They felt swollen. All of her felt swollen. She was in some kind of dim room. The walls were whitewashed, the shutters drawn against the heat of the day. They cast bars of horizontal light across the dirt floor. She was lying on a pallet of some kind. Her mouth felt like she had inhaled sand. An old woman was holding up her head. The crone’s wrinkles rearranged themselves into an almost toothless grin.“Drink, English,” she said in that language. It was heavily accented.Cool water poured down her throat. Kate swallowed until she gasped and choked.“Enough. More later.”“Gian?” Kate croaked.“The one who carried you here?”“Yes,” she whispered. She remembered sliding off the horse. She remembered the horse staggering. It had been so hot, so bright. Gian had picked her up, and dragged the horse along behind him. He must have carried her to here, wherever here was.“He lives.”Kate didn’t like the sound of that. Only just living? “Is he well?”“He was burned as though he walked naked in the sun.”Did his burnoose not protect him?
