Chapter 7
"We're ready."
The day dawned grey, but showed signs of growing warmer as the day progressed. After the first night, the rain had, by some blessing of the gods, passed to either side of them, leaving them free to work without fear of being swept away.
Randen's stretcher was resting on a platform at the edge of the canyon, his eyes locked onto Derris's. Derris was wide awake. It had been agreed that it was vital that Derris be able to maintain his balance on the platforms or shift if needed. Privately, Randen and Derris had wanted the Companion to be there, awake and with his Chosen, if the attempt failed.
In addition to watching the proceedings, Randen was linked in with Kyminn, Pell and Anya, monitoring and strengthening Derris. Pell had suggested using a paralytic, to lock the muscles around the shaft to help prevent it from moving. Derris had objected to this, pointing out through Randen that this left him unable to respond if something went wrong. In the end, they decided that Kyminn would use his Gift to do the same thing, lock down and "freeze" the muscles around the injury. Not only would this help keep the shaft still, it would clamp down on the blood vessels, preventing them from tearing if anything did happen.
The team doing the lifting had, at Captain Anden's insistence, drilled the procedure and practiced the hoist and transfer, using a heavy timber in place of Derris. After the first attempt, when the transfer failed and the timber dropped, Randen had nearly called off the entire thing then and there. Anden brought him up short with a pithy observation about someone named Dethor's policies regarding practice and learning from one's painful mistakes. Randen was far from happy, but he promptly shut up.
In the end, Anden – and the mysterious Dethor – were proved right. The lift went as smoothly as they had dared hope, each transfer being accomplished smoothly and without pain or further injury. Kyminn's knees buckled in relief when Derris settled into the sling at the top of the canyon. Randen simply said, hoarsely, "I thank you. We thank you all. There are…no words."
Pell rested a hand on Derris's uninjured shoulder. "No words are needed. And no time to say them. This injury is a poison and we cannot keep it at bay much longer. It is time for us to go."
Randen's memory of the next few days was captured in images, a series of paintings that remained etched vividly in his mind:
Derris, dwarfed between two massive draft horses, slung between them as he was transferred to the village.
Kyminn, slumped on the back of a draft horse, one hand on Derris, his face a mask as he concentrated on keeping the horses moving in perfect unison.
The town hall, one wall cut away and a bizarre frame erected over the council table.
Derris, on his back, his grotesque wound a garish clash to the beautiful marquetry of the table.
Pell and Anya, hands wrapped in Derris's mane as they linked with Kyminn.
Kyminn, hands and forearms red with Derris's life as he plunged his hands into the Companion's chest, cutting, probing, sealing, healing. Inch by inch extracting the lance that threatened Derris's heart – and Randen's own.
It was hours. It was minutes. It was years. Kyminn laid the brutal lance on the table and stitched up the last piece of bloodied hide. A grey, wobbly smile to Randen. "It's done."
Moving Derris into the barn took time and muscle, but was accomplished without difficulty. Randen insisted on remaining with him throughout the transfer. It was a bit incongruous to see a team of draft horses in the town hall, but nobody seemed to mind the scuff marks on the floor.
The barn was surprisingly stout and airy; given that it was tucked away in a remote village. Randen realized this must have been Kyminn's doing, this was his workspace after all. The stall set aside for Derris wasn't quite as good as he would have had in the Companion's barn in Haven, but it wasn't far behind. The planking was sanded smooth and had been freshly painted and scoured. Ropes, slings and rigging was hung on hooks while a small cabinet held bandages, salves and other necessities.
As Derris was settled in at last, Randen's stretcher was settled on trestles beside the Companion. Keli gently tucked blankets under him so that he could reach Derris. Randen looked at her in askance.
"My mother and son both insisted. They said you both need this, to spend some time together, just the two of you." She gently stroked the unconscious Companion. "He's not awake, no, but Kyminn's Empathy tells him that Derris knows you're here, and right now he needs you."
Randen nodded, eyes bright with unshed tears. Keli gave his good arm a gentle squeeze. "Pell will be listening for you both. We'll be back for you when you're ready."
As the door shut behind her, Randen curled up against his friend's warm, living body and cried. The days of pain and fear poured out of him in a flood, the white hide absorbing his tears as the silent strength of their bond absorbed their shared pain.
He cried because they were both alive and he cried because they had very nearly died. Tears of gratitude for what they had gained, bitter sorrow for what they had lost. Part of him was ashamed that he, a man grown and an experienced Herald should be so lost to such a display. Most of him understood that being strong didn't mean not feeling. Sometimes it meant the burden one carried was greater – deeper and more acute- and it was okay to admit that some things were terribly, terribly hard.
Still, even the strongest body can only weep for so long. By the time he had exhausted his grief and remaining strength, the light told him that several hours had passed. He felt empty and full at the same time, the shifting sands underfoot finally offering him a purchase. As he blinked his aching eyes, he saw someone had left a small basin and cloth near at hand. Healers, it seemed, understood there was more to their art than mending torn flesh.
