The Warslayer(52)

The most important thing done, she returned to their meager supplies. There was some grain left, a couple of the fruit-cakes, a little of the mead, another skin of ale, and of course the sugar and the tea. That was all.

She sighed, and shook her head. A steely eyed adventurer would consider the horses as extra provisions, and it wasn't that she was averse to eating a horse—well, not exactly—but she had no way to kill one of the ponies cleanly and no idea of how to butcher it, and even if she did, there was no way inside the Temple for them to cook it afterward, and she definitely drew the line at eating one of the damned things raw—which pretty much put paid to her notion of going back for the rest of the other pony, even if she was willing to risk the trip.

As for the protein on the hoof . . . they couldn't eat them, they couldn't ride them, and the cart was pretty useless outside of the temple, so there was no point in even trying to make a go of hitching the beasts to it and going on from there. All that being the case, the logical thing to do was to turn the beasts loose to fend for themselves and hope they survived.

But if she was going to do that, she might as well do it in the morning after they'd had a good meal, or as much of a good meal as she could field them. A couple of handfuls of grain wouldn't make much difference for her and Belegir in the long run. She shook her head. Soft-hearted, that's what she was.

She divvied the grain up into two neat piles, widely separated, then led the horses over to their meals one at a time. Afterward she watered them, then tied them to the packsaddle, several yards away from Belegir and the supplies. No sense leaving them to wander loose and get into trouble.

The area around the Pilgrim's Fountain was starting to reek strongly of stable, and Glory told herself she'd be just as glad to be rid of the nasty smelly beasts, but she knew she'd miss them, especially since she knew they'd probably fall down the first rabbit hole going and break a leg, or be eaten by another of those pants-wearing nightmares, or by something else just as horrible. Still, they'd have a chance, which looked like more than she and Belegir did.

She changed Belegir's compresses. Was it her imagination, or did the gashes look a little better? Please, let it be so. Then she got to work setting up the little tea-boiler.

She picked up the round pottery bottle and her lighter, and got the wick alight with a few snaps of her thumb, then set up the rest of the tea-boiler around it. When they'd had their tea, she could boil down a couple of the fruit-cakes in the pot. She didn't think Belegir was up to chewing, but the thing ought to be willing to turn itself into soup with a little encouragement.

Belegir was lying back on his improvised hospital bed, watching her. His color was better, and despite the purpling bruises, and the white cloth laid over half his face, he looked pleased.

"Here now, Bel, how much of this tea-stuff do I add to the water?" Glory asked, shoving her braid back out of the way and waving the canister.

"Come here, and I will show you," he said.

Obediently she carried the canister over to him, and watched as he measured an amount out onto his hand, looking to see that she understood. He poured the dry leaves back into canister and beckoned her close.

"I think you are a very great hero," he said, smiling.

"You're demented," Glory said, not unkindly. "The water's boiling."

After the tea had brewed and she'd poured it into mugs, she washed out the pot in the fountain and refilled it to stew two of the shredded-up cakes of fruit. Before bandaging Belegir, she tried the salve on her arm, changing back to her now-dry T-shirt first. It didn't hurt, and it might help. She wound some of the wool bandage firmly around her arm, and tied it in place as best she could. At least she wouldn't have to look at it now.

Bandaging up Belegir was an awkward and messy process, leaving her slathered with goo to the elbows before she got the dressing firmly tied in place. But once she got a new robe over his head, both of them felt better.

"I have not worn something like this since my days as a novice in the temple," Belegir said ruefully, smoothing down the pale creamy wool. "And that was long ago."

At Glory's quizzical look, he continued.

"Those of us who feel Called to be mages serve at the Temple, so that we may become used to Erchane's presence. Sometimes it will happen that there will be no place for a new apprentice for many years, or a Mage and an apprentice will not . . . suit."

I reckon there's a whole story in that, Glory thought sagely.

"So until the day comes when an apprentice may leave the temple to serve his Mage, he serves here. I served here a long time, until Acoril chose me."

"What was he like?"

"She. Very strict, very . . . all that I am not. She said I was the burden Erchane had called upon her to bear, and that she had chosen me only so that no other Mage would be so terribly afflicted." He smiled at the memory. "She did not wish me to study the Old Texts. But she chose me when no other would, and for that I honor her memory."