D Cornish - Foundling

Presently Europe came over to the landaulet too, stumbling only slightly, her face dirty with tearful streaks, and hurriedly organized her own traveling goods. With the horse dead there was nothing for it-they would have to walk their way to safety.

"We must leave… him where he lies. There's no time to bury him and no profit in bearing him away. We must go to the wayhouse. I've passed it by many times but never entered. The Harefoot Dig it is called. When we get there and settle ourselves safely, we can come back here to… to fetch him. Move on, now! We must be at the wayhouse as soon as we can!"

Gathering all which was needful that they could carry on foot, they set off by lantern light, Europe pointing the way, Rossamund leading it. How they were to make it, the foundling had no hopeful idea. There was a sandy, bepuddled road running right by their camp-probably still part of the Vestiweg. They walked along this, the fulgar unsteady at first but soon gaining pace, though not speedily enough for him. The fulgar had to caution him to save his energy when sometimes he marched on ahead, reminding him that they had a long way yet to travel.

Soon she made Rossamund douse the lantern. "The light will be more harmful than helpful," she whispered, "and lead the grinning baskets right to us."

He complied eagerly at this warning. What hope did an everyday boy like himself have if a lahzar was cautious and wishing to avoid any new confrontations? In the dark he vainly tried to see into the benighted forest, to see past the straight pale trunks of the pine saplings that lined the road, to find warning of any possible ambush. He could feel that Phoebe was up and shining, but deep in that narrow channel of high trees, her light helped but a little. Oh for Licurius' nose now! After they had trod for many hours and what was surely a great distance, Rossamund was most certainly tiring. His feet dragged, and the valise, normally so light, pulled meanly on his back and aching shoulders. His lids drooped as his thoughts lolled with warm, comfortable ideas of stillness and rest.

Europe seemed to sag as well; eventually, to his great relief, she stopped near the top of a steep hill and sat down clumsily. "Aah!" she wheezed so very quietly. "I am flagging terribly… How about you, little man? You have kept pace with me admirably till now."

He dropped next to her, dumping the valise on the verge, and took a long swig of water from his biggin. Only a few mouthfuls more remained when he was done. Taking this as a wordless but definite yes, the fulgar offered him a whortleberry procured from one of the many black leather satchels and saddlebags. Then she chewed on one herself. He took it gratefully. They sat some minutes in silence while the internal glow of the berries restored them enough to allow them to push on. Rossamund's senses sharpened again and with them his fears of another attack by the grinnlings or, perhaps, worse things.

A firm conviction was beginning to form in his deepest thoughts: that it would be the grandest thing to return to the safety and forgetful ease of a city and leave all this threwdish wild land behind. How could anyone have ever thought it prudent to put a road through such a place as this haunted region?

The land fell away sharply from the northern edge of the road and upon its steep slope no trees grew, affording them a limited view. At last Rossamund could see the moon, ocher-yellow and setting in the west. He turned about quietly where he was and observed the white line of the road they had already traveled as it emerged from the trees. He looked with dread at the impenetrable black of the tangle-wood valleys directly below and, beyond that, the low dark hills further north. He quaked slightly-anything could be stalking about out there. The world was so much bigger than he had ever thought: wilder, and full of threats and loneliness and dread. He hugged his knees to his chest and waited, afraid, staring at the fulgar's shadow.

As they sat, she fidgeted with the scarf about her neck and with the wound beneath. "Are you better?" she whispered.

"Aye," he whispered back. "Your neck, miss?"

"It bleeds still… and it is starting to itch awfully. I believe it may well need seeing to by a physic. That will have to wait. Let's be off again. We still have far to go and this place is starting to get me down."

The dose of whortleberry had invigorated them both heartily: they walked and walked, and walked yet more, Europe leading onward. The road rose over hills and dropped into small valleys. The forest soon closed in again and they were surrounded now by several kinds of pine. The air was still, filled with the strong smell of sap and the hissing of breezes in the branches. Stars continued to shine brightly and shed some little light on their path from the glimpse of sky above. Of the Signal Stars, Maudlin was now absent, having passed beyond view; only orange Faustus, the "eye" of the constellation Vespasia, and the yellow planet Ormond showed, and they showed that it was very late indeed. A frightened baby owl screeched thinly, voicing Rossamund's own lost and lonely feelings. As he read the stars, he heard the fulgar stumble heavily in front of him, and looked down to see her sink to the sandy path.

He hurried to her. "Miss Europe…?"

She was on her hands and knees, panting as she had done after her organs had spasmed. "The bite… the bite…" she rasped.

Rossamund carefully unwound the scarf from her neck and saw, even by dim starlight, that the wound had swollen frighteningly, and even now was beginning to stink of putrefaction. He gasped. "It's going bad already, ma'am. You must surely see a physician, and soon!"

"It burns…!" She managed to sit, to lift a water skin to her mouth and drink greedily before lying back and panting yet more. "We must go on… you're not safe… we… Not long… must…" she rattled on, though she did not seem able nor any longer willing to move.

Rossamund's mind whirled for a time. This panicked feeling was becoming all too familiar. He forced himself to be even-headed.

The evander water! He sat down by Europe and dug about in his satchel for the little flasks. He searched for the longest time with little satisfaction-oh no! — he must have hurled them along with the bothersalts in his hurry to help. But then he found what he wanted: just one bottle, buried right down at the bottom, tangled in among the rest of the contents. He gripped it exultantly. Leaning close to the fulgar's ear, he could feel heat radiating from her in a most unhealthy way. "I still have some evander water!" he whispered.

Europe revived with this intelligence and forced herself to sit up.

He gave her the little bottle, but her hands shook too much now. Indeed, her whole body was beginning to shudder. He held the flask for her, removed the seal and tipped it very slowly, mindful lest it should spill and be wasted. She swallowed it all as greedily as she had the water and then lay back again. He watched her, holding his breath anxiously.

With a burst of air from her own mouth-loud enough to startle some night bird, which shrilled terrifyingly three times and flurried off-she sat up once more. "I can walk… We've not… not got far… to… to… go now… Help me up, Box… Box-face." Her words came in struggling breaths. "With your… help… I can… can make it."

Putting a hand on his shoulder, she pushed herself up to stand. Rossamund grimaced but did not make a sound. When she had righted herself, she murmured, "Lead… on…"

He struggled earnestly to fulfill this task, at first leading her by the hand, gripping it tightly now, completely heedless of being sparked. Then he began limping himself as she started to lean heavily or pull upon him, often stumbling, silently cursing every stone or rut that threatened to trip one of them.