Endgame

Dr. Lorimer wants Rian to finish off Bliss. Perhaps literally. The odd thing is, Rian canna remember what was written or, for that matter, where it was meant to go.

Perhaps another should finish the tale for Rian.

Says Rian, wistfully.

Seventeen

Ross spent the entire Summer in that tavern just North of the river, drinking his life away on the boards. I began to suppose he loved Amy after all, to mourn himself into death. It was a hard thing to believe. She had been naught but a pretty face with an insipid laugh and a tendency toward god worship. And as far as I knew, Ross had never loved anyone.
But there he was, come First Chill, skin and bones in the tavern bar, yellowed and skinny, and still shrieking through nightmares in my bed. Sometimes he pissed the sheets, he was so frightened. As the days grew shorter, he rose from bed less and less often. He grew wobbly and confused, and I had to bathe him myself, once or twice a day, to keep the bedding from going ripe. It was a horrible, stomach turning job, but a man deserves dignity, even if he is an old bastard.
The rest of the circus thrived. Shaara's small skills had turned to true gold. Will had found a new spotted cat to replace the tom and the animal, nicked 'Poot' by Maurice, never once tried to use the circus cart as its loo.
I repainted the cart with a bit of dye I had traded off a copper gypsy. The wagon looked brighter, wealthier. Even the mule seemed pleased to pull it.
The tumblers, far from being lost to the local thief’s guild, had picked a new group of acrobats from the sewers to add to their small set; now we had six.
Remarkably, we had enough coin to go around. That would change with the coming winter, as lords began to close up their manses and move to court. It was, we all knew, time to return South.
"I won't go." Ross spat when I broached the subject. He spat into the basin of water I had prepared for his bath. "It's a dangerous, horrible place."
"What's this?" I tried cajoling. "You've been crossing the river ever Winter since your mam weaned you, Ross. You told me so. We cross the Anne poor as the peasants we are and return in the Summer, rich as the lords we weren't born."
"Not any more." Ross rocked a little on the wool towel I had spread on the floor next to the basin. "Not any more."
I paused in passing the ebony comb through his lank hair. How I hated nits. And Ross seemed to gather the insects with disturbing ease.
"We have to go, Ross. The others are ready. And hungry for Southron sapphires."
In a rare burst of exertion, he knocked the comb from my hand and, bony hand fisted into a claw, bloodied my chin.
I do not believe I even stopped to consider wisdom. I hit him back, a hard, vicious, blow, not unlike the many he had sent my own way. I suppose we learn from what we know.
I am small, but sturdy. Ross had gone to sinew and bone. He tumbled across the room and fetched up solidly against a bed post. I thought I heard bone crack, but when I bent to examine the man, he seemed uninjured, excepting the glaze in his eye. And that, in itself, was hardly unusual. Those days, his head was fuzzed more often than not.
I covered him with the wool towel and a blanket from our bed and sat at his feet, waiting for him to speak. He did not, for a very long while. Then he began to mumble and whine, about sorrow and old curses and children manacled to trees by the tails of long, silver snakes.
He was near mad, and I knew it. The drinking had killed him, and years of hard living, and whatever soft headedness had allowed him to fall in love with a doomed girl. Perhaps he had been fading even then, growing old, and the pretty dog girl had taken advantage.
I lifted him from the floor to our bed and brought him a cup of spring water. He dribbled and drooled and drank slowly. And then he looked up at me with a clear eye.
"If you go back," he warned. "You'll die. The lions will eat you, hair and teeth and small white bones."
"I'm not Amy." I wanted to knock the water from his crooked hand, but I did not.
"I know it, Bliss." He sighed and laid his head back upon the pillow I had stuffed with rags and in the process he dropped the silver cup, spilling water across blankets and floor. "Oh, I know it."
I cussed loudly at the damp bed, knowing if I left him beneath the wet he would only grow chill and sick.
"We're going South," I said. He smiled vaguely back. "We're going South because we have to, it's what you've taught us. And you're coming with us, Ross."
I crouched and stretched under the bed slats, feeling about in search of the cup. The innkeep charged for utensils lost.
"Bliss, my girl." Ross's voice dropped from above as I groped over the dusty floor, blind. "The lions like the taste of Amy's sweet, sweet flesh. You they'll swallow whole and choke as they do so. You'll sit in their gut and turn them sour and they'll come at us all, looking for ease."
I found the cup and grasped shaking fingers about the handle, nearly bending the metal. "You're mad, old man. You always have been."
We left the next morning, packs newly filled, Ross bundled into the bright painted wagon. It was only most of a day's ride to the river; we expected to be safely welcomed into a Southern village before the sun dipped into night.
It was raining, but not terribly hard. The wet did not bother the dogs, or the tumblers, or Maurice who rode the old mule and smoked his cigarettes. Will, however, hated water, and eventually sought shelter in the wagon with Ross.
Just as we caught sight of the Anne's gentle waters, Ross began to cough. Deep, racking spasms that I had not heard before. Will tried to soothe the man, and then began to yelp.
"Horrid, what a stink. Get back here, Bliss. The man's gone putrid."
We stopped and I clambered up the back of the wagon under Maurice's watchful eye. Ross was more than putrid. True to his performer's dramatic nature, he had found a messy if peaceful end, body giving out just one hill over from the river he said he would not cross.

The King's soldiers stayed far from the main road, skirting Southron villages, keeping to field and scrub and sandy dune. The small army started at a steady, break neck pace, horses eager and fresh from two days in Emman's stables, but it soon became evident that Lord Shill was not quite as well rested as his men.
A fever burned in his bones; Moire could see the flush on his face even through the dust stirred up by pounding hooves. The Southron sun did not help. The King's men did their best to keep their commander propped and watered but eventually the march trailed to a walk and finally, just as Shill began to slip from his horse, a careening halt.
Shill's second in command was a ruddy haired stick remarkable both for his ugly, tangled beard and the quick smile beneath it. He sat his horse for a moment, scanning the oil seed to either side, and then glanced at Moire.
"Where are the tenants?"
Moire yanked her gaze from Bliss's slack, white face. "Not close," she replied, uncaring of the scorn that spilled over and tasted of venom. "The fields roll for miles. There is no one out here but us. For now. I imagine the Seat is but a candlemark behind."
"No," the man replied, watching as three young men gently disentangled Shill from his stirrups. "He is not. We will camp here. Until milord has had a drink and sup. And you will clean his wound."
"No," Moire parroted, harsh. "I will not. Unless first you bring water and bandages for the Kirklean."
It was the Second's turn to sneer. "Crow's meat, that one."
"Not yet." Moire said. "Not if I can help it. Bring me water, and bandages, and a good supply of your whiskey. After I tend my own, then I will look at your lord."
The battalion waited while Shill's Second considered. Horses snorted and stamped and Lord Shill, now supported ungracefully between his rescuers, cursed and groaned. Moire supposed it was the man's audible pain that hastened the decision.
The Second dropped his reins and dismounted, boots crushing flax.
"There," he said, nodding at a stunted scrub tree growing a stable length away. "Put up a tent there, for milord. These fields must be irrigated. You, lad, find the trenches and start filling bottles."
Surprisingly, he reached up a glove hand to help Moire with her burden. She knew better than to turn away the offering, no matter that she wanted to. Bliss was small, and light, lighter now, it seemed, than a living creature had any right to be, and Moire had never been anything but strong. Yet, she needed a moment to think, to regain the breath she had lost trying to will Bliss strong.
Nevertheless, she dropped quickly to the ground and kept one hand on the Second's embroidered sleeve as he carried bliss through bobbing flax to the scrub tree.
"There will be some shade," he said, "if we are lucky. Here. Lay her out on my cape. It’s relatively clean."
Moire decided she did not hate the man quite as much as she first thought.
"Water?"
"Coming," the Second replied with the assurance of one who knew his needs would be met without question and quickly.
A tent was already going up alongside the tree. The makeshift shelter was small, and much squatter than any of the campaign tents Moire had lived amongst. The fabric was worn and weather stained and waxed against rain. Moire could see Shill tossing restlessly beyond the canvas, even as the tent was put up around him.
The man should be dead, she thought and coldly consigned Shill to her gods.
The Second watched Moire carefully as she spread his thick coat between the roots of the scrub. "He had your blessing."
"He wanted the King's property back." Moire reached for Bliss. "He said nothing of murder or abduction."
The Second shrugged, dismissing questions of diplomacy. "You're bleeding, Holiness," he said, and then turned on his heel, attention diverted by his commander's angry cries.
Moire lifted a hand to her head. She had forgotten the knot on her skull. Minor, she decided, when her fingers came away more sticky than wet. It would heal.
And so would the Kirklean, Moire told herself. But those same sticky fingers shook as she freed her Temple knife and used it to cut back the leather at Bliss's shoulder. Tunic and jerkin were thick with drying blood. Bliss, still and slack, did not so much as murmur when Moire ripped fabric from flesh.
"Gods' shame you, Kirklean," Moire made herself speak without concern. "The bullet's gone clean through. It's hardly a hole. Nothing to swoon over."
"She's bleed some, Holiness." A lad bearing a string of canteens and an armfull of bandages appeared at Moire's elbow. "More than some. Close to the heart, that. Rolph always aims true."
"May he rot for it." Moire took the water from the boy. "Where's the alcohol?"
"Hain't enough to go round, he says. Milord needs it."
"Go find me some. Or I'll leave your lord to rot with Rolph."
The boy's eyes rolled in his head and he nodded. Moire supposed the lad thought she could make her words into truth. Or perhaps it was the way she spat those words that made the squire run.
Moire uncorked a water bottle. Settling on the ground at Bliss's head, she wet a relatively clean edge of her robe and begin coaxing drips between the Kirklean's dust dried lips. The water washed the dirt away and then overflowed again, running slowly over Bliss's chin.
Moire wiped Bliss dry and tried again. The Kirklean refused to swallow.
The boy came back with half a bottle of whiskey. "My da's own." He said. "I took it from his saddle bag. He's busy tending Lord Shill."
Moire wondered if this meant she had been let off that particular duty. "Thank you," she said. "Here. Sit here. Try and get some water down her throat."
The squire hesitated and then sat. His dark hair fell into his eyes. He brushed it away and took the bit of wet fabric Moire ripped from her robe.
"What will you do?"
"Make sure the bullet's free." Moire kept one eye on the boy as she probbed Bliss's shoulder. "Keep trying."
"She's like to choke," the boy said, regretfully.
"She's too stubborn for that." But when Moire doused the bullet hole with a good slosh of whiskey and Bliss still did not stir, she felt her own heart go cold.
"She's still breathing," the squire said, either in awe or reassurance.
"Yes." Moire said. "Hold still, lad. Let me have a look at her back."
She rolled Bliss onto one side. The scrub tree's scant shade seemed suddenly chill. The fabric ripped away more easily behind the Kirklean's shoulder blade. The leather was still wet with blood.
"Bullet's there," the boy said, bending close and intent. "See, there? Like a pustule."
"Just like." Moire wet her Temple knife in another spill of whiskey. "Hold her firm, like this."
The boy had steady hands. Moire doused Bliss's shoulder blade, said a quick and angry prayer to the gods she had so recently given her life over to, and sliced flesh.
"You're good." The boy said, and this time she was sure it was awe.
"Done this many times." But the bullet, stubborn, slipped and slid away from the tip of her blade.
"You were a Major in the Seat's army."
"Yes." Moire chewed her lip and chased the bit of silver in Bliss's shoulder.
"And she was a hero. My da said so."
"Yes."
"I guess heroes go out just like the rest of us."
"No," Moire said, and felt the tiny grate of metal on metal as her knife found the bullet. She tensed and flexed and the silver popped free in a rush of fresh blood.
The squire whooped in spite of himself.
"Hold her steady," Moire reminded, breathless again. She snatched bandages and the last of the whiskey and bound Bliss tightly before the last of the Kirklean's life could gush away.

The Second came back for Moire after all, as the sun began to sink behind the scrub tree. Moire met his wordless stare and left Bliss in the care of the eager squire.
"She's still alive," the Second said as though he were discussing a distasteful and unexpected coming storm.
"Yes." Moire said.
"We've four days more on horseback, at the least. She won't survive our pace."
"Will your commander?" Moire returned, harsh and newly weary.
"Yes. It's just a fever. You'll cure it."
"I?" Moire paused outside the crouching tent. "I'm no healer."
"Holiness," the Second replied, his wide smile spreading. "You're Ordained. Even the men of the North know what that means. Heal him."
Moire almost staggered. She had been acting as Major and soldier, rank and file on the field. Because it was what she knew, what she lived. She had forgotten, almost, the promise behind the red robes she wore. She had given up her former life, yes. But did not her gods promise blessing in return?
"I will try," she said, heady with possibilities. She stepped through the tent, onto a thick wool rug, and crouched alongside Shill's cot.
He turned his head and watched her with dry eyes.
"Your dirty mudgrubber has killed me," he said. "You'll see the King knows it."
"Your King will not care." Moire unwrapped the bandaged arm and studied Shill's cut. The wound was festering, clearly. But the tell tale streaks of poisonous red had not yet crept far from the broken bone.
"Horrid keep you to your promise." Shill coughed and quivered beneath her touch.
"I made no promise."
"Make one now." Lord Shill said, sitting half upright as Moire squeezed puss into air. "Make one now. See that my King gets his property."
"All this for a bag full of miniatures." Moire swabbed the wound with rough hands, ignoring Shill's gasps. "I will not."
"You will," he said through clenched teeth. "Or I will have Rolph finish what he started, eh?"
Moire froze. Shill's breath wheezed in and out past his tongue. Over her shoulder, the Second loomed.
"You are Rolph?" She asked.
"Yes," the red haired man said, and smiled genially.
She might have hesitated longer, but she did not. She had ceased to care, truly, about the bag of pretty painted shells and the Northern King who would send men to kill for them. She wanted only to strangle Shill and his grinning second and return to Bliss and see that she lived.
"Now." Rolph said. "Bind it up again and heal him."
Moire nodded and reclothed Shill's arm. Then she settled on her knees on the rug alongside the cot and, folding her hands on her lap, began to pray. Not for Shill or his King or even for wisdom. She prayed for herself and for forgiveness and for Bliss and for the small, sweet touch of hope.
Moire prayed until the sun finished its drop and the oil seed fields went dark but for the slow flare of camp fire. And when she rose, stiff and numb and sick with the new throbbing in her head, she was not at all sure her desperate pleas had been more than mute whispers in her own skull.