The intruder laughed bitterly. “I watched from the fence while your so-called guards sat drinking and talking on the porch. When the moon went down, I sneaked across the lawn and climbed the vines. They wouldn’t have noticed if I’d gone over and goosed them.”
Oh shit! Sarsli thought, dread settling in his gut. He’d known about the ale. He should have made sure the men on watch didn’t get any. No one should have; he should have stashed it till they went back to camp. The marshal would likely kill him now; flogging wouldn’t be enough. For just a moment Sarsli considered killing the prisoner, but that wouldn’t help. The marshal would find out about the ale anyway, and have two reasons to kill him. As it was, he might be lucky, and a flogging he could survive. Especially, he told himself, when he so richly deserved it.
Macurdy sat naked and bloody on the bed beside his bride. She had an aura, but he could find no pulse. He’d had one of the guards light the lamps in the room, and bring him wet cloths. Arbel’s blood-stopping spell had worked, and now, gently but firmly, he washed the congealing blood from around the multiple stab wounds on her breasts and left shoulder, the deep and ugly slash on her left arm. But didn’t bandage them; when Omara came, she’d want to see them.
He became aware that the soldier who’d brought in the first lamp still stood holding it. “Soldier,” he said softly, “didn’t I say everyone out?”
“Yessir.”
He watched the man’s aura flicker. “What is it you want to tell me?”
“Marshal Macurdy, sir, I was on guard at the front door. I’m to blame for what happened. For that guy getting in.”
“I doubt he came in the front door.”
“No sir, I’m sure he didn’t. Nor any other door. The lieutenant locked them before I ever came on watch, and posted a guard at each end of the downstairs hall. He must have climbed the vines to the balcony. We should have seen him from the porch, crossing the grass, but we had a jug of ale, and sat there talking and forgot to watch. We weren’t drunk. We were just—” he paused, swallowed—“celebrating your wedding.”
Macurdy looked at him silently for a moment, and when he spoke, it was quietly. “It’s done now. We’ll see later what we need to do about that.”
“Yessir.”
“Take the lamp back where you got it and tell my orderly and couriers to stay where they are in case I need them. They’re out in the hall, not sure what to do. Then go back to your post.”
“Yessir.” The man left.
Jesus Christ, Macurdy thought, celebrating my wedding, then began the healing formulas Arbel had taught him for loss of blood.
He couldn’t have said how much time had passed when Omara entered with her aide. He’d heard them coming down the hall, along with someone wearing boots, but only the Sisters came in. Omara’s eyes settled on Melody. “Wash yourself, Marshal,” she said. “I’ll see to her.”
Going to the washstand at one side of the room, he filled the basin and washed, while behind him, Omara half sang, half murmured her spells. Most of the blood that reddened the wash water was Melody’s, he decided. The knife gash on his arm seemed to have stopped bleeding by itself, though it was deep enough that tonus kept it open. He wondered if Varia’s spell of long youth had made a difference.
When he’d washed, he pulled on a pair of breeches, then went back to watch Omara work. The Sister looked up at him. “She’ll live,” she said, examining him calmly. “Who taught you healing? Varia?”
“We weren’t together long enough. I learned it from a shaman in Oz. I was his student for a while, but did poorly on my healing tests.”
“It wasn’t for lack of talent.” Omara turned to her aide. “Narella, bandage her. Tightly so the healing spells work properly. We don’t want great scars on the marshal’s bride.”
She got up from the bed, a handsome woman in uniform, managing to seem long mature, despite her youthful appearance. Macurdy wondered how old she actually was. “Let me bandage your forearm, Macurdy,” she said. “Gaping like that, the scar will be large and subject to damage. Besides, the blood needs to circulate through the flesh there.”