Paelin pretended slumber against the shelter of the cliff face, further from their fire than was customary. She had banked it as required, yet was evidently avoiding him. He closed his eyes while she muffled a cough, then pulled off his cloak and spread it over hers.
She plucked it aside, careless that she was ruining her act. "Take it," she said dully.
"It is cold," her master responded placidly. "Come closer to the fire."
"I'm fine," she replied, and grew still.
Her uncle argued no further. He sat beside the campfire and waited until certain she was asleep. Then he covered her gently before settling uncomfortably, wrapped in his own fraying blanket.
A
bout of Paelin's coughing woke him in the morning. He found her
coaxing life from the fire's embers, her thin cloak bundled about
her shoulders. He frowned and rolled on his side to watch. She
turned her pale eyes on him and twitched an apologetic smile, feigning normality as she was wont.
She had returned his cloak.
Paedern
roused himself and crouched beside her.
"We
must do something for that cough," he said, starting to add the
kindling.
"I
am not ill," his apprentice answered. "And I am not the only one." A
good quarter of the camp had the same, though none had held the sickness quite so
long. The Ranger broke a larger stick and bridged it towards the rising
flames. He rarely bothered to argue, and it was true that the herbs for such treatments were in bare
supply. She would listen to him when necessary.
Paedern
sat back, fingers laced beneath him. "There are to be no more
questions about lineage," he said at length. His niece had
the sense not to respond to him. "That is an order, Paelin."
The girl
stood abruptly and began to roll her bedthings.
"Paehl,"
came the invitation. Paelin looked up to see old Barnann standing over her,
holding out a hunk of bread. The woman moved silently even with
her arthritic joints, and the loaf seemed crusted with honey.
"Here," she proffered.
Paelin
shook her head. "I'm not hungry," she said.
"Suit
yourself," the crone sniffed, taking a seat beside her and crunching
into the rare treat. Paelin bent back over her work, careful not to
disturb the satchel of feathers weighted at her feet. Her hands were
cold, but as long as they had feeling, they could fletch. She had
gloves in her pack, but stubbornly refused to retrieve them from the place
where Paedern sat.
Barnann
followed her sidelong glances shrewdly. She swallowed cumbrously, and
gave the ground a contemplative tap with the sword she kept
strapped uselessly to her side.
"Captain
Telmer also knew your mother," she mulled, now searching through
her pockets for leaf. "He has some other stories."
Paelin
said nothing, but her posture softened as she continued to
slot and fasten the straightline feathers.
"Paelin!"
Her master's voice bellowed through the campsite. All
heads turned, surprised by Paedern's tone. The man was not one known for
his temper. That trait had been given to his sister.
Paelin
rose coldly to her feet, stepping between the groups closest to
their site's main fire. She kept her chin level and went obediently to her
uncle. Fresh from patrol, he waited on the ridge a few feet away.
"You
disobeyed me," he said softly, his voice a warning in itself.
"Yes."
The girl had no illusions about that.
He
fumed silently for a moment, the flares of his nostrils ridiculously
pronounced. Paelin blinked once in astucious defiance.
Paedern struck her across the face.
His niece's eyes
widened as her head went down, but she did not cry out. He caught
her across the other cheek a moment later.
Still shocked, she drew
herself up the same, breathing heavily. Her nose felt oddly hot against the air,
and she knew it was bleeding like her gums. She did
not touch the bone above her temple, though she expected that to be
wet as well.
Her lip was set.
Paedern was still angry.
He seethed a
moment longer, then forced himself back to the dangerous calm.
"Go
and sit down," he ordered.
The
others went back to eating.