Tiburé did not know whether to be thankful or exasperated. Rothir had no right to go barging in like that, over-riding her authority. It was totally unlike him. What had he been thinking of? He could easily have ruined their chances of getting any help. She would have approached the Farwth quite differently, with more show of respect. And as for Maeneb…
Well, Maeneb had got them here at least. And luckily the Farwth had not been offended. Tiburé was not sure if it could be offended in the same way as a human; did a tree have emotions? But the Farwth could certainly have shut the Riders out.
Now she walked forward to greet the approaching Wardens. There were three of them: two men, one woman, all of them much older than her, and she was over fifty. There must be two hundred or so Wardens altogether, but if any of them were younger than Tiburé she had not met them. And she had a strong impression that they were all even older than they looked.
“I am Walen,” said the woman. “I am a healer.”
She nodded. “Tiburé,” she answered briefly. The Farwth would no doubt have already told these Wardens everything that they needed to know.
“Baird and Golen will see to the injured man,” said Walen. Like all the Wardens, she spoke a quaintly antique variety of Standard; although not as antique nor as remote from Standard as the Vonnish tongue. “After that, Baird will help me with the woman. He is expert with broken bones. Golen is expert with men’s minds.”
“What about women’s minds?” said Tiburé. It was not altogether a joke. The Wardens lived such an isolated, secret life here that she doubted their ability to understand the minds of those outside – whether men or women. Even the Warden she had become close to on her last visit, despite being an intelligent man, had seemed baffled by her sense of self-determination.
Walen did not respond. She was already opening a bag of instruments and dressings.
“Water, please,” she said. Tiburé looked around for a container that might hold water, but in vain: yet even as she looked, the ground nearby began to bubble and then produced a tiny fountain. From this new small spring, clear water pooled neatly in the grass.
“Thank you,” said Walen. Dipping a bowl into the pool, she carried both that and her bag into the hollow of the tree. “Has the woman had any drugs?”
“They have both had a few doses of ethlon, but only two or three drops at a time. She had no apparent fever until yesterday.”
Walen’s lips compressed. “Very well.” She began to cut away Yaret’s clothing from her leg with narrow-bladed scissors. Then she gently dabbed the bloodied woollen bandages with water before beginning to cut through those as well.
On the other side of the wooden hollow Eled was moaning again as the other two Wardens examined his broken thigh. Kneeling next to him, Rothir took his hand and pressed it. At a terse word from the Wardens he reluctantly stood up and moved back to join Tiburé, out of their way.
Parthenal sat by the entrance to the hollow, watching the Wardens with fierce concentration. Tiburé thought that if they hurt Eled unnecessarily he would not hesitate to throw them out, no matter how old they were. Maeneb had not come in at all.
Even from here Tiburé could see that Eled’s leg was still swollen. It looked slightly distorted. Was that a result of all the enforced riding? No doubt. It could have been much worse, she thought, but even so, it was bad enough. The leg was unlikely ever to be as straight again as it had been… She felt a strong pang of regret for the young man who had once been so active and cheerful, and would now be lamed. He would have a lot of adjusting to do.
“How long ago did this break happen?” asked the shorter, stockier Warden, Baird.
“Two weeks.”
Baird shook his head. “It’s not been setting as it should. He’s been moved around too much,” he said with disapproval.
“You know the circumstances,” Tiburé answered tersely. “Or the Farwth does, at least. We had to get him out of danger. What else could we have done?”
Baird merely shook his head some more. Tiburé was intensely irritated. These Wardens knew nothing of the Riders’ lives and the perils that they faced. It took her a few deep breaths before she could acknowledge that much of her annoyance was with herself.
If only she had not agreed to that expedition by the two least experienced members of her troop, things might have turned out differently. She had not realised how far north the stonemen had come, and none of them had known about the new type of darkburn; but ignorance was no excuse. The whole point of their journey was to find out more about the stonemen. They should have been more careful.
And she had been in charge. Ultimately it was her fault. She would have to stand before Huldarion and explain the crippling of a good and faithful soldier. She doubted very much if Eled would be standing there beside her.
However, Eled would not be even lying here, but would be having his bones picked by crows on some far-flung moor, were it not for Yaret. Tiburé was conscious that she ought to feel the same concern for Yaret as she did for Eled, although there was nobody in Yaret’s case that she would have to answer to. She acknowledged her own bias against a foreign pedlar compared to one of her own kindred. It was unfair of her. No matter what her origins Yaret had shown remarkable resourcefulness.
She looked over at Yaret now, and winced as Walen carefully withdrew the blood-soaked dressings from the stump. The leg ended several inches above the ankle – or where the ankle would have been – in a mess of black and clotted blood.
“Does it look badly infected?” That was Rothir, who was also watching Walen’s cautious movements with a frown.
Walen did not answer immediately. She gently swabbed the skin around the stump: without the dried blood it looked both better and worse. Better, because cleaner. Worse, because the damage became all the more obvious.
At last Walen looked up. “It’s not infected at all, I think. Her fever is probably simply due to trauma, blood loss and over-exertion.”
“That was also unavoidable,” said Tiburé, in anger.
Rothir touched her shoulder. “What do you need to do to help her heal?” he said to Walen.
“Possibly nothing,” replied the Warden. “The leg’s already showing initial signs of healing around this flap of skin. Covering the bone in that way was probably the best action to take. Who did it?”
“She did it herself.”
Walen froze, staring at him. “Extraordinary,” she said, her composed, lined face showing some surprise for the first time.
“You have no idea just how extraordinary,” said Rothir. “What can you do to help?”
“To attempt further repairs now may add to the damage and increase the risk of bleeding and infection. The residual limb’s not pretty, but it’s tidy enough. It may prove functional.”
“Functional in what way?” said Rothir.
“To take a prosthetic.”
“You mean a wooden leg,” said Tiburé. Rothir turned round abruptly and walked out of the tree.
Tiburé remained in her place. It was her responsibility to see that Eled fared as comfortably as possible. It was clear that Rothir also extended that responsibility to Yaret’s welfare, and she could not disagree.
She had to keep everything under her control. That meant she needed to make sure that Rothir’s outspokenness to the Farwth would not be repeated. It was lucky that Rothir and Parthenal were more reasonable men than some. Her husband, Solon, for instance… She and Solon couldn’t survive being in the same troop for more than a day. They found they had no patience with each other: better to stay apart.
But poor Eled. She would have to leave him here. Both he and Yaret would need to remain here, with the Wardens, probably for some time, while they healed. She thought the Farwth would not be unwilling – since, strangely, it seemed to think it knew Yaret. Or knew her ancestor. Descended from the bard Madeo… What had that been all about? What could a bard mean to the Farwth? Thield had bards. Maybe she should have brought them here.
“Food will be delivered to you soon,” said Walen. She had applied a fresh bandage to Yaret’s leg and was beginning to pack up her bag.
“Thank you.”
“And you may all sleep here in this chamber. Blankets also will be brought.”
“Again, I thank you. May I visit the Wardens’ habitations?”
Walen looked surprised. Then she considered this, and nodded. “The Farwth permits it.”
“I would like to speak with Habend. To consult with him.”
“Habend is a wise man,” said Walen, with a sidelong look at Tiburé.
Tiburé looked back at her steadily. “Yes, he is.” She didn’t really care if Walen knew. The Farwth surely knew, in any case, which was all that mattered here.
But if the other riders guessed – and she thought that Parthenal might have – they did not say. She was certain Maeneb did not know. And it would hardly be diplomatic to inform Maeneb that her mother was not the only woman of the Vonn to have sought love in Farwithiel.