Elsbeth looked around the passage, sword poised.  “Where are they?”

     “Who?”

     She moved up the path, head swiveling from side to side in case there were niches within the rock walls large enough for someone to hide.  Why any of the capturers would be laying in wait after having left their prisoner, she could not guess.  But better safe than sorry.  She scouted far enough ahead to feel comfortable that they weren’t in any immediate danger, then returned to Murrow. 

     “How many were there?  When did they go?  Why?” 

     Murrow’s other hand came up and both cradled his head.  “What are you talking about?” 

     “Didn’t — “  She stopped, looking around the path again.  There were no signs of a struggle, either here or where she had found the rock.  There was no dirt to hold footprints, of course, but if there had been a fight, there would have been signs of it — fresh nicks in the rock walls from errant or parried sword swipes, bits of cloth caught on the rough stone.  She stepped back around the boulder and examined the bloodied rock again.  One side was a somewhat lighter shade than the rest, as if it had only recently separated from a larger bit of the mountain. 

     She sheathed her sword and went back to Murrow.  “What happened?” 

     “Rock came loose as I was passing.  Rolled down and bashed me in the head on the way.”

     This was the answer she was expecting — now — but she found herself inexplicably angered by it.  Murrow had not been captured.  He had no — and never had — need to be rescued.  What had she been thinking, imagining herself coming for him, sword in hand?  She was no Ethelda the Weaver, stealing back her lord Jirl from the very hold of his enemies.  That was just an old story anyway. 

     She knelt beside him, now brisk, as if to cover her embarrassment with action.  “Let’s see.” 

     He peeled his fingers away, eyes closing as she touched his head beside the gash.

     Her annoyance melted at the sight.  It was bad, but not as bad as it could have been.  She'd seen worse--and on Murrow himself.  Indeed, this was all too familiar.  How many times had she sewed and bandaged him during his foster years?  He exaggerated how inept he had been as a fosterling, but there was anxiety--and truth--in it was well.  Used to Brusterian knife-fighting, he had had more than the usual difficulty learning Elbish sword tactics, and the larger Elbish shield had thrown him for at least a year.  He was injured so often he became embarrassed to go the Lord Garland's chirgeon and turned to his friend's sister instead, who like all noble ladies, had training in treating wounds.  It was just as well that he was as groggy as he was or he might recognize the touch of her fingers.