Not forever. Dorrin fell to her knees. Power and compassion in that unseen voice. Falk? Gird? The High Lord himself? She did not know; it did not matter.
She reached out her hand and touched the stinking corpse. “Be free,” she said, speaking words she knew she must say. “Be free, go home, heal …”
The corpse turned to dust, bright as sparks in the dimness, and the sparks flew upward to the distant light. Now Dorrin saw bones only, the bones of the mother, the bones of the unborn child, fragile as slivers of dry grass, all lying loose, the ligaments that once bound them gone with the rest.
She had nothing to carry them in but her shirt. She took it off, and one by one she picked them up, the mother’s bones, the child’s bones, and laid them on the shirt, then rolled it into a secure bundle she could carry. She looked around the now-empty bottom of the well to be sure none were left, then felt the rough rock itself. Dry. Dry as those bones had been. At one side, a cleft that might once have been a spring to feed the well. She put her fingers into it. Dry.
“I don’t know what else to do,” she said, squatting there in the bottom of the well. “If it was blood that cursed the well, my blood will certainly not heal it.”
Silence followed her words. The stench had gone with the corpses; what she smelled now was dry stone and her own sweat. She waited, listening, and finally pushed herself up, tucking the bundle under one arm. “Falk? Alyanya? If you have advice—”
Nothing. Nothing but the feel of a few grains of dust still in her mouth, annoying. She worked up a gob of spit, and spat them out; the spit landed near the dark cleft, sat there glistening a moment, then disappeared. Dorrin found another grain of sand under her tongue and spat again, in the interests of sport trying to hit the same spot. Again it hit, this time spreading a little before it vanished.
It was hopeless. All she had done was give the village back its dead, to bury or burn, whatever they did with bodies. Scant comfort, and what they needed was water, clean water … again tears came to her eyes, a misery so great she could not hold back her sobs. Her family legacy: poisoned traps, a painting that bled in a frame of bones, a ruined well, dry filth where once there had been clean water. The tears ran down her face, dripped onto the rock, formed a runnel that trickled into the cleft … and spread, a thin film that thickened, widened … Dorrin stared, her tears drying, as the water rose, first just wetting the stone, then deeper, deeper. It touched her boots; she put out her hand … it moved, rich with life and health, wetting her palm, rising around her hand.
Drink. She obeyed, cupping a handful of water and sipping cautiously. Clean, cold, teeth-aching cold … she clutched the bundle of bones and stood.
“Thank you,” she said aloud. “Falk’s grace, Alyanya’s bounty—”
The surface of the water rippled and it rose even faster. Dorrin retreated up the uneven rock surface; it was a hand deep now at the cleft, lapping at her boot where she stood. She reached for the rope, but before she touched it, the water surged up, lifting her with it so fast that all she could do was try to hold the bundle of bones out of it. She was halfway up when she realized how this was going to look—the first female duke in generations, rising out of a well sopping wet and half-naked—but had no time to do more than start a chuckle before she was once more at ground level.
The villagers and her escort had come closer with every successful lift of a rock; her escort had the presence of mind to throw her cloak around her. Dorrin handed the bundle to Sennet.
“These are the bones of the woman and child,” she said.
He looked down; none of the villagers was looking at her. “My lord …” he said in a choked voice.
“Your well once more gives water,” Dorrin said. “By the grace of the gods.”
They all fell on their knees, still staring at the ground. A whiff of roasting mutton came from the village clearing. One of her escort had taken off his own shirt and offered it to her. Dorrin shrugged into the sweaty shirt, put her formal armor back on. No one had moved. This was ridiculous …
“There’s a sheep on the fire,” Dorrin said. “Weren’t we supposed to have a feast to celebrate my birthday?”
Sennet looked up cautiously. “Yes, my lord, but—”
“I know I have brought you three of your own to lay to rest, but can the feast still go on? It would be a shame to waste the sheep.”
Dorrin could not read all the emotions that ran across his face; he still held the bundle of bones.
“We … we can … but it’s different …”
Others were rising now; some hurrying off in the direction of the cooking pit, others to their houses.
“I cannot stay much longer,” Dorrin said. “A royal courier arrived just as I was leaving; I must find out what the prince wants. I would share food with you before I go, if that suits you.”
“Oh, my lord Duke—” He was crying now. Another man came and took the bundle of bones from him; a third helped him up.
“’Tis good water,” one of the women said. She had dipped a waterskin into it without Dorrin noticing, and now took a swallow.
“Efla!”
“Well, it is. If the Duke brings water, shouldn’t we use it?”
“You should ask,” Sennet said, with a glance at Dorrin. “It’s the Duke’s water.”
“It’s the land’s water,” Dorrin said. “And it is returned to you by the gods’ grace; all I did was what they told me, to free it from a curse. But Sennet is right: as it is, with the wall broken, it is not safe. You should build the coping wall again, before a child falls in and drowns. It should not take long, I think?” She looked at Sennet.
“It will be done at once,” he said. “Aren—Tamis—” Men nodded and moved to stones Dorrin had piled. “And yes, my lord, we will share food with you. The men can set stones loose for now and mortar them tomorrow, will that do?”
“Quite well,” Dorrin said.
37
The sun was almost down when she rode away, her own shirt—washed hastily in water from the well and spread to dry—on her back once more, her trousers almost dry, her boots still squelching a bit with every step. She had tasted everything; she had been hugged by grimy, bright-eyed children, thanked again and again by every adult. Her escort said nothing until they were well away from the village.
“What happened down that well?” Black Sef asked.
“Much that I don’t understand,” Dorrin said. An evening breeze wafted across the way and chilled her legs in the damp trousers.
“Did you know you could do all that?”
“No,” Dorrin said. “I just knew I had to do something.”
“I didn’t know magelords could move rocks.”
“It’s in the Chronicles,” Mattis said. Dorrin remembered he was Girdish. “Some battle, a magelord took the water from a river and made it come out a well and it drowned people.”
“That’s water, not rocks,” Black Sef said.
“Bucket of water’s as heavy as a rock,” Mattis said. “Lifting’s lifting.” He looked at Dorrin. “Captain—uh … my lord—if you could lift yourself and a rock up, why did we have to lower you down on the rope?”
“Would you step off a cliff if you had friends with a rope to lower you?” Dorrin asked, then legged her horse into a canter.
She came to the house just before dark. A strange horse grazed in the front field. Her belly clenched: trouble?—but the house was silent, light glowing from a few windows. Closer, she could see it was a red chestnut with a star and white stockings behind.