Book of Water

Chapter 11

11

Rinaldo awakened slowly, like a man gently rising to the surface of a lake, his face finding the sunlight. He felt warm. Comfortable. Safe.

Which was his first indication that something was terribly wrong.

He knew what he had last seen. What he had felt. He had been racked with agony as Bayard screamed and thrashed, each shift in the horse’s bulk shooting fresh pain through Rinaldo’s leg and side.

He had tried to extract himself, but it was no use. And still poor Bayard whinnied and moaned. He spoke as calmly as he could to the horse, but then Rinaldo’s own body would spasm in pain, and it was all he could do to breathe.

Bradamante had come. He remembered that. And then nothing else beyond it.

Now he gazed around his darkened tent. There was a bundle in the corner, some person, probably his sister trying to get some sleep.

In the few moments he had already been awake, he knew a truth that he was not yet prepared to explore. But he knew it. And now he finally turned to greet it.

His leg didn’t hurt him. His hip, which had felt shattered, crushed, no longer gave him any pain at all.

He gingerly bent his left knee, very slightly, aware of the risk.

But also knowing already that it was healed.

He ran his hand down the left side of his belly. No pain. Across to his hip. No pain. He sat up—no pain. Ran his hands down his leg. Separated the fabric of his torn woolen leggings and examined his bare skin. Nothing. No cuts, no bruises, no swelling. Rinaldo felt his breath coming faster.

“Brad,” he whispered to the mound in the corner. Then louder: “Brad!”

The form under the blanket stirred, but didn’t wake. Rinaldo was too excited to wait.

He crawled the short distance—no pain—and gently shook her shoulder.

Then she turned, still asleep.

He stared in confusion at the red-haired stranger.