What would happen if Keir died?
What would happen to my life? The others were pledged to see me home, to the safety of thecastle at Water's Fall. In the face of Iften's threats, I knew that Keir's dream of uniting ourpeoples would die with him.
But, Goddess forgive me, my concern was not for our people. For Keir's death would shatterthe very heart in my breast. It would die, or the largest part of it would. As I looked ahead tothat future, I knew for an instant Isdra's pain, and the release that she sought.
I flushed, ashamed for what I'd asked of her. The priests of the God, Lord of the Sun, condemnsuicide. But my own pain showed me this very truth—that it wouldn't be far from my thoughts ifKeir took his last breath.
Yet, as another hour passed, Keir's breaths came steadily, one after another. And I gavethanks to the Goddess for each and every one.
I was trying to remember what Keir had told me, about balancing the elements in the bodyusing touch, the night he'd comforted me after Xymund had burned my books. Keir's skin stillfelt cool to me, but perhaps it was more my fear than truth. I cradled his right hand in both ofmine and started caressing it, tracing each finger slowly, and moving my fingertips over hispalm. I tried to remember what Keir had said when he had done this to me. "The breath ismade of air, and sits within the right hand." I whispered, continuing my movements until thewarmth returned to his hand.
I reached over, to take his left hand, and did the same thing until the flesh was warm and pink.
"The soul is made of fire, and sits within the left hand."
Keir seemed to be breathing easier. I tucked his hands back under the bedding, and then wentto the foot of the bed, reaching under to feel his toes. "The flesh is made of earth and sitswithin the left—"
"No… wrong."
The sound was faint but I looked at Keir to see blue eyes looking back at me.
"Keir?" I scrambled up onto the bed to lean over him, and cup his face in my hand. My hairfell around us. His cheeks were bristly under my fingers, but there was no trace of excess heat.
I smiled at him, calling. "Keir?"
His lips moved, forming a faint smile.
"Keir." I whispered softly, my heart full of joy. The worst had passed. My warlord wouldsurvive.
Keir smiled softly, and turned his head just enough to brush his lips over my palm. With a softsigh, he fell back to sleep.
If there is a universal truth, among both our cultures, it is that men of the sword have nopatience with their healing bodies. They always seem to think that the body's humors shouldbalance quickly. But a body heals in its own time, and there is no rushing it.
Keir's chest was big and muscular. It took more force and longer periods of drumming to clearhis lungs of the water within. So the warriors were the ones that had to drum for him as he hungover the side of the bed, coughing. I didn't have the strength to be effective, but I was the onlyone that could bully him into cooperating. At one point in the process, Keir had swivelledaround and glared at Gils. "You're enjoying this too much."
"Keir," I admonished, and he turned back around to let Gils continue.
"Me? Enjoy beating on my Warlord and helping him?" Gils asked cheerfully as he thumped onKeir's back. "Not I, Warlord."
Keir coughed, then spat to clear his throat. "Say that to the naked sky?"
"Well, looks like we are done for now." Gils backed off, smiling and moving toward the exit.
"I's chores and patients to see, yes I's have." He bolted out of the tent, grabbing his satchel bythe strap.
I snorted back a laugh.
Keir pulled himself up, and gave me his best glare, but I shook my head. "Oh no, my Warlord.
I seem to remember someone insisting that I do this. Fair is fair."
Keir was a horrible patient. Whiny as a babe, cranky as a grandfather—he wanted this andneeded that and why couldn't he get up out of that bed? We tried letting him care for Meara, orgiving him small tasks, like sharpening blades, but his strength just wasn't up to it. Keir's mindwas racing, but his body could not follow.
When Marcus threatened to smother Keir in his sleep, and stomped out of the tent, I knew itwas time to resort to desperate measures. I started reading long passages to him from theEpic
of Xyson.
The Epic had been written about the battles of the second King of Xy, and it was one of thedullest pieces of history that had ever been written. But Keir lay curled under the covers,listening with rapt attention as I droned on and on about military matters, army maneuvers andplanning. " 'Upon the dawn, King Xyson mounted his war-horse, Greatheart and…'" I paused,remembering. That was the horse's name. Greatheart.
