Warlord

the lad in horror. But Isdra stepped closer to Yers, taking more of Gils's weight. They both managed to hold steady as Gils stopped thrashing as quickly as he had started.
    My head came up, my eyes popped open. I looked out over the grasses, but I didn't see them. Instead, I went over that horrible moment again and again, with the eye of a healer. A cold, unemotional eye. Gils convulsed, limbs jerking in spasms, his head thrown back, gasping for air. The patient had convulsions.
    I moved then, my hand on his forehead. Gils was warm, but not extraordinarily so. "Gils?" I called his name, but there was no reaction, no indication that he was aware. I placed my fingers at his neck, feeling a slow, weak pulse.
    The patient had not had a fever.
    Quickly, I checked for any kind of head wound, or perhaps he was choking. But his head showed no sign of injury and his throat was clear. There was no sign of other injury, it had to be the plague, and yet there was no odor, no real sweat on his body. But the headaches could cause these kinds of problems, if they were severe enough. Gils's breath was rapid and labored, perhaps ... No head wound. No odor, no sweating. Breathing was rapid and labored.
    Again, Gils jerked in spasms. His breathing was slowing, as was the beat of his heart. I looked around, finally focusing on Keir's face, a question in his eyes. I met his gaze, and let my tears fall, answering with a shake of my head.
    His heart had slowed, his breathing had slowed. My throat was as dry as a bone, my heart was racing. Seen now, with a cold eye and distance, I knew—
    I swallowed hard, and faced the truth. Gils had not died of the plague.
    But the only thing that I could think of that might cause those symptoms was poison. I stared at the satchel, numb.
    Iften spun on his heel, and glared at me with eyes filled with hate. He paused as he stepped past me. "You and your poisons made it to the Heart. But we of the Plains can learn to use poison, too. Remember that, Xyian."
    I remembered, all right. I also remembered that Iften had been alone with my brother at one point, when Keir had used him as a messenger. That attack in the market, they'd used a lance fletched with Iften's pattern. Keir had no proof, but...
    Monkshood caused convulsions. Monkshood, the poison my brother had offered me, to 'preserve my honor'. I'd left it behind in my room when I'd given myself to Keir.
    Left it in my room for my brother to find.
    Was it possible that Iften had poisoned Gils?
    I sat staring for some time, before the stinging of my hands brought me back to my task. I forced myself to concentrate on the tasks at hand.
    I dug deeper into the satchel's depths, pulling out all the contents for the first time. My medicines were there and I set them out by my feet. When I found the jar with the right salve, I stopped for a moment to rub some into my hands. I bit my lip as the medicine stung. That meant it was working. At least, that's what I told my patients.
    I stoppered the jar, and continued to empty out the satchel. Clean cloths for bandages. A small leather pouch with . . . could it be?
    The gurt spilled out into my hand, the familiar white pebble cheese of the Firelanders. My stomach rumbled, but I winced at the idea. It was so dry ... my stomach gurgled again, and I shrugged, popped one into my mouth, and chewed.
    It tasted wonderful.
    I crammed in another piece. Of course, it was only the hunger that made it taste good. Or maybe that my nose was so stuffed that I couldn't smell it. I kept eating as I continued my hunt. More of my familiar medicines, and the scrap of leather that held the bit of mushroom that Iften had spit out. I set them all aside and kept digging.
    An unfamiliar jar proved to be sweetfat. I recognized the smell. I wondered what kind of grasses they used to make it, even as I set it down.
    A small wooden box, with flint, steel, and tinder. Bless you, Gils.
    Another small pouch, with leather working tools. A battered tin pot. Another small pouch, with ... kavage beans!
    Dried meat, wrapped in a few folds of leather. A wooden comb. I started to cry over my riches when my fingers closed over a last item.
    The spring knife that Marcus had given me.
    I'd thought my tears had gone dry.
    I'd been wrong.
    I crushed the kavage beans between two river stones. They boiled in the small battered pot, over a tiny fire that I managed to get started on the third try with the flint and steel. I drank the first bowlful before it