“No, sir,” said the page. “I’m just the delivery. I’ll drop off fresh clothing for you in two shakes, sir,” they said to Amris. “Robes and towels are in the chest at the foot of the bed, and the bathing pools are in the basement. Dinner’s over, but there’s plenty left, and we’ll send that up too.”
“Can I trouble you to add fresh bandages to that load?” Amris asked. “And calendula ointment, if you have any.”
“Jars and jars, for after training. But if you’re wounded, we’ve a Mourner too.”
Amris shook his head. “Only scratches. Thank you.”
“Oh. Yes, sir.” Pip bowed and left, closing the door behind them. They didn’t sigh, but they were also too young to conceal an expression of distinct disappointment.
“She had frighteningly high hopes,” said Olvir.
“Her age was ever one for blood and gore, if she’s as young as she looks,” Amris said, chuckling as he thought of his younger brothers. “Wounds gained in high adventure are better still.”
Olvir smiled briefly. “I haven’t known many children. But she’s asked me enough questions along the same lines. Can I help you get settled?” He’d pulled the second boot off while Amris and Pip had talked.
“A hand with the buckles would be most welcome,” said Amris. “As would directions to the armorer, once I’ve mended myself a touch.”
“I won’t ask children’s questions, but it does look like you’ve been through the wars.”
“Truer than you know, or than I can explain just now.” He took off his armor with Olvir’s help, pushing through the urge to simply throw it on the floor and be free of the weight, and piled it neatly by the foot of the free bed. “Most recently, Darya and I fought twistedmen—three, and their mount.”
“Darya—oh, the Sentinel.” Olvir sat back down. “I haven’t fought any myself, but I’ve heard stories of twistedmen. They’re always nasty foes.”
“That part of the stories, at least, is true.” The robe was where Pip had said it would be. Amris disrobed and folded his clothes neatly, though he suspected Hallis or the fort’s servants might recommend burning them. A wash in the river couldn’t get rid of blood completely, particularly not that of twistedmen, and then there was the other grime of three days’ hard journey and rough sleeping.
While Amris undressed, Olvir politely kept his gaze averted, but when he did look back, he focused on the bandage near Amris’s knee. “More than a scratch, I think.”
“Somewhat more, perhaps,” he said, “but I want to see how it fares before I ask the Mourner to use his strength.”
The powers of the gods resembled the magic that Gerant now used: they themselves had few limits, but they channeled their might through their mortal servants, who could only take so much of such use. Under ordinary circumstances, it would take little effort for a Mourner to mend a simple leg wound, but Amris thought of the approaching army, and couldn’t bring himself to spend even that slight amount of force carelessly.
Olvir lifted his gaze from Amris’s leg to his face. His brown eyes were calm, level, but keen, and his young face was somber. “I guess that’s part of what you can’t explain just now.”
There was no accusation in it, barely even a question. When Amris nodded, Olvir’s jaw tightened, but he pressed the point no further. He sat back on his bed, looked at the sword hung on a rack beside Amris’s and the armor on a nearby stand, then at the small window at the end of the room. “How soon will more word come?” he asked.
“Your commander will give it to you tonight,” Amris replied. “I cannot in good conscience speak before he does.”
“Of course,” said Olvir, understanding military formality as only Tinival’s servants could. “You’d better go and bathe, then, and see how the wound’s healing. I’ll make sure Pip leaves the supplies on your bed.”
“Thank you,” said Amris. “And I’m glad to make your acquaintance.” He meant it—he liked the other man already—but when he left the room, he was also relieved to be out from under the scrutiny of those mild brown eyes.
* * *
As Emeth had said, Katrine was in the bathing rooms. Wet-haired, she lounged on the edge of the pool, with her feet dangling in the water. Beside her sat another woman: short, with bronze-gold hair and an ample bosom. For a moment, Darya wasn’t sure whether she was a Sentinel or one of the keep’s other soldiers. Then she shifted her weight, the shadows and steam fell away from her, and Darya saw the stripes of copper running like seams up her arms and legs.
“Branwyn,” said Katrine, “this is Darya. She’s been wandering around in the forest. Darya, Branwyn. The Adeptas sent her up here to cover for me at night.”
“Still glowing?” Darya asked.
Katrine gave her breasts an exasperated glance. “Less, but yes. I’ve got no complaint about them otherwise, but they mean I’m no damned good at stealth. I can name my fee if I let a fleshcrafter or two ogle them, though. It seems they’ve never done this sort of work on a Sentinel before, and there’s a, ah, fascinating pattern of magical interaction.”
“At least they’re fascinating.” Darya shrugged off her robe and stepped into the pool, groaning in a mixture of pleasure from her sore muscles and pain from the various cuts, major and minor, lacing her body. “Nobody’s ever complimented mine in words of more than one syllable.”
“Seduce more mages,” Branwyn suggested, with a slow smile and a husky voice.
“I have magical theory enough from my sword, thank you. Though he doesn’t talk about my tits.” Darya winced as she thought of Gerant, and then of Amris, but she was reasonably sure she passed it off as a reaction to the water.
When Katrine handed over the soap, Darya scrubbed vigorously, feeling the dirt of her sojourn practically peel away in strips. The cut on her chest was almost healed, with no redness and not much pain when she prodded it experimentally. Everything else was just scratches, and some truly spectacular bruises on her back, according to Katrine. “It certainly looks like you weren’t bored.”
