Feist, Raymond E - Riftwar Cycle 27 - Rides a Dread Legion by Feist Raymond E

Author:Feist, Raymond E [Feist, Raymond E]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins e-books
Published: 2010-03-23T05:00:00+00:00

Days passed, and finally Sandreena returned to an awareness of time. She had no idea how long she had lingered in the cave, but knew it was at least three weeks, perhaps a month. She would sport a nasty assortment of scars, for the hermit had sewn her up with some sort of fiber, perhaps stripped from seaweed or a plant close by. She’d been tended by all manner of healers, from the finest magic-using priests in the temples to village medicine women with their poultices and teas. She found it oddly amusing that she was recovering from the worst collection of injuries in her life, perhaps more than all her previous fights and mishaps combined, with the help of the most primitive ministrations ever. The only thing worse would have been to crawl off into a cave and lick her wounds like a dog.

As she began picking out her stitches with a fish bone—the ones she could reach—she reminded herself she needed to thank this hermit, as well as her Goddess—and perhaps the hermit was correct, she needed to include Ruthia as well—for her life. That she was still alive was proof that some benevolent force was looking out for her.

By the time the hermit returned, she had removed all the stitches she could reach and, without words, she held out the fish bone and motioned to her naked back. He nodded and sat down and quickly had those stitches out. She could feel a little blood and tenderness, but at last she could move without the constant tugging.

She pulled on the rough hide dress he had made for her and said, “There, that’s better.”

“I was going to wait a little longer; some of those wounds were deep,” said the hermit.

“One thing I know is wounds, and another is my own body,” Sandreena said. “I’ve healed enough so those stitches would only start being a problem if we waited much longer to cut them out.” She indicated the cave with her hand. “You don’t have a lot of chirurgeon’s tools here.”

He found that very funny and laughed deeply. “I did once.” Then he stopped. He tilted his head as if listening for something. “Did I?”

Whatever had happened to this man, long enough ago, it was lost in even his own memory. A tragedy, illness, or a vengeful god, whatever the cause, most of his memory and mind were gone. Still, he had visited kindness on a stranger with no hope of recompense; she was without even the most fundamental possessions. He had found her as naked as the day she was born, and as helpless.

Still, she felt a debt. “Once I settle matters with those killers, is there anything I can do for you?”

He was silent a long time, then he said, “I would like a real pot.” Then his eyes widened and he sat up. “No, a kettle!” He nodded vigorously. “Yes, a fine iron kettle!” His eyes grew even wider. “And a knife! A knife so I can clean my catch! Yes, that would be wonderful.

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