The bread, cheese, onions, and redroots disappeared into the pack. They stuffed their pouches with the pieces of meat, and Paks tucked the eggs inside her tunic. Saben took the crock of ointment, and Canna stuck the knife in her boot. They filled their flasks at the little creek that flowed eastward from the farm into the woods.
“We should go as far as we can while we have light,” said Canna. “I think it will be safe enough to stay near the road, but if you see anything—even a woodcutter or herder—drop and get out of sight. And be as quiet as possible.”
At first Paks led the way, but Canna was clearly tiring. After the third time Paks found herself far ahead, she suggested that Canna lead. The dark woman nodded without speaking. Paks and Saben moved out to flank her, and they went on in the growing dusk.
Chapter Sixteen
The ground was gently rolling, each low ridge less steep than the one before it, as the land subsided from the mountains to the north. Darkness seemed to flow up out of the hollows as light faded from the gray sky. They had no idea how far they had come. Paks was thinking of nothing in particular when she realized that she had lost Canna in the gloom. She stopped and peered into the woods. An owl called from somewhere behind her. She shivered, listening for any sound of her friends. The owl called again, the last hoot sounding odd. It must be Saben, she thought, and hooted in reply. A short hoot answered her; she moved toward the sound quickly. She missed them in a thicket. Saben’s voice nearly startled her into a scream.
“What happened?” she asked when she got her voice back.
“It’s your long legs,” said Saben. “You distanced us again, and Canna fell, trying to hurry.”
“I’m all right,” said Canna. Her voice was strained. “But it’s too dark to walk safely in these trees.”
“Nothing’s on the road,” said Paks. “Nobody travels this late—couldn’t we use it for a few miles?” Out of the dark a hand squeezed her arm as Saben spoke.
“I’m legweary,” he said. “We’ll do better for a rest.”
“Paks, I—don’t think I can go farther tonight,” said Canna. “Even on the road.”
“Let’s see if we can find a good place to sleep, then.” Paks peered around, but could hardly see two trees away for the gloom.
“This will do,” said Saben. The hand on her arm tightened and released. “You didn’t see us.”
“Mmm. You’re right. Hope it doesn’t rain, though.” Canna, Paks saw, had already slumped to the ground. She herself, though still hungry, was too keyed up to feel tired.
“You had first watch last night, Paks,” said Saben. “I’ll take it; I’m sore but not sleepy.”
Paks felt the same but did not argue. “Canna, are you warm enough?”
“I—can’t get this cloak—wrapped, somehow.”
“Let me help.” Paks helped Canna sit up and untangle the cloak. “What did you hurt when you fell?”
“Nothing. It jarred me. I’m all right.”
“We’ll hope so.” Paks doubted it, but there wasn’t anything to do. “Would you rather have a back rest or front rest? I want to keep warm.”
“Back, if you’re giving choices.”
Paks rolled herself into her cloak and lay behind Canna. “Don’t eat all the bread while we sleep,” she told Saben, who chuckled.
“Ha. And here I thought you’d forgotten it.” She heard a rustle and saw a shape moving in the darkness as Saben took a position between them and the road. She thought she was not sleepy, but Saben’s hand on her arm woke her much later to a cold night, not so damp as the one before.
“I can’t keep my eyes open,” he murmured. “No trouble so far.” Paks stretched and unrolled herself while Saben lay down in the warm spot she’d made.
She rubbed her face hard with her hands to wake up, and took a swallow of water from her flask. No trouble so far. How long would that last? She felt her stomach clench on nothing, and thought about the meat in her pouch. No. She drank again. Canna was right about that—they had to space the food out. She thought of her father’s tale about the famine when he was a boy, the year the wolves came. We tried to eat the grass, he’d said. Her stomach growled. Don’t think about food. We have food, but not for now. She looked up to see if the stars were out, but could see only blackness. In that cold, hungry darkness, for the first time she doubted that they would reach the Duke. She forced herself to think. Tomorrow—tomorrow we’ll get to the crossroad. Unless Canna—no, surely she’s all right. I wish we could go on ahead. They must take the short way, if they’re going to Rotengre. We could stay safely ahead if we knew.
She hardly noticed when the light began to grow. All at once, it seemed, she could see her hands and arms, and the two dark shapes stretched out below. She yawned and stretched, wondering if she’d dozed awhile. The light gave no color yet. She nudged Saben with her toe; he gave a sort of gasping snort and sat up.
“What?”
“Dawn. We should be going soon.” Canna had not wakened. They both looked at her. “Do you think she’ll be all right?” asked Paks softly.
Saben frowned. “Not all right. But it wasn’t a deep wound—I think—”
“We need her.”
“Yes, but we’re no surgeons.”
“I wonder if that—Effa said St. Gird healed people. Canna’s a Girdsman. Maybe he’ll heal her.”
“
“I don’t know. I never heard of Gird back home—”
“What about Gird?” Canna had wakened. She grimaced as she moved, then forced a smile. “Don’t look so worried; I’m fine.”
“We wondered if Gird would heal you,” said Paks.
Canna looked surprised. “How did you know—you aren’t a Girdsman! It takes a Marshal or a paladin to heal, though.”
Saben looked stubborn. “If it takes a Marshal or a paladin, what has it got to do with Gird?”
“Saben, you drink water, but when you carry it from the river, you have to have a bucket to put it in. I don’t know what kind of power it is that Gird wields, but it must come through a Marshal or paladin.”
“So a prayer wouldn’t work?” asked Paks.
“No. A prayer for courage, or strength in battle—and it can’t hurt to pray for good fortune—but not healing.”
“We could try,” said Paks. Canna stared at her.
“What are you, a paladin in disguise? You aren’t even a Girdsman.”
“No, that’s true. But we need you to be well and strong.”
“I’m—oh, all right. If you want to. It can’t do any harm.”
“But I don’t know how,” said Paks. “You’ll have to tell me what to say.”
“Paks, I don’t know. I’m no Marshal, and Gird knows I’m no paladin, either.” She paused for breath. “Here—” She fumbled at her neck for the chain that held her medallion. “You’ll need this. Hold it. Then say what you want, in the name of St. Gird.
Paks took the metal crescent and held it a moment, thinking. Then she laid it on Canna’s shoulder, over the bandaged wound. She looked at Saben, who looked back, quirking an eyebrow.
“St. Gird,” she began. “Please heal this wound. This is Canna, who is your follower, and she was hurt by an arrow. We are trying to escape to tell our Duke of the Honeycat’s treachery, and we need Canna’s help. In—in the name of Gird—I mean, St. Gird.”
“Ouch!” said Canna. “What did you poke it for?”
“I didn’t,” said Paks. “I just laid your symbol on it; I didn’t push. What happened?”
“It must have been a cramp, then. That hurt. It’s easing now. It seems—I can breathe a little easier.”
“But it still hurts?”
“Yes, but the sharp pain is gone—whatever it was. Don’t worry, Paks. I didn’t expect a cure.”
“I suppose not.” She handed back the medallion and turned to the pack. “What can we have for
