'Dost thou know 'The Dancing Sprite'? I deem it would lift the hearts of all.'
Tipperton grinned. 'As you will, my Lady.' He looked about and spied a chair and jumped upon its seat. And then his fingers ran across the strings and he began to play, silver notes filling the infirmary with lively sounds, Tipperton raising his voice in song to all:
There was a Sprite, a lovely Sprite,
Who danced within her ring.
And when she danced her lovely dance
She didn 't wear a thing…
… And danced around in sport.
There came a lad, a handsome lad,
Her very own kind, you see.
He peeked through leaves and watched her dance,
And fall in love did he…
… Or something of the sort…
When Tipperton came to the end of the song, laughter echoed throughout the chamber, ranging from weak to hearty. In a bed across from Phais, a Baeran woman with her leg in a cast guffawed and called out, 'Served him right, it did,' and this brought on more laughter.
Even the Chakia tittered behind their many veils.
As Beau spent his last dose of gwynthyme and prepared a cup of tea, Tip played and sang another song and then another. And he sang several more as a Chakian slowly spooned drifting Phais her drink. And another still as Beau laid on the gywnthyme poultice.
And after each of his songs he was greeted by applause and calls for more.
Finally, though, Beau said, 'Come on, bucco, I've more patients to deal with elsewhere, and they can use your songs, too.'
And so Tipperton called out, 'I must now leave'-his announcement to be met by a chorus of disappointed
Ohs-'yet I shall return on the morrow,' and many called out, Please do.
Tip sprang down from the chair and went to Phais. 'Get well, my Lady, oh please.'
Phais, her eyes closed, whispered, 'I fully intend to do so, my wee friend.'
As they strode away, a Chakian at their side, Beau said, 'I dunno, Tip. That was the last of the gwynthyme, and if it doesn't work… Oh, I should have run the cauter into the wound, even though the scars would have done ill things to her breathing ever after. I should have. I should have.'
'This gwynthyme, Beau, don't the Dwarves have any?'
Striding beside Tip, the Chakian said, 'Nay, we do not. Gwynthyme is a rare thing, and we have none.'
'Elwydd,' said Tip, a one-word prayer.
Late in the night, Tip was awakened by Beau coming into the chamber they shared. Beau was weeping.
Sitting upright, Tip asked, 'What is it, Beau?'
'Lady Phais,' said Beau.
'Oh, no,' moaned Tip.
'No, no, Tip, it's not that she's dead or anything. It's quite the opposite: finally, finally, her color is good and her breathing truly not labored. Oh, Tip, she's sleeping peacefully. The gwynthyme has burnt out the poison at last.'
The buccen embraced one another, tears running down their faces.
'Come on, Beau, let's go tell Loric.'
The next day Tipperton again accompanied Beau on his rounds, each buccan in his own way administering to the wounded. When they came to the Chakia infirmary, they found Phais sitting up in her bed, a veiled Chakia at her side and feeding the Dara her first good meal in days, meting out small spoonfuls. Even though Phais was eating, she was yet weak, exhausted. Still, as Beau had said, her color was much better.
The Dara spied the Warrows nearing and smiled, and Beau said, 'Oh, my, Phais, but you are looking quite splendid.'
Phais reached out and took Beau's hand, her grip weak. ' 'Twas thy ministrations, Beau.'
Beau looked down, shaking his head. 'The credit is due to Lady Aris.'
'Aris? In Arden Vale?'
Beau nodded. 'Yes. She is the one who gave me the gwynthyme. Without it I don't think you'd have survived. The arrow was poisoned, the wound deep.'
'It was Vulg poison,' said the Chakia, her voice soft.
'Vulg poison?' asked Tip. 'How do you know this?'
'Nought else is so baneful, and this was delivered deep.'
'Oh,' said Tip, looking at Phais, the Dara nodding in agreement.
Now Tip took up his lute. 'What will you have, my Lady?'
Phais sighed. 'I would see my beloved.'
'Loric?' asked Tip, then slapped himself in the head and growled, 'Of course it's Loric, you ninny.' He turned to the Chakia. 'Surely you can allow Alor Loric in to see his beloved.'
Her veils shifted as she looked at the buccan. 'Nay.'
'But it would do her a world of good,' protested Tip.
'He is male,' said the Chakia.
Tip's mouth fell open and he gestured at Beau, then tapped his own chest. 'You let these two males in.'
'He is a healer; you are Chak-Sol.'
Tip's eyes widened. 'But wait, Loric is Chak-Sol, too.'
The Chakia stopped her spooning of the thin stew and looked at Tipperton. 'Which holt?'
'Urn, the Red Hills.'
Now the Chakia resumed her spooning. 'I will speak with Lord Berk.'
The following day, Alor Loric visited his love, and he held her gently, tears streaming down his face.
Days passed, and mid-October came and went, and even as the hillside trees turned to gold and scarlet and orange, the healing of wounds progressed and the number of funerals declined, until there were no more who would die from this battle, the survivors on the mend. Even so, the wound of Dara Phais healed slowly, as sorely damaged and poisoned as she was.
And still Tipperton made the rounds with Beau and played his silver-stringed lute.
And came the waning days of October, leaves now russet and brown and falling to swirl in the chill wind. And still Phais lay abed. Yet in this time under the ministrations of Beau and the healers, others improved, some slowly, some rapidly. And some were declared fit, and these asked for horses and arms and armor, and they rode away to join the allies in harassing the Swarm. And as each or several rode away from the mineholt, Tipperton stood and watched them go, wondering if any would prove to be a linchpin and bring Modru tumbling down. After all, perhaps Beau was right, for it truly did seem, like ripples on a pond, a given event led to other events, all intermingling. As Beau would say, all is connected.
And so Tip would watch them ride away and wonder what the future would bring. And when they were gone from sight, he would turn and enter the mineholt once more, the warders closing the side postern behind.
The final day of October came, and with it the first snowfall, lightly powdering the ground, but it was melted away by midafternoon. On this day as well, Phais was allowed to rise from her bed for the very first time.
Weak and trembling she did so, Loric at her side. And he escorted her to the privy, for she swore that e'en had she to crawl, she would no longer use the pan.
In celebration Tip took up his lute there in the infirmary and played the song he only knew as 'Chakian Singing.' And when the Chakian heard him, they gathered 'round and sang, their sweet voices filling the chamber and echoing down the halls, and folk stopped to listen wherever they were.
Loric wept to hear their words, for in Chakur did they sing, yet he never spoke of it in any of the days thereafter.
Autumn marched into November, and more snow swirled down, yet in the Dwarvenholt all was snug and secure.
And no word came from the allies as to how fared the war.
