Book of Water

Chapter 8

8

Bradamante stared at the stars. The rain had finally stopped and now the night was clear. She breathed in a chestful of fresh air and listened to the sounds of camp.

Her brother was slipping away. She wanted to stay with him, but at the same time she couldn’t watch. Her heart would likely burst.

For what seemed like the thousandth time, the words streamed through her mind.

My god… Manat… please save him. Please save him.

Naldo had always been her protector, from the very moment she was born. Bradamante’s mother didn’t want her. She knew that without being told. She had heard over the years from tenants living on her parents’ estate that five-year-old Rinaldo used to carry his infant sister in a cloth cradle slung across his chest. He wouldn’t let anyone else hold her unless the person proved he or she would do it right.

Even women with multiple children of their own might not pass Rinaldo’s test if they were too casual or carefree. Taking care of his baby sister was a serious responsibility and Rinaldo was a serious boy.

As Bradamante grew older, Rinaldo tried to protect her from their mother. Lady Aya could be vicious. On her best days she simply ignored her daughter and deliberately never looked at the child. On her worst, she attacked without warning and left the young girl bruised and bleeding.

Bradamante could remember all the times when Rinaldo came to her rescue. The boy would shout at their mother, pull her hands away, even pick up his sister and run. And those times when he hadn’t been there and couldn’t help—Bradamante ached to see his despair. She learned to hide her injuries. She learned to hide from their mother. And she waited for the day they could leave.

Then Manat had come. And Bradamante learned that she could defend herself on her own. But Naldo would always be her protector, and Bradamante loved him fiercely for it.

She owed it to him to be with him every moment of his last hour.

But she also owed him something else.

Rinaldo’s horse, Bayard, had finally stopped his mournful cry. Some of the men had bandaged his leg and confined him to a small enclosure, but Bayard’s terrible whinnying carried across the camp and nearly drove them all to madness.

Bradamante had the horse moved closer to where he could at least see Rinaldo’s tent. Since then the horse whickered to his master often. Bradamante found the gentle sound even more heartbreaking.

As she came near him now he hobbled to meet her, then lowered his head and pressed it against her chest. She stroked the sides of his face and leaned her forehead against his. She could feel his warm breath on her hands.

“Not so good,” she managed to say before the rest of the words choked off. Bayard stepped closer and rested his head on top of her shoulder. Bradamante stood there for a while with her arms around his neck, calmed by his warmth and his weight. “I’ll take care of you,” she whispered, and the horse seemed to sigh.

Bradamante bent over and ran her hands down his injured leg. She was alarmed to find the bandages wet with fresh blood and to feel the heat and the swelling around the wound. What if it festered? What if it didn’t heal? What if…? Then the horse might follow his master in death.

Bradamante shook off the thought. Naldo was still alive. Bayard was alive. Where there was life, there was always hope.

She knew she could do nothing more for Bayard until morning when she could examine his leg in the light. For now, she needed to go back to her brother.

When she reentered the tent, she saw that Jara had finally succumbed to exhaustion and now slept curled toward Rinaldo, her hands wrapped around his arm.

Kind Jara. Bradamante knew the young woman had her own memories of time spent with Rinaldo, first in Gibeah and later in Abincort. Rinaldo had been a better brother to Jara than her own brutish little brother, Jacol, could ever be.

That was Naldo’s way. Friend to the friendless. Unwilling to allow suffering if there was something he could do.

Was he suffering now? Or was he already someplace else, gently releasing his grip on this world?

Bradamante settled in beside him and once more took up his hand. She laid her thumb on his wrist, but his pulse was too weak to feel. She pressed her fingers to the side of his throat and found some small proof of life still there. She leaned over and kissed his forehead and took up the words again, like a sword, the only weapons left to her in this fight.

Manat… my god… please save him. Please save him.