A current of air from his left suggested a window; the smells with the air—rotting vegetables, human filth—meant a city. Had he caught a fever and been left behind? But he knew better than to drink tainted water or eat the foods most likely to give men fevers.

He tried again to sit up, but he felt dizzy and sick. He lay back, feeling for the side of the bed, for the wall. He had these few moments—for he heard heavier footsteps, booted footsteps, coming down the passage—to prepare himself, to master the turmoil he felt.

“Suli—your private—said you were awake. I’m Marshal Harak. I saw you at your camp, but we did not meet.”

Harak. The name meant nothing to him, but a memory came of the Marshal who had come for the Captain, and later ridden away with him … and he himself … he had been … the memory faded.

“Suli said you could not see.”

“It’s dark,” Stammel said. His voice was firm, at least.

“I’m going to look at your eyes,” the man said.

Stammel felt the warmth from his body, the breath on his face.

“Your eyes are bloodshot, as if you’d been slugged,” Marshal Harak said. “They were like that when your captain brought you here. Do you remember anything about that?”

“No.” Stammel struggled with a darkness as black as the flames had been white. “Only the fire. White … hot …” Sudden nausea twisted his gut. “I—I need the jacks—”

The man called out; other footsteps came running; the man’s strong arm heaved him up and another grabbed his arm and put it over a shoulder. The two men half dragged him out … through another door, to a room he could smell. He heaved, felt the stuff come out his mouth, smelled it, felt the splash on his bare chest. Again … again … they supported him; he was too weak …

When that was over, they wiped him down with wet cloths, and carried him back to the room … he could still feel his own warmth on the bed when they laid him down. “Drink this,” the Marshal said, holding the mug to his lips. This time the water had some herb in it, not numbweed’s bitterness but something … he wasn’t sure.

“You’re alive and sane,” the other man said. His was the gruff voice he’d heard before—how long before? “I am Verstad, a Captain of Tir, and I tell you, soldier, you have fought long and bravely to come through so hard an ordeal. Though your captain brought you here, the Marshal has granted me the right to tend you alongside Marshals—”

“I’m in a … grange?” Stammel said.

“Yes.”

“Gird has no quarrels with Tir,” the Marshal said. “And your captain said you followed Tir.”

“I do. I … did.” Stammel struggled to keep his voice level. “But if I am blind—”

“Tir does not despise the wounded, and that includes the blind,” the Captain said.