Just as Soldier’s Boy thought that nothing could plunge him more deeply into despair, Olikea spoke from behind him. “So. We have failed. And I have lost my son forever to Kinrove’s dance.” He did not turn to face her. I felt his shoulders sag beneath the burden of her words. She came closer to him and he waited for her fury. But after a time, she touched his shoulder lightly and offered in a deadened voice, “I will make food for you. Before you have to go back.”
One word. “We.” Despite the sadness in her voice, despite her obvious resignation to his failure, she had said “we.” It was the tiniest speck of comfort he could imagine, but it was the only bit of comfort he had been offered. Tears stung his eyes. It woke a deeper shame in him, and added a more personal price to his failure. Despite his hunger, cold, weariness, and despair, it woke a spark of determination in him. He felt a resolve form in himself. If he failed in all other things, he would not fail in this.
I do not know if Soldier’s Boy was aware of me rummaging through his memories or if the moment came back to him on its own. “I will do what I must,” he said softly. He spoke as a man who fastens his courage to an idea, determined he will follow it through. “What are you planning?” I asked him, but he didn’t see fit to answer me. Instead, head down to the cold wind, he walked on. The dark forest rippled past us in the stuttering pace of his quick-walk. I could feel the magic gush from him with every step he took, like blood leaping from a nicked artery. He did not have much reserve left. I think he heard my thought.
“I’ll get us there,” he said doggedly. One of his men glanced back at his muttered comment, but said nothing.
Night was deep when we reached the pass. The camp we had made in the first sheltered section was nearly deserted. A fire burned to welcome us, and Olikea had been keeping soup hot over it. The moment we arrived, a dozen of Dasie’s feeders and guards converged on her. They had their own fire burning, and a bed of pine boughs and furs awaiting her, along with all sorts of savory foods. Soldier’s Boy watched them bear her away and felt rebuked by how they snatched her away from his stewardship. Obviously, they felt he had failed her; now that they had her back, they wanted nothing to do with him.
He bowed his head and turned to his own fire and Olikea who waited for him. She had built a pallet of boughs and blankets for him, not as elaborate as that prepared for Dasie, but more than adequate. She helped him to remove some of his outer garments and offered him soft warm slippers in place of the ice-crusted boots she pulled from his feet. She had warmed water for him to wash his face and hands, and a soft cloth for him to dry them. That such simple comforts could bring so great a relief! Silently, her face grave, she motioned him to sit down while she served the food. He was surprised to see both Jodoli and Firada seated there as well. “I thought you would have gone home,” he said brusquely to them.
Jodoli’s response was grave. “I thought you might need help to quick-walk Dasie and her feeders home. The last time I saw you, you seemed very tired.”
He was. Too tired to hold on to his anger. He sighed in resignation. “In truth, I would welcome your help,” he said simply.
Jodoli said, “In the morning, then.” And for a time, there were few other words as Olikea served all of them the soup she had kept warm for him. It was a good soup, thick and rich with meat and mushrooms. With every sip of it, Soldier’s Boy felt warmth and strength returning to his body. He glanced over at Dasie’s larger fire. Her feeders still clustered around her, bees tending their queen. Despite having her restored to them, they made a low hum that was anxious rather than comforted.
Dasie had scarcely spoken a word to him since they had met after the battle. Her feeders had told him several times that she had retreated to another place to avoid the pain of her injury. But even the removal of the iron from her leg had not summoned her back. He had seen the injury. The ball had hit the bone, shattering it, and then wedged amid the broken pieces. The healer who had removed it had taken out the iron, picked out small bone fragments, cleaned it, and bound the wound closed. The healer had not approved of Soldier’s Boy’s tourniquet, but had been glad to see that Dasie reacted when he pricked her toes.
“Now that the iron is out, she will begin to heal herself,” one of her guards had declared confidently. Soldier’s Boy was not so sure of that. He thought that her retreat into herself might not be solely because of her wound. The injury to her spirit might be more severe than that to her leg. He had heard tales of young soldiers who never recovered fully from their first sight of battle. From the little her guards had told him, their firing of the town and slaughtering of the residents as they fled had been “successful,” if that was a word to apply to such a task. Dasie had been active and enthusiastic in the setting of the fires, and had herself slain an innkeeper and his three grown sons when they had tumbled from their beds and come outside in their nightshirts to fight the flames.