I jolted up out of my pallet from a sound sleep.
Keir had broken one strap. With his free arm, he was fighting the very man he was calling for. I stumbled up and over, and placed my hand on Keir’s forehead. Marcus was doing his best to secure the loose arm, and he grunted with the effort. I raised my voice, calling out. “We need help!”
“Help him, you maggots! It burns, oh Skies, he burns!” Keir was screaming the words, the muscles of his neck taut with the strain.
“For sure they heard that,” Marcus muttered, forcing Keir’s arm down onto the bed.
“Keir, it’s Lara. It’s all right—”
Keir strained at the strap around his other wrist, trying to break it. He cried out again, summoning unseen help. “Bring water! Douse him with water, bring buckets—” Keir relaxed for a moment, moaning as if in sorrow. “His ear, oh his ear.”
I glanced at Marcus, and knew where and when Keir was.
Keir’s voice dropped to a snarl. “Damn you to the snows forever, Warrior-Priest. He will live, and I will use my last breath to break you, do you hear me?” He threw his head back against the bed. “Heal him now, or I will kill you.”
“Is this what happened?” I whispered.
“Don’t know, Warprize. I was not aware at the time.” Marcus looked grim. “Where are those fools?” He looked toward the tent flap, then back at me. Marcus growled. “Do not dwell on it. He called me back from the snows. I answered. There is no more to say.”
“Fear the day Keir of the Cat is named Warking.” Ken-howled.
Prest, Isdra, and to my surprise, Rafe poured into the tent, with Isdra stepping forward to help Marcus. At the word ‘Warking’, all of them flinched in shock, but only for a moment. Marcus darted to Keir’s side, and put his fingers over his mouth. “Warlord, the enemy is near. Be silent.”
The others exchanged worried looks. I opened my mouth to question them, but Marcus caught my eye, and shook his head, putting a finger to his lips. So I suppressed my curiosity.
“Rafe, are you well enough to be up and about?” I asked.
“Well enough, Warprize.” He gave me a faint smile. “Seems I didn’t sicken as much as others did. Didn’t even need the aid of the lake waters.”
I frowned, considering him. He’d lost weight, and there were smudges under his eyes. He was pushing too hard, I was certain, but for now I had a greater concern.
Keir had fallen silent, still a prisoner of the fever. The others started to rebind Keir, but I stopped them. “Prest, call Gils. It’s time.”
I followed them down to the shore, the moon providing enough light to see by. Gils, Prest, Marcus and Isdra carried Keir, who struggled in their arms. Marcus had insisted that they bind Keir to take him to the water and he’d been right. They set him down on the shore to give themselves a chance to strip out of their own clothing. Once they picked him back up, I followed them right into the water, catching my breath at the bite of the cold against my skin.
I supported his head, using my hands to pour the water onto his forehead. His bronze skin looked so pale, his hair so dark as the water trickled through it. He didn’t open his eyes, but his lips opened slightly, and I trickled water into his mouth, remembering how sweet it had tasted when I’d been in the same position. The others chanted the same ritual of purification that I’d heard in my fever.
I knelt down, and whispered his name into his ear. A slight turn of his head, and I knew I had his attention. “Fight, beloved. Remember that you are my Warlord, Keir of the Cat. You are mine, and I am yours. Fight for us, my heart’s fire.”
Keir blinked, but gave no other sign.
They dipped him in and out, letting the water and the slight breeze chill his naked form to the point where he was shivering. Only then did we return him to the command tent. Rafe had stayed behind, warming the bed with heated stones under the bedding, keeping the warmth within the covers. He used a dagger to cut Keir’s bonds as the others gathered drying cloths.
Once we had him dry, we slipped Keir into the warmth, keeping him upright just long enough to get a bowl of broth into him. He looked so pale, laying there, so still. My heart was in my throat, although his pulse beat strongly under my fingers.
To my surprise, Keir’s eyes fluttered open after we settled him down. They were foggy with sleep, and when his fingers moved, I took them into my hand. He felt so cold, so I sat on the bed, and tried to rub some warmth into them.
“You need to get out of these wet things and get some sleep.” Marcus moved behind me, and put his hands on my shoulders. “I’ve sent the others off to rest.”
“You need sleep more than I do, Marcus. I’ll change, then take the first watch.” Marcus sighed, but he didn’t argue.
How many sickbeds have I watched over in my time? More than I can count or remember. Yet, this time was different.
Eln taught that a good healer was dispassionate. Objective. I tried to follow his teachings, and with most patients I succeeded.
Not with my father.
Not with Keir.
My father’s illness had been a long slow process, and his death had been a release. But this man was a strong warrior, in his prime, and my emotions swayed from despair to hope and back again. I’d done everything I knew to save him, and it lay within the Goddess’s hands. All I could do was sit and watch over him, taking in each breath as if it were my own. Hours passed, and Keir still slept, with no sign of the fever’s return. The light was faint in the tent, with the braziers burning to provide warmth.
Marcus had curled up on a pallet at the foot of the bed, exhausted. I checked on him as the hours wore on, to make sure that he was sleeping easily, and that no sweat formed on the scarred forehead. I’d everything I needed close at hand, thanks to him, including a pitcher of kav-age as thick as mud. All that was left to do was wait and watch.
Watch and worry.
What would happen if Keir died?
What would happen to my life? The others were pledged to see me home, to the safety of the castle at Water’s Fall. In the face of Iften’s threats, I knew that Keir’s dream of uniting our peoples would die with him.
But, Goddess forgive me, my concern was not for our people. For Keir’s death would shatter the very heart in my breast. It would die, or the largest part of it would. As I looked ahead to that future, I knew for an instant Isdra’s pain, and the release that she sought.
I flushed, ashamed for what I’d asked of her. The priests of the God, Lord of the Sun, condemn suicide. But my own pain showed me this very truth—that it wouldn’t be far from my thoughts if Keir took his last breath.
Yet, as another hour passed, Keir’s breaths came steadily, one after another. And I gave thanks to the Goddess for each and every one.
I was trying to remember what Keir had told me, about balancing the elements in the body using touch, the night he’d comforted me after Xymund had burned my books. Keir’s skin still felt cool to me, but perhaps it was more my fear than truth. I cradled his right hand in both of mine and started caressing it, tracing each finger slowly, and moving my fingertips over his palm. I tried to remember what Keir had said when he had done this to me. “The breath is made of air, and sits within the right hand.” I whispered, continuing my movements until the warmth returned to his hand.
I reached over, to take his left hand, and did the same thing until the flesh was warm and pink. “The soul is made of fire, and sits within the left hand.”
Keir seemed to be breathing easier. I tucked his hands back under the bedding, and then went to the foot of the bed, reaching under to feel his toes. “The flesh is made of earth and sits within the left—”
“No… wrong.”
The sound was faint but I looked at Keir to see blue eyes looking back at me.
“Keir?” I scrambled up onto the bed to lean over him, and cup his face in my hand. My hair fell around us. His cheeks were bristly under my fingers, but there was no trace of excess heat. I smiled at him, calling. “Keir?”