Free Everran's Bane by Sylvia Kelso

doorway, wearing leg bandages, a soldier’s under-tunic, and something like a leather corset over it: squat, black, gnarled as an old hethel tree, his calling in his face.
    Quite deranged, I said when my breath returned, “We did look for you. I swear it. I am sorry. If you only tell me where you lie—”
    At which he shot me a sharp black glance and growled, “For the Lords’ sake uncross your eyes, harper. Pinch me if you like.”
    â€œCrawled away,” he said, disposed in my chair. “After dark. Harper, spare us, don’t cry in m’wine.” Stiffly, he flexed a leg. “That’s just burns.” Just . “Tail hit me high. I’ve the father and mother of all belly-aches, and I spat blood for days, but I can get around in this.” He touched the leather strapping. “Farmer made it. Hauled me into bed when I crawled there. I’ve just broken out. How’s the king?”
    I told him. He nodded. Then, with a quick glance under his brows, “Heard what you did.”
    â€œBut not for you.” It still kept me awake. “I told the dragon, just one. I didn’t dare—”
    â€œI didn’t matter,” he spoke brusquely, meaning it. “What matters is him.”
    * * * * *
    â€œLord,” I said as I opened the tower door, striving not to grin from ear to ear and spoil the surprise, “lord, look what I picked up.”
    Inyx hopped past me. Beryx’s head rocketed up. For one instant his face was all incredible, incredulous delight, he plunged up in bed, grabbed instinctively at his side, forgot it to throw out his arms—then in a flash radiance became the most desperate grief.
    â€œDon’t you start,” Inyx growled. “Harper’s already pinched me black and blue.”
    Beryx stuttered. Choked. Choked again. Tried to wrench his back to us. Inyx’s very shape changed. With a violent effort, Beryx faced round and lifted his head.
    â€œNo,” it came almost on a sob. “You old fool—not that!”
    He got control of himself. Very clearly, looking Inyx full in the face, making it an indictment, an explanation, his utmost recompense, he said, “You were right.”
    Inyx shoved away a cup-stand with a crutch and hopped over to the bed. “Lemme get off these things,” he grunted. “Stand over.”
    Beryx moved his legs. Suddenly tears ran down his cheeks and as I closed the door I heard Inyx say in a voice I never believed could hold so much gentleness, “Si’sta... si’sta... That’s a leader’s price.”
    Inyx eased life greatly: a close friend, a fellow soldier, competent with things Beryx would delegate to no one else, which slowed him down and mended him faster. Inyx could also curb Beryx’s worst fantasias. If Inyx went, “Mphh!” instead of, “Ah,” the king would grin ruefully and drop the project, saving much wear and tear on messengers, Stavan, and assorted experts’ self-esteem. Inyx also harmonized with Thassal, and to the physician’s disgust thoroughly approved her doctoring, and he had tended enough campaign wounds to offer valid advice. But he was anxious to move the king.
    â€œToo close,” he told me. “And kingdom’s like soldiers. What they can’t see they don’t believe.” When Sarras, who gathered news as wool gathers burrs, told him that rumors of the king’s death were already unsettling Tirs, he actually managed to tune Thassal and the physician on the need for an early splinter-probe.
    Beryx wanted to go south first. Thassal told him sternly, “You can’t act till you’re moved. You can’t move till they’re out. If one worked down to an inner vein we could not stop you bleeding to death.” At that he yielded, and the physician set to work.
    Afterward he looked worse than on the battlefield: flat on his back, so thin he barely raised the bedclothes,