remembered his mother’s cookfire, that time the sword-brethren had wintered in the black mountains of Maroosh, where the Kozanga clans held a permanent settlement for the womenfolk and the younger children. Her hearth had been like this: warm, clean-swept, good-smelling.
Then a girl, bent over, came through the low opening of the cave, which was covered by a hanging fur. She came into the cave, glanced at him, saw that his eyes were open but made no comment, bent over the fire and examined the contents of the earthen pot.
She was thin and gaunt, as if she had not eaten well in some time, and there were dark hollows and circles under her eyes as if she had gone long without sleep. Her thin body was muffled in heavy glossy furs, but the crudely made jacket was open, so it was not very cold outside. Beneath the furs she wore a threadbare man’s tunic, much too large for her, and very patched.
Using her fur mittens for pot-holders she took the earthen container from its hook above the fire and brought it over to where he lay. She muttered a curt word, and the grey wolf stirred, got up, and slunk out of the cave, nosing its way through the flap of the fur covering that shielded the entrance. Then the thin, worn girl knelt at his side and held the pot to his lips.
“Drink,” she said, and he drank. The fluid was steaming hot and had a rich, spicy taste, and green flakes of some herb were thickly scattered over the surface of the fluid. He drank in slow, deep gulps, and the drink was pungent and volatile. It seemed to explode to hot piney vapor the instant it touched his tongue, and the steaming vapor filled his head—he could feel it clear back in his sinuses—and then expanded through his brain until it seemed that his skull was a tight-stretched balloon filled with hot, pungent smoky flavor. His mind, which had been sleepy and blurred, cleared magically. His eyes brightened; blood pulsed through his body, carrying the influence of the magic herbal tea through every portion of his being, until from head to toe he felt tinglingly alive.
She took the pot away, wiped his lips on a scrap of rag; and he looked up into her face and said, “Thyra.”
She gasped—it was almost a cry—and all but dropped the earthen pot. A rustle came from behind him, and the old man came shuffling out, wrapped in a blanket His queue was disarranged, his eyes puffy, and he looked as if he had been asleep.
“What is it?” the old man demanded querulously. “Is he dead?”
The girl looked down at Kadji, immense eyes shadowed with a wondrous, heartbreaking relief.
“He is well . . . well . . . he knew me, and called my name . . .”
Kadji was about to say something then, but just at that moment he fell asleep again.
WHEN HE next awoke it seemed to be evening, for no light seeped through the fur across the cave mouth to paint the rocky roof with radiance. Kadji found himself stripped to the waist and the old man—Akthoob, he remembered his name now—was sponging his torso with hot soapy water. He blinked at the Easterling and essayed a sketchy grin. It was a feeble excuse for a smile, and it stretched the skin of his cheeks in such a. manner that he guessed it had been rather a long time since he had last smiled, but it delighted Akthoob. The long bony yellow face split in an enormous toothy grin and the slitted black eyes almost vanished.
“This person assumes you are feeling much better, yes?” the old man asked, bobbing and ducking his head happily. Kadji said that he felt fine.
They talked for a little, in a lazy fashion, while Akthoob carefully washed and dried his body and then covered him with soft blankets again. Kadji mentioned something about his dreams, knowing now that they must have been lucid wakeful intervals between coma and fever-spasms.
“I remember one dream,” he said vaguely. “Thyra was performing a sort of ritual or prayer over me, and you were shaking your head in a disapproving fashion.”
“Ah,
Then a girl, bent over, came through the low opening of the cave, which was covered by a hanging fur. She came into the cave, glanced at him, saw that his eyes were open but made no comment, bent over the fire and examined the contents of the earthen pot.
She was thin and gaunt, as if she had not eaten well in some time, and there were dark hollows and circles under her eyes as if she had gone long without sleep. Her thin body was muffled in heavy glossy furs, but the crudely made jacket was open, so it was not very cold outside. Beneath the furs she wore a threadbare man’s tunic, much too large for her, and very patched.
Using her fur mittens for pot-holders she took the earthen container from its hook above the fire and brought it over to where he lay. She muttered a curt word, and the grey wolf stirred, got up, and slunk out of the cave, nosing its way through the flap of the fur covering that shielded the entrance. Then the thin, worn girl knelt at his side and held the pot to his lips.
“Drink,” she said, and he drank. The fluid was steaming hot and had a rich, spicy taste, and green flakes of some herb were thickly scattered over the surface of the fluid. He drank in slow, deep gulps, and the drink was pungent and volatile. It seemed to explode to hot piney vapor the instant it touched his tongue, and the steaming vapor filled his head—he could feel it clear back in his sinuses—and then expanded through his brain until it seemed that his skull was a tight-stretched balloon filled with hot, pungent smoky flavor. His mind, which had been sleepy and blurred, cleared magically. His eyes brightened; blood pulsed through his body, carrying the influence of the magic herbal tea through every portion of his being, until from head to toe he felt tinglingly alive.
She took the pot away, wiped his lips on a scrap of rag; and he looked up into her face and said, “Thyra.”
She gasped—it was almost a cry—and all but dropped the earthen pot. A rustle came from behind him, and the old man came shuffling out, wrapped in a blanket His queue was disarranged, his eyes puffy, and he looked as if he had been asleep.
“What is it?” the old man demanded querulously. “Is he dead?”
The girl looked down at Kadji, immense eyes shadowed with a wondrous, heartbreaking relief.
“He is well . . . well . . . he knew me, and called my name . . .”
Kadji was about to say something then, but just at that moment he fell asleep again.
WHEN HE next awoke it seemed to be evening, for no light seeped through the fur across the cave mouth to paint the rocky roof with radiance. Kadji found himself stripped to the waist and the old man—Akthoob, he remembered his name now—was sponging his torso with hot soapy water. He blinked at the Easterling and essayed a sketchy grin. It was a feeble excuse for a smile, and it stretched the skin of his cheeks in such a. manner that he guessed it had been rather a long time since he had last smiled, but it delighted Akthoob. The long bony yellow face split in an enormous toothy grin and the slitted black eyes almost vanished.
“This person assumes you are feeling much better, yes?” the old man asked, bobbing and ducking his head happily. Kadji said that he felt fine.
They talked for a little, in a lazy fashion, while Akthoob carefully washed and dried his body and then covered him with soft blankets again. Kadji mentioned something about his dreams, knowing now that they must have been lucid wakeful intervals between coma and fever-spasms.
“I remember one dream,” he said vaguely. “Thyra was performing a sort of ritual or prayer over me, and you were shaking your head in a disapproving fashion.”
“Ah,
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