Book of Water

Chapter 15

15

Rinaldo kept a close watch on his tent. It was nearly nightfall and Michaela still hadn’t emerged.

Astolpho had checked on her numerous times throughout the afternoon, but he always told Rinaldo to wait.

“She won’t want to see you,” he said. “She won’t feel well. And even when she is well, she won’t want to talk. I know her. I’ve spent months with her. It’s a wonder she agreed to come help you at all.”

“That’s why I need to thank her,” Rinaldo said, but Astolpho continued to stubbornly say no.

The young prophet was gone for the moment, though, seeing to the two tents he had asked Rinaldo to provide. “They need to be at the very edge of camp,” Astolpho told him. “Far from anyone else.”

“Not so far that we can’t protect you,” said Rinaldo. “In case Rogero breaches the pass.”

Jara had brought extra blankets, and was now helping Astolpho make everything as comfortable as she could. Soon Astolpho would return to escort Michaela to her own tent, and Rinaldo would finally see her again.

And he would thank her then, profusely, no matter what Astolpho said.

In the meantime, he watched his tent from afar as he wrapped a fresh bandage around Bayard’s leg. The horse was restless, trembling in obvious pain, and his wound continued to seep. The poultices Bradamante had helped prepare seemed to make very little difference.

Rinaldo tried again to give the horse water. Bayard turned his head. He had done the same any time Rinaldo offered him sweet oats or tried to coax him to drink throughout the day.

Rinaldo rested his head wearily against Bayard’s shoulder. The horse shuddered at his touch. “Please,” Rinaldo said. “What can I do to help you?” Bayard blew out an answering breath. Rinaldo could feel the fever burning beneath his horse’s coat. How much longer would Bayard have the strength to fight?

Rinaldo thought of the first time he had seen his horse, a colt no larger than himself. Bayard lay weak and starving and wounded on a forest floor with a gaping s***h in his side. A bear must have done it, Rinaldo thought at the time. The colt was on the brink of death.

Rinaldo had devoted himself then to saving Bayard’s life. He cleaned the wound, he bandaged it, he cleaned and bandaged it again, over and over for the next many days until he could see new flesh growing into the gap. He brought the colt water and hand-fed him for a time until one morning Bayard could stand on his emaciated legs and graze.

Then came the day when they reached the edge of a small meadow, and the colt suddenly sprinted away on his own. He whinnied and tossed his black mane and kicked up his back legs as though simply for the pleasure of it. He tore from one end of the meadow back to Rinaldo, and repeated the course three or four more times. Rinaldo knew then that the horse was well. When Bayard finally returned to him for good and pressed his forehead to Rinaldo’s chest, Rinaldo understood that the colt was his.

Rinaldo had been wandering alone and on foot for several months by then, but now he felt no more reason to roam. Even if he stayed in the forest forever, just tending to this horse, he thought he might finally have found his path.

No longer the son of a woman who viewed any kindness as weakness. No longer simply the brother of a girl clearly destined for greatness. Even if this were all he ever was, Bayard’s keeper, it was finally enough. Rinaldo felt peace and contentment at last.

And though his path had taken them both elsewhere after all, he still treasured the bond between them. Bayard had proven himself a loyal and protective partner. More than once he had acted on his own to save Rinaldo from danger during battles. The day might come when the two would share a grave, but until then Rinaldo intended to do everything within his power to keep this horse safe and strong and alive.

Another fly landed in the corner of Bayard’s eye. The horse was too weak to care or to swish it away. His head hung listless. It broke Rinaldo’s heart to see.

“Come on,” he said. There was still no sign of movement from inside his tent, but he had waited too long already.

In the fading light of dusk he began the slow process of leading Bayard toward the tent. The horse’s steps were halting, clearly painful, but Rinaldo steadfastly coaxed him along. “Just a little further,” he kept saying after each stumble and careful limp. If not for the hope of what was to come, he would have stopped and allowed the horse to rest.

“Keep going, Bayard. That’s it. I promise you’ll be better soon.” By the time they reached their destination, Bayard’s coat was slick with sweat.

Rinaldo was sweating, too. He worried that he might be wrong. Wrong to ask for a second miracle when he still hadn’t been able to thank Michaela for the first.

Wrong to believe that she would share her precious gift with some animal who meant nothing to her. Wrong to assume that her power would work on a horse as it did on a man.

He could be wrong for what he was doing now, unwrapping the bandage around Bayard’s leg.

The horse stood panting. He leaned against Rinaldo, weak and sick and trembling. Rinaldo wondered how long the horse could even remain standing. Bayard seemed to have spent what little energy remained.

Please. If he was wrong, then let Michaela condemn him for it. Let her hate him. Let her rage at him. Let her regret ever saving his life.

But first, let her save Bayard, too. Then Rinaldo would accept whatever else she might do.