“It will not be too difficult to rebuild the well, though it may be best to call for a unicorn to purify it,” Comild said.
“I suppose,” Cilarnen said vaguely, not understanding what a unicorn could have to do with a well. He looked up at the Centaur. “What are you going to do now? You’re not going home, are you?”
Comild shook his head. “Kindrius is dead, but it remains to be seen if any of the other sub-Captains still live. If they do, we will choose a new leader from among our number. If I am the only survivor, the honor is mine. And we go on, wounded or not. We will recover, and our allies need us.”
“You’re going to be a Captain?” Cilarnen asked.
“Not the way I would choose it,” Comild said broodingly. “I hope your friends are well. Best go and see. There’s little more you can do for my men.”
Tired once more—but in a different way now—Cilarnen stepped out into the street again. It was dawn now. He’d worked through the night. This time the cold air felt good.
He looked down at his tunic. He’d rolled up the sleeves when he’d set to work, but the front was as bloody and soiled as if he’d been working in a butcher’s shop. He blinked back tears. Sarlin’s rich gift, ruined.
He was glad—suddenly desperately glad—that he’d been able to find the words to thank her for it when she’d given it to him. He hadn’t meant them properly at the time. He hadn’t understood why he’d said it. He hadn’t understood himself.
He hadn’t understood a lot of things.
He’d find her now. He’d explain. He’d thank her properly—tell them all how much they meant to him.
He began to run.
—«♦»—
THE street that Grander’s house was on was one of the lucky ones; its houses were untouched, though the roofs of the houses on the opposite side showed some fire-gaps through the snow. The street was awake; every house was filled with refugees. Centaurs in full armor patrolled the streets, and Cilarnen realized with a sudden flare of alarm that where there was one Demon, there might be more. The village could be attacked again.
He heard his name called a couple of times, but did not stop. He had to get home.
He pushed open the door of Grander’s house. The common room was filled with Centaurs. All were villagers familiar to him, but he saw no one that belonged to the household.
“Blessed Herdsman—it’s Cilarnen!” Corela gasped. The kindly middle-aged Centauress started forward, her face a mask of shock. “We thought you must be dead—now, don’t move. Where are you hurt?”
“I’m not hurt,” Cilarnen said. “It’s not my blood. I’m all right. Are you— Is— Where is—?” He looked around, still hoping to see familiar faces, and saw none.
“Come into the kitchen,” Corela said, coming forward and putting an arm around his shoulders.
There was soup, tea, and hot ale in the kitchen. Corela dismissed the Centaurs working there with a glance, and closed the door behind them with one well-placed nudge of her hind hoof.
“There is bad news,” she said. “It is best given quickly.”
Cilarnen nodded, unable to ask.
“Grander and Marlen are gone to the Herd. They are truly dead. I’ve seen their bodies. Not pretty, but quick. Jarel has lost an eye, but he will live, they think, with scars to brag on. Erlock’s leg will heal, but it is likely he will be lame. Minor injuries only to the others of this house—so minor that they were all able to share price with Wirance, and so they are sleeping now. Sarlin, too.”
“They can’t be dead,” Cilarnen said blankly.
“They have gone to the Herd,” Corela repeated gently. “And they will be reborn as good spring grass to feed our flocks. Now wash and eat. There are many tasks that need doing.”
“The horses,” Cilarnen said, with a pang of guilty realization. It didn’t matter what else had happened in the world. The horses still needed to be looked after—fed and watered and turned out for exercise. “I have to go to the stables. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
