Chapter Three
Theos pushed himself hard on the way back up the mountain. He wanted to get where he was going, but more importantly he wanted to be distracted. If all his concentration was needed to find secure footing and pull his tired body along step after step, there would be no energy left for him to imagine what he was heading toward.
Because, of course, he was going to find Andros dead. The young prisoner had known he couldn’t cure a rock viper bite; that was why he’d protested when Theos told him to try. He’d only gone along with the stupid plan because Theos had threatened to kill the other prisoners, not because there’d been any chance of success.
That was what his mind told him. And if he’dknownthat it was true, he’d have slowed down. There was no need to run up a mountain in order to help bury a friend. Alternatively, if he’d known for sure that Andros was fine, there’d be no need to go up the mountain at all. He could just wait in the valley, make his visits to the city, and be content.
It was the tiny nugget of doubt that pushed him forward. He made himself stop for the night when it became too dark to move safely, but he just rolled himself in his blankets and chewed some jerky rather than starting a fire, and at first light the doubt roused him and sent him on his way.
Snow clouds appeared midmorning, still far to the west but coming closer, and the wind developed a damp, sharp bite. It wouldn’t be the first snow of the season, not in the mountains, but any fresh snow was one more complication to consider. Theos hastened his already quick steps.
Then, in the dying light of that second day, he turned around a bend and saw the dancing glow of a fire not far distant.
He advanced with care, not because he expected hostility but because it was never wise to blunder into a camp of highly trained soldiers. He heard the sentry stir from the trees by the side of the path, just where he should be, and then, “Hold and identify yourself.”
“It’s Theos, Xeno.”
“I thought it might be. Thanks for coming back. Go on in.”
There was no emotion in the man’s voice, nothing to help Theos guess what he was heading into. So he walked on cautiously, and when he saw the bundle of blankets over by the trees, he knew he’d been right. Andros had died, and they’d wrapped him and put him over there awaiting burial. Maybe they’d found no soil on the mountain deep enough for a grave and were going to carry him into the valley. But then the blankets stirred, just a little, and the boy rose from his spot by the fire and walked over to his patient. He spoke gentle words, none comprehensible, and then crouched down.
Theos strode toward the fire and was greeted by Achus and Elios, the two Sacrati who’d volunteered to stay behind, and the boy stared for a moment before returning his attention to his patient. Worrying whether his work was good enough, hopefully.
Theos dropped his pack by the fire and then approached. Andros was bundled up in blankets beyond what the weather required, his face pale and drawn, but he was alive, his breathing more natural than it had been when Theos left.
“Come to carry me home?” Andros said hoarsely, and Theos crouched beside him, edging the boy out since he didn’t seem to be doing anything anyway.
“I shouldn’t have to,” Theos replied. “You’re Sacrati—a little nip like this shouldn’t be a problem. You’ve already had four days off, and now you want special treatment? You bring shame on yourself, Andros.”
Andros’s weak cough was probably meant to be a laugh. Theos wanted to touch his friend; it felt strange to avoid the casual contact that had always been how they’d communicated best. But Theos didn’t know the rules for dealing with sick people.
He let himself run the fingertips of his hand down over Andros’s cheek, then turned back to Achus and Elios. “He’s hot. Fevered.”
“He’s been hot and cold for days,” Achus said. “Finnvid says it’s normal.”
Theos frowned at the Sacrati by the fire, then at the prisoner now crouched by Andros’s head. “Finnvid?”
“My nursemaid,” Andros whispered. “He’s more than just pretty.”
There was something going on. “He ‘says’ it’s normal?” he asked.
“Not ‘says,’” Elios clarified. “Not in words. But he’s noticed, and he’s not worried about it.”
Theos raised his eyebrows at the boy. “Finnvid?” he said, and the boy raised defiant eyes to meet his. “Can he move?” He made his fingers walk in the direction of the valley. “Tomorrow morning, can he move?”
The boy—Finnvid—grimaced. He pointed at Andros, mimicked the walking gesture, and shook his head emphatically.
“Snow’s coming,” Theos replied, though he didn’t know why he was bothering to use words at all. He pointed to the sky, mimed that something was falling, and then rubbed his arms and shivered with mock cold.
Finnvid bit his lip, then rummaged through the debris on the forest floor. He found two twigs, held them parallel, and laid a leaf on top of them.
“A stretcher,” Theos interpreted. “We could carry him.” They’d have to take the longer paths for some of the way down, the ones followed by traders with their mules instead of sure-footed soldiers. And they’d have to rest more often, if being moved was hard on Andros.
Maybe it would be better to build a shelter, do some hunting, and wait out the season. But just because full-strength Sacrati could survive a winter in the mountains, it didn’t mean that Andros could, not in his weakened state. He’d be better off recovering in the warmth of the valley, with tasty foods and a soft bed.
“Maybe Ididcome to carry you home,” Theos murmured. He leaned over and kissed his friend’s forehead. “Do you think you’d be able to make it on a stretcher?”
Andros took a deep breath, then choked a little as he released it. “Everything hurts,” he admitted. “All of me. But . . . I could manage.”
