Fraul, 15

“Ashin, mind if I borrow your lieutenant?”

“Which one?” Ashin asked with a tweak of his lips. Raru said, “The lady one.”

“Matrif!” Ashin called, “Ire wants to see my woman lieutenant. Get over to him.”

Erica sighed–she had had quite enough of these jokes. Matrif glanced back at her with a tilt of his head, and she kept marching. All three of them looked back to see her face, flat-mouthed and deadpan.

“Aw, Lieutenant, I’m sorry,” Ashin said, seeing immediately that she was hurt. He slowed his pace while Raru and Matrif marched side-by-side. He ducked his head to catch her gaze and asked, “What is it?”

“No, no, just keep having your jokes,” she said, and felt a surge of rage. She fought to keep it from flooding through her voice. “Is it funny because there’s something wrong with me?”

Ashin was silent, watching the dirt pass beneath his boots. She looked over when his silence stretched and he said, “You’re right. If it helps, Raru pokes fun at me for being Bazairi.” He paused. “And I don’t like it.”

“See?” she asked.

“Has it always bothered you?”

Erica tossed her knife in the air, where it spun and came back into her palm hilt-first. Her mouth was twisted.

“No,” she said.

“Is something on your mind?” her captain asked. Not for the first time, she saw the hitch in his gait. “It’s nothing,” she said.

“I’m serious, Lieutenant. Is it being demoted?”

She laughed. “Hah! That’s funny, sir. No, I’m glad you’re back. As long as the men still call me ‘sir,’ I don’t complain.” His eyebrows raised, and she sighed and cast a furtive look behind her. She said, “But I also don’t like you being back.”

“And why not?”

“What’s going on with your hip? You know that’s how my father died, probably.”

“I hear your father had that hip injury a long time before he died.”

Her eyes sharpened. “He might have lived a little longer without it.”

“I suppose.” He sighed and his eyes met Raru’s, who had glanced back as if suddenly pulled to them. “It’s an old injury, Lieutenant,” Ashin said. “That’s all. Is that all that’s got you worried?”

“And how old are you?”

“Whew. I just turned thirty-six.” He frowned. “I think. It might be thirty-seven.” His face bloomed with warmth, placing a hand on her shoulder blade. “You’re a good egg, Erica. I know you’ll watch out for an old man.”

Erica batted him away. “All right,” she huffed. “Just don’t make anyone carry you home.”

“Oh, Raru is so old, I doubt he could carry me.” Ashin raised his voice so that Raru could hear, and the other captain turned around with a wolfish grin.

“Long as we’re discussing ages,” he said, glancing at Matrif, “I was the youngest captain for five years.”

“Second-youngest,” Matrif said. “After Captain Tere.”

“Oh, Lord. That boy?” Raru shook his head.

“And Heath is the oldest,” Erica put in with a grin.

“Don’t let him hear it, though,” Matrif answered, and kicked rocks in her general direction. She took a running leap and landed on his back with a bear-hug, swinging her weight around and taking him to the ground. He scrabbled but she pinned his arms with her own and drew one hand back as if to punch him. Then she opened her fist and slapped him in the face.

“That’s for your captain’s jokes,” she said, rolling off him and sticking her hands under his arms to heave him up.

He regained his feet and said sourly, “You must weigh more than a horse.”

Erica beamed. “Only mules carry me.”

Matrif dusted himself off and rubbed his cheek, moving back into the fold of laughing men.

“Like he was a rag doll,” one of them wheezed, clapping Matrif on the back.

Erica flushed with pleasure. Her child self would have burst with pride. Then her eyes went to her captain, limping, and her smile disappeared. She fell back into line as the ripples of their combat faded.

*

Fraul and Heath bent over the table. Heath craned his neck and propped his hand on the arm of Fraul’s chair to see the paper before him. Its script was entirely in Ilcoceum’le.

“You didn’t tell me it was unreadable,” he said to Fraul, who cleared his throat and straightened the paper. After a long-suffering look in Heath’s direction, he read. His Ezuran still bore a rounded accent.

“The search for the fountain of youth yielded no fruit,” he said. “We came upon a spring in the north of Ezure, accessible by pony only, which the village said could heal wounds.”

Heath stood back and folded his arms. “You’re expecting some holy water to heal you overnight?”

“Perhaps there is more to this legend than meets the eye, Heath,” Fraul said patiently.

“Expect a man from Ilcoceum to ask god for help,” Heath sighed.

“Well, I’m going to look into it.”

“You do that. Me and my science will be here.”

So Fraul made his way to the castle’s library, which was accessible only to distinguished members of the military. He had some explaining to do–finally one of the cooks came out who recognized him, and with a booming laugh Cletus said, “You’re a lot shorter than I remember!”

Fraul rolled his eyes and winced when the ample-shouldered man whacked him on the back. Cletus led him to the library and said, “Holler if you need anything. I spend more time here than a cook should.”

“Thank you, my friend.” Fraul watched him go and then turned to the shelves. He wheeled up and down, up and down, searching for information by the name of the village.

He had a feeling in his gut. That was all. Perhaps he missed the ritual of his country. Perhaps he didn’t think he could walk without some divine help. But he felt drawn to this spring. Finally, after hours, he found a short passage in a book of history.

It was said by the village medicine woman: any who does devotional rites to the spring’s spirit may beg a boon. These rites seem to include meditation in the water, sacrifice, or prayer. While I personally have never witnessed such a miracle here, the village people swear by its healing power. I myself can attest to the saltiness of this freezing water, when there is no sea for miles.

Fraul was convinced. It was two days by pony. He copied down the words of the paper and rolled back to camp. He didn’t show them to Heath; he bided his time.

Within the month, the companies were back. A horn made Fraul’s heart jump, and he had to steel himself from going out to meet them. He didn’t have to wait long; within the hour, someone banged on Heath’s door and the older captain called, “Just come in, Raru!”

Ire burst into the door looking winded, closed the door behind him, and got low to wrap his arms around Fraul. Heath looked away with some grace as Fraul felt his face warm. He put his hand on the younger man’s back. Raru pulled away and beamed, smelling of whiskey.

“I missed you,” he said in Ilcoceum’le. Fraul glanced at Heath, made sure the windows were shuttered, and then took Raru’s hand. He was dirty. His face was encrusted with old blood and dried dirt. He smelled like hell.

Raru retracted and shook Heath’s hand second. “Sir,” he said. Heath couldn’t help but smile. None of them objected to deference, not even him.

“‘Bout time you got back,” he said. “How many did you lose?”

“Three,” Raru said. “We brought their knots back for their families.”

“Do me a favor–talk your old man out of his newest idea when you have the time.”

“Oh?” Raru pulled up a chair, sweaty and happy as a dog, swigging on the flask without even bothering to hide it. Fraul rolled his eyes.

“I believe he has men to attend, Heath,” he said. The younger man swore and got up.

“Forgot,” he said. “Lieutenant’s been on my ass lately. Do you know what he told me?” This he said low, only to Fraul, leaning with one hand on the table. “He said he would report me to Crowe.”

“For what?” Fraul felt some alarm.

“For drinking. I said, boy, you would report your own captain?” Raru shook his head.

“Just keep it under control,” Heath said without looking up from his notes. Raru scoffed at him.

“This ain’t even my good whiskey,” he said. Fraul waved him away.

“Go take care of your men,” he said. The smile Ire shot him warmed him to his fingertips. Heath opened the door and said, “Out of my house, Raru.”

Raru saluted them and clomped out the door in his boots, which were in no better condition than he himself. Fraul watched the door for a moment, and jumped when Heath said, “So.”

“So?” he asked.

“Does anyone else know?”

When he looked over, he saw real concern on Heath’s face. “Not that I know of. Ashin, maybe,” Fraul said. The shorter man’s brows relaxed.

“Good. It dies with me.”

“Thank you,” Fraul muttered. He had detached himself from the seriousness of the situation–he planned to stay that way.

Heath went back to his scribblings. His voice came back to its usual drawl. “You really think a spring is worth the trip?”

Fraul sighed. “I don’t know.”

“Well, take Raru. The company needs a few days to reconvene, anyway. It ought to be a three day trip or so.”

“You think General Crowe would allow it?”

“I think if you framed it right, he would. Tell him the boy’ll be sober when you get back.”

Fraul laughed. “That wouldn’t work.”

Heath cast him a glance from under his disheveled black brows and said, “Crowe doesn’t like his captains drinking. But Raru, he makes an exception for. Even you know that.” The healer went back to writing.

Fraul made some coffee and sat back, frowning. It wasn’t until he felt Heath trying not to stare at him that he said, “What?”

“Look down.”

Fraul glanced down. One of his ankles was slung over his knee. He didn’t remember putting it there. He met Iron’s gaze and the other man drummed his hands on the table to keep from skipping a jig.

“Beautiful,” he exclaimed. Fraul smiled and went to put it down.

The pain that shocked his nerves was enough to make him drop the coffee mug–it was muscle-deep, jumping from knee to outer thigh to hip. He watched the mug fall slowly, and when it was broken on the ground he almost went to pick it up.

“Be still,” Heath snapped, shaking his head. “God, about to do it again.” He came out from behind the table to pick up the shards. Fraul frowned; now he was afraid to move.

“What was that?” he asked. “Why wasn’t there any warning?” Heath frowned, tossing the shards into the undergrowth beside his cabin.

“I don’t know,” he muttered. It clearly bothered him, the not-knowing, and he sat and wrote furiously and flipped through pages. The scratching of his quill was a comfort to Fraul, for he did not try to move again.