Free Scriber by Ben S. Dobson

death. Instead, his unexplained resurrection made me more nervous.
    There was a low hum in my skull that made my head ache. The stench and the dim light in the tent did not help, but it was more than that; it felt as though there was a presence in the air that I could not see. I truly am going mad , I thought glumly.
    He gestured impatiently. “I assure you, I am fine. You did your job admirably; I won’t forget it.”
    He kept insisting that my treatment had saved him, but it was not true. I had seen him dead, felt his lack of breath and pulse myself. How he had come back I did not know, but it was imperative that he be looked at by a Scriber pinned in Medicine. “High Commander, you must—”
    “ Enough. I am well, Scriber. Now answer my question.”
    “I have told you, Commander, I am not part of your company. I don’t know the officer’s names. There was a Lieutenant Ralsten watching outside your tent, that is all I can tell you.” This was one of the issues Ord had questioned me on at length—he had no memory of any of his men, or even his own cousin. I had been able to tell him why they were here; about Bryndine, and Waymark; but I was unable to tell him the names of his men.
    “Did he seem loyal to you? Would he help me in this quietly?”
    “I haven’t any idea, Commander. He appeared concerned about your well being, I suppose.”
    The noise in my head intensified and my headache grew worse as the conversation went on. I knew the sound, though I hadn’t wanted to admit it to myself; whispered voices, many speaking as one. I almost wept. Ever since I had dreamed of them, I could not seem to escape those voices. Soon, I knew, they would call for me to burn, and I would have no choice but to do as they told. I needed to get out of that tent.
    “Please, send him in for me.” Ord dismissed me with a wave of his hand, but as I turned away, his voice stopped me. “And Scriber—do not tell my cousin of this conversation. I… would not worry her.”
    It was strange, I thought, that he would be so concerned for a cousin whose name he could not remember. But I was happy to agree; I had my own issues to speak with Bryndine about, and no desire to prolong that conversation. Eagerly, I ran for the exit, nearly sprinting out into the night.
    The fresh air silenced the sound of voices, and I gasped it in gratefully, aware but uncaring that Lieutenant Ralsten was eyeing me suspiciously.
    “What happened, Scriber? The others said that the Commander had come back to his senses, but that I should not enter. Why was I not called in immediately?”
    “He will see you now, Lieutenant. He simply had some questions for me first.”
    “Is he recovered, then?”
    I chose my words carefully. “He is… much improved. It may take time for him to be as he was.”
    “But he will recover with time? I warn you, Scriber, it’s on your head if he doesn’t.”
    “Of course it is. I should have thought of that when someone else shattered his skull,” I said dryly.
    Ralsten narrowed his eyes and was about to respond, but I cut him off.
    “Lieutenant, for good or ill, his recovery had little to do with me. Go, he is waiting for you.”
    As I walked through the camp back towards the wagon that held my things, I was stopped several times by people from Waymark. Word of Uran’s recovery had apparently already spread, and now they had one more thing to congratulate me for that was not my doing. I was not polite in setting them right on the subject, but most simply refused to hear my protests—though I did send Penni Harynson away weeping with a particularly rude rebuke.
    The cloying, ignorant admiration of the villagers would have been bad enough, but each time I was forced to stop and talk was also a moment longer standing there in my filthy, bloodstained clothes. I had not changed since the attack, and my clothing was stiff with dried blood and sweat. All I wanted was to put on a clean shirt and pants and wash my hands and