He sipped his tea.
"I'm going to turn the horses loose tomorrow. We can't feed them. Maybe they'll find their way home," Glory said.
"You should go with them. Ride east. You will find the wagons easily enough," Belegir said.
"You know I don't ride as well as all that." Not with the Allimir idea of a saddle and bridle, not with all of Serenthodial to get lost in. Not that either of those things made any difference to her decision. Belegir had called her a hero, and she guessed she was going to have to try to be one. And heroes did not leave their wounded behind them to die alone.
She got up to stir the soup, pleased to see that the fruit had dissolved into a sort of sweet mush by now.
Had she come all this way to die here just for a run of bad luck? She didn't believe it. But maybe that was what all fools told themselves, until it was too late to say otherwise.
Never mind. They'd have dinner and a good sleep, and she'd think about what to do next in the morning.
After they'd eaten there was nothing to do but sleep, in the endless magical twilight of the enormous cavern, and she was more than ready for it. She took one of the last of the white robes, and with some merciless plying of one of the harness-knives, tailored herself a passable nightgown. A little tight across the chest and hips, but worlds better than either her armor or another night spent in her grubby jeans. After Belegir was settled and she'd performed her final ablutions, she examined her face in the small compact mirror. Yes, a lovely bruise, right along her right cheekbone. It gave her a rather dangerous appearance, the battered hero in the last reel of the summer actioner, sallying forth to kick butt and take names.
She wished it were true. She wished she'd brought a gun with her, instead of a bag full of licensed tie-ins and makeup. Or a bar of soap and some shampoo. At least she had her toothbrush. Thank heaven for small favors.
But what she had was what she had. And hey, at least now she had a magic sword. That was something.
She unbraided her hair and spent a long time brushing it, thinking of nothing, the purple sword lying unsheathed at her side.
If only she'd brought her cell phone. If only there was someone to call. If only Belegir weren't hurt, so he could be a cell phone. If only the monster hadn't been out there this morning. If only the horses hadn't wandered off in the first place. If only they'd brought more food. If only there'd been food stockpiled here.
If. Only. If only somebody'd listened to Belegir in the first place, and the Warmother hadn't gotten loose.
Brush—brush—brush— Until finally she was tired of it, and her red hair shone, crackling and curling around her brush and her hand with every stroke. Then she braided it up again, this time loosely, and curled up under the blanket Belegir had insisted she take—Gordon under one arm, the hilt of the sword loosely clutched in her other hand.
Sleep was instant and deep.
* * *
Glory woke to a confused clatter of sound. She was too tired to come instantly awake, but she was up and moving without true wakefulness, knowing nothing more of who and where she was than that she must hold onto the sword.
The shouts—of fear, of surprise and dismay—galvanized her further, without bringing her very much closer to consciousness. She swept her sword before her in a threatening gesture, trying to force her eyes open, knowing she had to move toward the right without remembering what was there that she needed to protect. At the best of times, Glory McArdle had never been a morning person.
People. Strangers. Horses. Belegir! She got her back against the cart that held him and prepared to sell both their lives dear.
"Slayer! Slayer! They are friends—friends!" Belegir gasped hoarsely, before collapsing into another coughing fit.
She lowered the sword quickly and went to help him sit upright, ignoring the others completely. Slowly, Belegir's spasm eased. Only then did she look back at the others.
It was Ivradan—Helevrin's other son—and two other Allimir she didn't know, leading half a dozen fully laden pack horses and staring at her as if she were the Warmother incarnate. She could have kissed them all out of sheer relief.
"Well?" Vixen the Slayer growled. "He's hurt. Aren't you going to help him? I hope to God you've brought coffee with you." She lowered Belegir gently down again and stalked off to the other side of the fountain, her mood abruptly darkening.
She should be happy they were here. Their presence meant she and Belegir were going to live. But instead she felt unreasonably irritated, angry without understanding why. She leaned over the fountain, splashing water on her face, finishing the job of bringing herself awake.
Ivradan and the others had clustered around Belegir, talking in low voices. The new arrivals were darting her quick worried looks. As happy as she'd been to see them a moment before, she wished them at the devil now, and she didn't know why.