They lie there longer than they should, heedless of the mess dripping onto the makeshift sheets. Clef wants to ask for assurances, for promises—but he does not. Instead, he reaches for a cloth to clean them up.
Andar stays as long as he dares. Clef can tell by the way he groans with regret before dragging himself up. "I must make the rounds. Unfortunately, we must still ride at dawn."
Clef sighs, feeling resigned. "Yes, I understand." He rolls over, groping for his fallen robe. The air is suddenly frigid.
"Clef." He looks up, only mildly surprised to see a mix of affection and regret on Andar's face. "I'm not in the habit of making quick exits."
"I know it," Clef says, rubbing at his face. He doesn't even remotely feel like getting up, and he still has to pack. "Come see me when you're able."
"Of course." Before Andar leaves, he bends over to catch Clef's lips in a fleeting kiss. Then he gathers his fallen armor, somehow balancing everything in a huge bundle, and ducks out of the tent.
People will be suspicious, Clef realizes. Actually, it's more likely that people will
know
. The idea brings an unexpected smile to his face. He's found a bright speck of light amidst all this darkness.
*~*~*
The Teeth are every bit as imposing in person. Everyone in Flying Shadow Company switches to heavy cloaks, but even then the cold bites at them. The roads have become slippery and treacherous, the horses crunching ice and snow beneath their hooves.
Clef bears it as best he can, but the only time he finds a semblance of comfort is when Flying Shadow arrives at the Embergrass Battalion. The camp is like its own tiny city, and they've organized themselves in a well shielded nook among the mountains.
Once he is settled in his own red-and-white tent among the other clerics, Clef ventures out to see where he can help. He stands in the middle of the camp, wind whipping his cloak about him, and then it sinks in: he in on the front line. The Embergrass Battalion is comprised of the Commander-General's own soldiers—and he intends to give command of them to Andar.
Andar will be riding into Northern territory—and Clef might have to, as well, as a field cleric.
Lady help us all.
Clef acquaints himself with the other Elder clerics, Elayne and Geoffrey. Between the three of them, they work out a schedule for recoveries and perform six surgeries. Mostly, Clef operates as he would have done in Crestfall and Baron Falls. However, despite the close proximity to danger Clef feels more useful, stopping disaster before it strikes. Though they are all Elder Clerics, Elayne and Geoffrey both praise Clef's skill with needle and thread.
He's just made it back to his tent, intending to catch a few hours of sleep, when Andar steps inside. Clef stares at him, slack-jawed. Andar's helmet is off and his forehead is bleeding—one long line of blood flowing down to his nose.
"What has happened to you?" Clef scrambles over, grabbing a cloth and salve on the way.
But Andar only looks giddy, wearing a gleeful smile despite the glassiness of his eyes. "We were scouting," he says, letting Clef poke at him. "We met one of their scouting parties. Only one scouting party returned."
Now that he's cleaned most of the oozing blood, Clef can assess the damage. It's a shallow cut, evidence that a blade had grazed Andar at best, but the sight still sends Clef's heart lurching into his throat. "Another inch," he says, looking directly into Andar's eyes. "Another inch, and…"
He closes the distance between them, kissing Andar as though their lives depended on it. When they break for air, Clef swallows audibly. Without another word, he starts applying salve.
"Clef," Andar says, less giddy now as he catches Clef's wrist. "It is not a bad cut."
"Bravado," Clef says, reaching for a bandage.
"Clef."
Clef ignores him, wrapping the bandage around his head and pressing a kiss to it. "Bravado and martyrdom."
"
Clef
." This time, Clef gives Andar his undivided attention. From the serious expression that has come over Andar's face, Clef can tell he is not going to like whatever Andar is about to say. "I have found a way through the mountains."
Clef does not know how he feels about that. The familiar pangs of concern and trepidation are coupled with hope. "So soon? How have you done such a thing?"
"I've been studying the maps every free moment I've had." Andar brushes a strand of stray silver hair from Clef's face. "The scouting mission's purpose was to make sure the maps were still current."
"And then?"
"We strike," Andar says simply, gauging Clef's reaction. "While the iron's hot, as they say."
"While they are out of sorts," Clef says quietly. "While they are not expecting it." Concern is beginning to vastly outweigh any of his other emotions. "When do you ride?" He pointedly doesn't meet Andar's eyes.
Andar takes hold of his chin, beckoning him to look up. When he does, he finds Andar's gaze more intense than it has ever been. "Tonight."
The ground gives way beneath him, and now Clef knows what it is to worry oneself to death. He resists the urge to curl in on himself, to hide beneath the covers until the war is over and he can wake from this nightmare. "Tonight?" he echoes, voice barely more than a croak.
"Why do you think we were summoned to the Teeth?" Andar's reply is not unkind, and he pulls Clef to him as though sensing his distress. "This assault has been planned for weeks. The Commander-General is ready. He's taken my recommendations to heart."
Clef is hardly listening. All he can think about is how exhausted Andar must be, and he is going back out in an hour's time to lead the most important offensive of the war. He feels sick. He huffs an uneasy sound against Andar's white breastplate. The plate armor is freezing, but he barely registers the cold.
"Clef. Speak to me." When Clef cannot, Andar makes an attempt at levity. "I ride to my doom shortly. The Lady's blessing would be appreciated."
Clef shoves him away, glaring through unshed tears. He wants to claim it's because of the temperature, but he knows it's more than that. "You ass," he says without humor. "How kind of you to wait until
now
to tell me. After we—after I…"
"I could not, Clef. I could not." Andar spreads his arms in surrender, looking devastated. "Do you think this is how I wanted it?" He comes forward again, and Clef is too distraught to protest the hug. "Would that I could remain here with you. But I must fight."
Clef pulls away again, gazing at Andar with what he knows is a grave expression. "How did you get that cut on your forehead?" He watches closely for any sign that Andar is hiding something. Just watching Andar try so hard not to give himself away does the opposite. "They got too close to you," Clef says, reaching the conclusion unaided. "You can't fight as well as you used to." His voice sounds hollow to his own ears. "You are crawling into the lion's den and you aren't even certain you can protect yourself." He turns away from Andar, overcome with a mixture of despair and anger. "How have you done this to me? We barely know each other, yet if I lost you—if I lost you now, it would be like losing a limb."
"We know each other." Andar doesn't reach for him this time, letting the words hang in the air. "The most important things… we know. When the war is over, we will have all the time we need."
"When the war is over, we may have run out of time."
"I will come back to you," Andar swears with startling ferocity. "If there is a breath left in this body, it will be used to reach you."
It is both the right thing and the wrong thing to say. Clef goes to him, and kisses him to stifle both of their sobs. There are no tears, but Andar presses their foreheads together and holds Clef tight. They stand that way for a long time.
Finally Andar whispers, "I have to go."
"Lady guide you and keep you safe," Clef manages to say. Andar accepts the blessing with a smile, brushing a knuckle against Clef's cheek before moving past him.
He doesn't want to look—doesn't want his last memory of Andar to be of him leaving. Clef can't help it, though. He watches Andar duck out of the tent, furs flapping in the sudden gust of wind, and already feels lost.
*~*~*
Clef does not sleep that night. He's not alone; the entire battalion is up and about. The clinic is quiet and its patients more than manageable. This leaves Clef ample time to sit and fret. He watches the soldiers mobilize, something he has never seen up close before. Captains and their troops fall in line behind their Companion General. Andar is among them somewhere, but Clef does not see him. He tries to remain unobtrusive, huddling inside his furs as he watches the heart of the Embergrass army prepare to fight the decisive battle.
Despite the scale of the operation, Clef can tell they are trying to be as quiet as possible. It's naive to believe that an army of this size will remain hidden from the Mountaineers for long, but Clef can't help but be impressed by the relative stealth.
Cleric Elayne appears at his side, shivering in her own layers of furs. She is a pallid blonde, and the bitter cold makes her even whiter. "I heard they plan to climb the Teeth with five different factions, and strike five key positions."
Andar mentioned no such thing, but Clef doesn't tell her that. "I heard this is the battle that decides the war."
"Yes," she says quietly. "I heard that, too."
*~*~*
Four hours after the battalion marches, Clef is trying to pretend he is very interested in the tea that's steeping. He begins wishing for a patient to wake up, delirious and fussy, just so he would have something to focus on. Geoffrey and Elayne sit around the candles with him, steadfastly ignoring the sounds of war. The harsh mountain winds carry the sounds of the battle to the camp, filling their ears with distant metallic clangs and shouts.
Elayne is pouring him a cup when the clap of thunder rumbles through the Teeth, startling them all. Clef drops his cup and yelps when the tea scalds him, but the clink of its landing is drowned out with another barrage of thunder. When a third round rolls out on its heels, Clef exchanges terrified glances with Elayne and Geoffrey.
"That's not thunder," he realizes, and then they're stumbling in their haste to get outside.
Without the protection of their furs, the Red Mountains night air is brittle and unforgiving. Clef ignores it as best he can, peering into the distance. Their camp is not close enough to see what is happening, but the thunder rolls again and again and again.
"What is it?" Geoffrey asks over the noise.
The Commander-General left a small contingent in the camp. Clef spies one of the sentries by one of the supply tents. She's younger than most of the soldiers, and looks none too pleased to be guarding stores of beets and potatoes while a battle rages on only hours away.
"Brother," she says, gaping at his state of undress. "Put your cloak on—unless you believe you can sew with frostbitten fingers."
"What is happening?" he asks, even as he shivers. "What is that sound?"
She hesitates for a fraction of a second before saying, "I don't know, Brother."
Clef bares his teeth in a snarl. "Girl, it is
most unwise
to lie to the cleric in charge of what you eat." A flicker of nervousness ghosts her face before she manages to smooth it out. Clef plows on. "I need to know. I need to know what it is so I can prepare for—for having to fix it."
To her credit, the sentry does look apologetic. "I'm sorry, Brother, but I only know rumors. I don't want to frighten you."
Clef resists the urge to pull out his hair. He's half-mad with worry. "If it's a rumor, then it will do no harm. Speak, soldier!"
"Bombs."
Clef finds himself taken aback. "Come again?"
"Mixtures from the Mountaineers' mines," she says. "The other soldiers have been whispering about it. Sometimes, when the ore and powders are good, Mountaineers can make projectile weapons." A look of wonder flits across her face, as though she cannot decide if she should be frightened or impressed. "They are more dangerous than arrows or catapults. They crash like thunder and flash like lightning. They make fire when they explode. Bombs."
As if on cue, another bomb goes off, its explosion echoing through the Teeth. Clef's heart leaps to his throat.
Is it true? Lady save us, do such things exist? If they do, does Andar know about them?
"Go inside, Brother," the sentry pleads with him. "We are losing enough of our own out there."
Clef stares at the treacherous mountains for a few moments longer, wanting answers more than anything, but eventually heeds the sentry's advice.
*~*~*
His answer comes not an hour later. "Cleric!"
Clef, Elayne, and Geoffrey all spring from their cushions, alert and ready to help. The commotion rouses much of the little clinic again, after it had taken Geoffrey the better part of the hour to soothe everyone awoken by the bombs. The patient ushered into their tent is a bloodied mess, hanging limply between a soldier and the sentry from earlier.
"Lady help us," Elayne says under her breath.
The man's helmet is gone, and his hair has been seared off. His scalp is covered with blackened abrasions. His armor is dented, almost concave against his stomach. He looks like—Clef swallows—he looks like a man shoved into flame.
"Balls of fire," he's muttering between coughs. "They made balls of fire."
"Lady help us," Geoffrey says, sifting through potions and salves so roughly that he drops several of them.
"Who is he?" Clef asks as he directs them to an empty pallet.
"The messenger from Flying Shadow," the sentry replies, settling the wounded soldier onto the blankets.
"Flying Shadow." The words fall from Clef's lips like bricks. He goes very still, watching the soldiers watch him.
"Yes," the soldier says, frustrated. "Bastard Northerners ambushed Flying Shadow. Burned them clear off the Teeth. This one is the only man left."
"Balls of fire," the wounded messenger mutters, tossing his head upon the pillow. "General Andar said—beware the balls of fire."