“A day or two, I would guess,” replied the other. “She has had quite a knock on the head.”

The conversation receded until it became a vague buzzing like the background of the pain in her head. Then, even that receded with her awareness once more.

Éhal awoke the next day to find herself in a tent. He head was bandaged, and felt as though it was stuffed with cotton. She rose groggily and found she was nearly seeing double. Leaving her bed, she staggered out into the sunlight.

“Ho there!” came the voice of the rider who had borne her the day before. “Where do you think you’re going?”

She turned to see who it was and nearly lost her balance. Struggling to see, she said, “I must return to my command.”

“You are not only unfit to command at the moment, but Baldric desires to speak with you,” said the rider, taking her arm and propelling her back to her tent like a child.

“Unhand me!” she demanded. “Who dares to dictate to Éhal of Angorain?”

“I am Florin, chief healer of Baldric’s army,” replied the rider, who was a burly man. “And you are, for now, my patient, and as such are in my charge until I decide otherwise, and you will do as you are told.”




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