2
So passed the rest of that day, with the warm spring sun and the silence unknotting the muscles of back and neck that had been tight so long. They came on a tiny trickle of clear water, and drank; for awhile in the early afternoon they sat near a mound of stone, and Paks fell asleep. When she woke, the Kuakgan was gone, but before she had stretched more than twice, she saw him coming through the trees. From time to time her mind would reach for the memory of yesterday’s pain, but she could not touch it: it was as if a pane of heavy glass lay between that reality and this. She could not think what she might do next, or where to go, and at last she quit trying to think of it.
They came back to the Kuakgan’s house in the last of the sunlight. Paks took her clothes, now dry, from the bushes, and folded them in her arms. She felt pleasantly tired, and slightly hungry. The Kuakgan smiled.
“Sit here in the warmth, while I bring supper,” he said. “Or will you come with me?”
Paks thought of the inn, and the misery returned full strength. This time she felt the tension knotting her brow and hunching her shoulders, and tried to stand upright. But before she could frame an answer, the Kuakgan shook his head.
“No. Not yet. Stay. As I feared, it will take more than one day of healing.” And he was gone, across the glade and along the path to the village.
She sat trembling, hating herself for the fear that had slammed back into her mind. She could not even go to an inn—even here, where she had had friends, and no enemies. She stared at her hands, broad and scarred with the years of war. If she could not hold a sword or bow, what could she do? Not stay forever with the Kuakgan, that wouldn’t do. Her hand felt for her belt pouch, and she remembered that she’d put it in the offering basin. Everything was gone; everything from those years had gone as if it had never been. Warriors can’t keep much, but that little they prize; the loss of the last of her treasures to the kuaknom still hurt: Saben’s little red horse, Canna’s medallion. Now she had not even the Duke’s ring left (the third ring, she thought ruefully, that he’s given me and I’ve lost somehow.)
As before, she wasn’t sure how long the Kuakgan had been gone when he returned. He was simply there, in the evening dimness, carrying another kettle. She forced herself up as he came toward her. He nodded, and they went into the house together. This time she helped unpack the kettle, and made no protest at eating. He had brought slices of roast mutton swimming in gravy, redroots mashed with butter, and mushrooms. Again. She looked up, to say something about the cost, met his eyes, and thought better of it. She ate steadily, enjoying the food more than she expected to, but fearing the questions he would surely ask after supper.
But he said nothing, as long as she ate, and when she finished, and stacked her pans for return, he seemed to be staring through the opposite wall. His own dishes were empty; she reached for them, wiped them, and put them in the kettle. He looked at her suddenly, and smiled briefly.
“You’re wondering when I will start to question you.”
Paks looked down, then forced herself to meet his eyes. “Yes.”
“I had thought tonight. But I changed my mind.” Along silence. Paks looked away, around the room, back to his face. It was unreadable.
“Why?” she asked finally.
He sighed, and shook his head. “I’m not sure how—or how much—to tell you. Healing is a Kuakganni craft, as you know.” Paks nodded. “Well, then, one part of the healing craft is knowing when. When to act, and when to wait. In the case of humans, one must also know when to ask, and when to keep silent. You are not ready to speak of it, whatever it is.”
Paks moved restlessly. “You—I would have thought you’d have heard something—”
“Hmmm.” It became as resonant as his comments to the bees. Paks looked at his face again. “I hear many things. Most of them false, as far as talk goes. Brewersbridge is a little out of the way for reliable news.” He looked at her squarely. “And whatever I might have heard, what is important is you, yourself. Just as you, yourself, will heal when you are ready.”
Paks looked away. She could feel the tears stinging her eyes again.
“There. You are not ready, yet. Don’t worry; it will come. Let your body gain strength for a few days. You are already better, though you don’t feel it.”
“But I couldn’t go—” Her voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands.
“But that will pass. That will pass.” She felt a wave of warmth and peace roll over her mind, and the pain eased again.
But several nights later, the dream returned. Once more she was fighting for her life far underground, tormented by thirst and hunger and the pain of her wounds. She smelled the rank stench of the green torches, and felt the blows of knife and whip that striped her sides. She gasped for breath, choked, scrabbled at the fingers knotted in her throat—and woke to find the Kuakgan beside her, holding her hands in his.
Soft candlelight lit the room. She stared wildly for a moment, lost in the dream, trembling with the effort of the fight.
“Be still,” he said softly. “Don’t try to talk. Do you know me yet?”
After a minute or two she nodded. Her tongue felt too big for her mouth, and she worked it around. “Master Oakhallow.” Her voice sounded odd.
“Yes. You are safe. Lie still, now; I’ll get you something to drink.”
The mint-flavored water cleaned remembered horrors out of her mouth. She tried to sit up, but the Kuakgan pushed her down gently. A tremor shook her body; as she tried to fight it off, the pain of those wounds returned, sapping her strength.
“You still have pain?” he asked.
Paks nodded.
“How long ago were those wounds dealt?”
She tried to count back. Her mind blurred, then steadied. “From—it would have been last summer. Late in the summer.”
“So long?” His eyebrows rose. “Hmm. What magic bound them?”
Paks shook her head. “I don’t know. The paladin and Marshal both tried healing. It helped, but the—the kuaknom had done something to them—”
“Kuaknom! What were you doing with them?”
Paks looked down, shivering. “They captured me. In Kolobia.”
“So. I don’t wonder that you have grave difficulties. And they dealt these wounds that pain you now?”
“Not . . . exactly. It—” As the memory swept over her, Paks could not speak. She shook her head, violently. The Kuakgan caught it, and held her still.
“No more, then, tonight. Sleep.” He answered the fear in her eyes before she could say it. “You won’t dream again. That I can still, and you will rest as you did the first night, and wake at peace. Sleep.” She fell into his voice, into the silence beyond it, and slept.
In the morning she woke rested, as he had promised. Still the shame of her breakdown was on her, and she came to the breakfast table silently and did not smile.
“You will not have those dreams again,” he said quietly, as she ate. “When I release your dreams again, those will be healed. This much I promise. I have waited as long as I could for your body’s healing, Paksenarrion; it is now time to begin on the mind. Whatever ill you have suffered has clearly injured both.”
She nodded, silent and intent on her bread.
“I will need to see these wounds you spoke of.” He reached for her arm. Paks froze an instant, then stretched her hand out. He pushed up her sleeve. The red-purple welts were still swollen. “You have more of these?”