The fire crackled, sending up sparks into the star-filled sky. The herders began returning to their tents one by one, and the singing turned quiet. Signs that the night was deep.
Yuma stood up. The herders tipped their hats at her. She returned the gesture and turned her back to the fire.
“Chief,” called out one of the herders, “you must’ve had a little too much to drink. Your tent is in the other direction!”
Yuma waved her hand behind her and continued in the direction she was going.
“Can it be?”
“Finally!”
“What did I tell you?”
She could hear their whispers. A wit among them gave a long whistle; the truly brave cheered. She ignored them.
She stopped at a tent pitched at a bit of a distance. Fractica lay next to it, its long legs folded under it, its lights dim. She rang the little bell on the entry flap.
“Who?” His Mersehi was still a little awkward.
“Can I come in?”
A rustling. She waited. She worried about him falling by accident.
Then an answer.
“Come in.”
Lysandros was sitting up in bed, wearing the light frame he had worn when riding the horse earlier that day. The room was dimly illuminated by the light of a small stove. There was a scent of flowers she didn’t recognize.
“What’s the matter?”
This wasn’t his usual calm, low voice. She could hear a touch of tremor. Yuma took off her hat and coat and hung them on a corner hook. Then, she sat down on the edge of his bedding. Taking his shy smile as encouragement, she took off her boots and laid them neatly against each other by the door.
22
EMERE
“Emere, I amnota mortician!”
As Emere was about to lay a bloody Septima on one of the beds, Rakel grabbed a nearby blanket and covered it. Her widened eyes looked like those of a surprised rabbit, but that was the only part of her that seemed even remotely shocked. She quickly began examining the patient.
“She’s not dead. Just injured. You’ve seen me worse off than this.”
Rakel examined the crossbow bolts in Septima’s chest.
“Her condition is serious, Emere. She may not live.”
“I had to at least try to save her. If I left her behind, she definitely wouldn’t have lived.”
Quickly, Rakel moved to her cabinets and rummaged through them until she found two bottles that she brought back to Septima’s side. She handed him the brown bottle. “Wash your hands with this. Depending on how bad she is, you may have to help me.”
Putting her hand behind Septima’s neck and tilting her headback, Rakel poured the contents of the white bottle down Septima’s throat.
“What is that?” Emere asked, washing off the pungent slop he had slathered onto his hands with water from one of the buckets.
“Would you even know if I told you?” Rakel replied, her eyes still on the patient. “What happened? Not just bolts, but she has burns and a head wound too.”
“It’s a long story—”
