Lord of the Isles by David Drake Page A

tone. Her voice didn’t tremble. “What is it you’re going to do?”
    â€œDo?” Asera said. “We’re going to determine if the Count and Countess of Haft were your real parents, child.”
    â€œAnd if they were,” Meder added as his arm shepherded Sharina toward the door, “then you’ve a life ahead of you never dreamed by anyone in this miserable sheep pasture!”

14
    G arric had hung the oil lamp on the axletree leaning near the stable door; the cartwheels were beside it. An iron tire had come off last winter, and the smith hadn’t made his rounds yet through the hamlet to weld another onto the wooden felly.
    â€œDo you need the light anymore?” he called to Tenoctris, making a bed of loose straw at the other end of the stable.
    â€œNo, I …” Tenoctris said. In a tone of mild surprise she went on, “That’s odd. You—”
    Both door leaves lay back against the brick walls; the opening was wide enough to pass a team of horses still hitched. The hermit nevertheless stopped outside the building and slapped the wooden panel with his left hand: a quick rap-rap-rap
like a gigantic woodpecker drumming for a mate.
    â€œMay I come through?” he asked. His voice sounded harsh, rusty.
    â€œSure,” Garric said. A dozen sailors came out of the inn, making the courtyard echo with laughter. Several of them began to sing chanteys, but they weren’t the same chantey. “Ah, there’s plenty of room to sleep here if you don’t want to go back in the dark.”
    Nonnus smiled faintly. “I thank you for your offer,” he said, “but I find the dark more of a friend than not. Besides, tonight the stars are clear.”
    He entered the stable, letting his hands relax. He’d been spreading them to prove that he wasn’t carrying a weapon, Garric realized. “I thought I’d check on your injuries, both of you. Do you need more ointment, mistress?”
    Tenoctris looked at the backs of her hands, then turned them toward the hermit and the light. “There’s only a little tenderness now,” she said.
    Nonnus stepped close and pressed two fingers gently against Tenoctris’ cheek. “Pain?” he asked.
    â€œNo, though tenderness as I said,” Tenoctris said. “Without your help I’d have been in great pain, I realize.”
    â€œYou’ve done more to heal yourself than I did,” Nonnus said with the same faint smile as before.
    â€œI wouldn’t have been able to do that if I’d been out of my head with pain, would I?” she replied.
    The hermit turned to Garric. “And you, boy? Let’s see the leg.”
    Garric pivoted and braced his right foot waist-high on the stable wall to show both that the limb was supple and that the wounds were knitting cleanly. The hermit brought the lamp close. The puffy flesh around the fang marks was pink but not red or streaky. When Nonnus prodded the edge of what had been the hole all the way through the leg, Garric felt a localized burning instead of a barbed lance thrusting to his groin.
    To cover his wince, Garric bragged, “I’ve been doing all
my normal work. I could carry you around the courtyard if you like.”
    â€œAnd why would I like to do something so silly?” the hermit said with mild amusement. “You don’t need to prove you’re a fine brave man to me. Or to anybody.”
    â€œHe’ll be older before he learns that,” Tenoctris said. “If he ever does.”
    Nonnus chuckled, the first time Garric had heard such a sound from him. He slapped Garric’s knee with a hand like the flat of a wooden shovel. “You’re healing,” he said. “But I warn you that in ten years or twenty you’ll feel every strain you put your body through now.”
    He looked at Tenoctris and added, “He won’t believe that, either.”
    â€œSir?” said Garric,