David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

She thought over everything he’d said. It made sense, and it explained many of his strange powers. Of course he could be lying, but even if he was, it didn’t change what Garrick had done to her. As for his question…

“No,” she said. “Not if it lets me kill Garrick. The innocent aren’t long for this world anyway.”

Deathmask smiled.

“Good girl,” he said. “Then you shouldn’t mind what you must do next.”

E velyn washed her hands in the bowl and wiped them on a nearby cloth. Feeling like a morbid butcher, she tossed her bloody apron aside. Matthew stood beside her, looking down at the boy.

“Will he live?” he asked.

“I believe so,” she told her husband. “I sewed him up quick enough. Lost more blood tending to the Kender’s boy when he hit his head on their fence.”

“He was also older,” Matthew said. Evelyn nodded but said nothing. The silence stretched as they both looked upon the sleeping boy, his skin pale and slick with sweat. She hoped that meant his fever was finally breaking, but it easily could be because of the amputation. The human body did strange things when in pain, and Evelyn didn’t want to imagine what the boy had felt when she took the saw to his shoulder. He’d been feverish and unable to talk, so maybe he hadn’t felt much.

“Strange not knowing his name,” Matthew said.

“We could give him one.”

“Not much point. If he wakes, he’ll tell us it himself.”

“ When he wakes.”

Her husband gave her a look, then nodded. It was the closest she ever got to an apology with him.

“Right. When he wakes. Give me a moment to take care of this.”

The boy’s arm lay wrapped in rags on the floor by the bed. Matthew scooped it up and carried it outside. Though he didn’t tell her, she knew the hogs penned out back were about to get an interesting addition to their diet. They’d kept the children out of the house while she cut, though her oldest, Trevor, had insisted he watch. Just shy of fourteen, he might have been able to stomach it, but truth be told, she couldn’t afford the distraction should he have cried out or lost control of his stomach.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said when Matthew returned. “We might as well name him. Both him and that Haern were injured, and I have no doubt they’re hiding from someone. I’d hate for one of us to let slip his real name before we can get him home.”

“I reckon you’re right. Any ideas?”

“Always wanted to have a boy named something fancy. How about Tristan?”

“Too fancy. No one would believe us when we say he’s ours. How about John?”

She frowned. “He’ll only have this name for a week or two at most, and you want something so plain as John?”

He blinked at her. “My father’s name is John.”

“Your father was a very plain man himself.”

He took an angry step toward her, grabbed her wrists, and then, laughing, pulled her against him. Her own laughter faded as he held her tight, and she wrapped her arms about him.

“You going to be all right?” he asked.

“Just blood and dead flesh,” she said. “Not as if he was squealing like a hog.”

“It’s just you and me right now. You know that, right? We can open the stitches, say he bled out when we took the arm. Wouldn’t be a lie…”

She pulled away.

“We gave our word,” she said, as if that should explain everything. “I don’t know what’s going on, but what I do know is anyone out to kill a boy that young ain’t on the side of right. That stranger paid us a fortune for this. We can buy more land from the Potters, those acres they can’t till worth a damn, but we could do it. We can hire help, extra salt and meat for next winter, lumber for the house…I won’t better our life on the blood of a dead child, and I expect you to feel the same.”

His cheeks flushed red. When he went to speak, he shut his mouth again and waited another moment to get his composure back.

“True enough,” he said. “Hard as it is to get the kids to avoid a lying tongue. Won’t do no good to go lying ourselves. I’m scared, Evelyn. We’re just farmers. I don’t like going up to Tyneham to trade our wares to the miners, let alone all the way south to Veldaren where the real crooks are. Whoever’s after this boy…”

“Tristan.”

He laughed. “Fine. Whoever’s after Tristan probably has money, soldiers…Who’ll take care of Debbie, or Anna, or little Mark should something happen to us? Or, Ashhur forbid, what if something happen to them? ”

She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his lips.

“Stop worrying. We’ll deal with each problem as it comes, and Ashhur will keep us safe. Now let Tristan here sleep.”

“Tristan,” Matthew muttered as they passed through the curtain into the other room. “You really wanted to name one of our children Tristan?”

*

Tristan woke them a few hours past midnight. Evelyn was the first at his side. The boy was moaning, and his legs and arm twitched every few moments. She touched his forehead. It was like touching fire.

“Get water in the tub,” she told Trevor, “mix in some snow, too. If you can stand to keep your hand in it for long, it ain’t cold enough.”

“Yes ma’am,” Trevor said, his eyes lingering on Tristan as he put on his coat and boots. They had a small tub inside their home (a luxury if I ever saw one, Liza, her crone of a neighbor, had once told her). They had to bring the water in by buckets, and that would take time. Until then, she tore off the boy’s blankets and clothes, stripping him naked upon the bed.

“He going to be all right?” asked Anna as she poked her head through the curtain. She was twelve, old enough to help her mother when she acted the healer.

“Wake your father,” Evelyn said, ignoring her question. “And make sure Mark and Julie stay in bed. Probably already scared, and I don’t want them scared worse.”

Anna nodded, and her head vanished behind the curtain. Evelyn lifted Tristan in her arms, and it was like picking up a burning log. When she brushed through the curtain into their living room, she found Matthew putting on layers.

“Trevor said you needed water in the tub. The fever gotten that bad?”

She nodded.

“I told you he hadn’t had enough to drink,” he said. “Can’t sweat off a fever if you ain’t got nothing to sweat.”

“I know,” she said. “Now’s not the time.”

She caught her younger children looking at her, and she turned her back to them and hurried to the tub. The door to the house slammed shut, whether from Matthew leaving or Trevor coming in, she didn’t know. In the tub she found a single bucketful of water, barely enough to wet the surface. She put him in anyway and held him down as his body flailed against the cold.

“Anna!” she cried. Her daughter hurried in after. “Help me hold him down. His shivers are going to get worse. Don’t feel bad about the chill, either. He’ll burn to death before he catches cold.”

She shifted so that Anna might hold his arm, then pressed down on the boy’s knees. Trevor came in with another bucket of water, and he looked lost about what to do with it.

“Just dump it on him,” Evelyn said, trying to be patient. “It’s only water!”

Trevor hesitated, but the look in his mother’s eyes got him going. He upended the bucket, cold water from the well. Tristan’s moan turned to a full-fledged wail. Rather than stay, Trevor hurried out. Evelyn leaned more of her weight on her arms as Tristan’s struggling grew. Beside her, Anna quietly cried.

“Start praying,” she whispered. “It’ll help you, but don’t you dare let go of that arm.”

Matthew came in with a larger bucket, and he poured it in by the boy’s feet. The water was halfway up his body, and Evelyn told him one more should be enough.