, the way he'd barely get a job done, never completely or with anything approaching style.
And never without causing as much pain to his patient as he was trying to cure-pain which he shared, and pain which he could, after several years of it, bear no longer.
His teachers had told him that he was his own worst enemy, that his own fear of the pain was what made it worse and made him clumsy. He was willing to grant that, but knowing intellectually what the problem was and doing something about it proved to be two different matters.
And that hurt, too.
Finally he just gave up; turned in his Greens and walked north until the road ran out. Here, where no one knew of his failure and his shame, he set himself up as an animal Healer, making a great show of the use of poultices and drenches, purges and doses, to cover the fact that he was using his Gift. His greatest fear had been that someday, someone would discover his deception, and uncover what he had been.
He stood up, cursing his aching back; and the colt, with the ready forgiveness of animals, sidled up to him and nibbled his sleeve. Brodie's breath steamed, illuminated by the wan light from the cracked lantern suspended from the beam over his head. He was glad the farmer had brought the colt into the barn; it would have been hellish working on a break kneeling in the snow. “That'll do him, Geof,” Brodie said, slinging the bag that held his payment-a fat, smoke-cured ham-over his shoulder. The farmer nodded brusquely, doing his best to mask his relief at not having to put down a valuable animal. “He won't be any good for races, and I'd keep him in the barn over winter if I was you, but he'll be pulling the plow like his dam come spring, and a bad foreleg isn't going to give him trouble at stud.”