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He tilted his head. His damaged senses still misfired from time to time.
Waiting for the ringing to subside, he brushed past the woman and stepped into the tent.
She must have burned herbs through the night again; the dim interior hung thick with the bitter tang of smoke. Yet beneath it lingered another scent—the sweet, turning smell of fruit just beginning to rot.
It was an odd fragrance, one that had begun rising from her skin at some point.
He held his breath for a moment, then took a slow draw of the air. Then he called out softly.
“Talia.”
There was no answer, but he could feel she was there.
He moved through the clutter of bowls, wine jugs, and cups, his gaze scanning the room. Beside the rumpled bed, his steps halted before a heap of cast-off clothing.
He crouched down before a large chest set in the corner of the tent.
When he lifted the lid, he found her huddled inside, curled tightly into a ball.
Once more, a strange reaction seized him. It struck like an iron hoof driven into the pit of his stomach.
Steadying the hollow ache inside him, he laid a hand on her shoulder.
Her head had been buried against her knees, but at his touch, she looked up.
Beneath lashes heavy with moisture, her eyes showed a blue of utter purity, clear and unclouded. Fresh tears streaked skin so translucent it looked like that of some creature from the deep sea.
He cupped her damp cheeks, his thumb stroking her flushed chin, and gently lifted her drooping head.
A few thin scratches ran along the nape of her slender neck, as though something had caught her flesh. As he leaned closer to inspect them, words parted her blood-red lips in a brittle whisper.
“The beasts… did you kill them all?”
He met her gaze again.
Drowned in tears, her deep blue irises wavered.
He remembered the first time he had looked into those eyes.
It was the very first color that had returned to him on the day his sight was restored.
A tightness caught in the back of his throat. He drew a long breath and rose to his feet.
Her arms reached up and wound around his neck as if it were second nature. A faint whimper broke against his skin, damp and warm.
“I thought they were taking me away again.”
Varkas pulled her tighter into his arms.
That will never happen.
The reassurance rose to the tip of his tongue, only to sink back down. Ever since the incident, he found himself swallowing his words whenever he was near her.
Held back again and again, they accumulated inside him like silt.
He grimaced at the heavy, stony pressure weighing in his gut, then gently stroked her narrow, trembling back.
Her stiff body gradually relaxed, leaning into him. When he lifted her chin from his shoulder, her eyes were already shut in exhaustion.
He brushed his thumb over her golden lashes, shifted his grip as she slipped downward, and swept his gaze over the tent.
Spotting a coat hanging from one of the central poles, he grabbed it, wrapped it around her, and walked out.
He crossed the campsite with long strides. Several mounted warriors dismantling the nearby tents cast curious looks his way, prompting him to pull the hood all the way over her head.
Men had looked at her like hungry stray dogs since before she had even grown to five kvets. And though she feared them, she would still leave herself completely exposed to their eyes from time to time. As if she cared little whether they tore her apart.
He tucked her tighter against his chest and picked up his pace, eager to shake off the stares.
Stepping inside his own tent, he laid her onto the cot. Her frame, having thinned noticeably over the past few months, struck him anew.
A dry breath hitched in his throat.
What grated on him most was that her emaciation only made her beauty sharper, more perilous. Varkas ran his eyes over the slender line of her neck, the wasted shoulders, the stark ridge of her collarbone, then looked toward the tent flap.
The young squire who had followed to attend him was sneaking glances at her. The half-dead nerves beneath his skin flared with irritation.
He dismissed every attendant and tied the flap shut. It proved to be a poor choice; the tent soon filled with her sweet scent.
A sudden, parched thirst burned at the back of his throat, and he swallowed hard.
He pushed his damp hair back with a rough hand, scowling down at the pale cheeks still marked by tears.
Words she had sobbed out in terror years ago surfaced in his memory.
“He… he told me so. That he can’t stop… that he’ll keep searching for me, like an addict…”
He bit the inside of his cheek with his back teeth until he tasted iron.
Pressing two fingers to his temple, he took his coat from the corner.
The moment he stepped outside, the sharp, coppery smell of blood filled his lungs.
As he drew in a deep breath to scour away the foulness lingering in his throat, a Barakan warrior in full battle dress walked up.
“We are nearly ready. As soon as your tent is struck, we can ride. Shall we take it down now?”
“In an hour.”
Varkas spoke in a low rumble after a short silence.
“We move once we have caught our breath.”
A faint smirk touched the man’s mouth.
He shrugged, his tone unbothered.
“As you command.”
The warrior turned away at once to pass down the orders.
Varkas sat atop an overturned water barrel, gazing out toward the Norden Plains faintly visible through the trees.
A dry gust of wind dragged across his cheek.
A familiar scent rode the breeze.
Where had he caught it before?
As he sifted through the fog of memory, a wolf’s howl rose in the distance.
He turned toward it.
The long, mournful cry echoed from the tree line.
Her frail body could not endure the journey, and the fever took hold without letting go.
Staring up at the rocking ceiling of the carriage, Talia tossed and turned, short of breath. The coach moved at a crawl, yet even that dull vibration racked her like torture.
She gripped her temples against the pain splitting her skull.
The piercing call of a horn rang outside. Had they arrived? Dragging herself upright, she looked out the window. Through the haze of fever, a great plain unfolded.
Her eyes widened at the unfamiliar expanse. Deep green grasslands stretched out as though spilling into the sky, rippling beneath a sudden rush of wind.
She unlatched the carriage window, letting the chill air cool her flushed cheeks.
“That is Kalmor over there.”
Startled by the voice, she turned to find a rider keeping pace alongside the carriage. Drawing nearer, he gave an easy smile.
“I am Tyrone. We were introduced before; do you recall?”
She kept her mouth shut, offering only a cold, guarded stare. The man’s smile slipped a fraction. He searched her face for a moment before speaking on, unruffled by her silence.
“You appear quite unwell.”
· · ·
“We will reach Raedgo Castle shortly. Do you see the stone walls ahead?”
He pointed into the distance.
Talia followed his outstretched finger.
Along the horizon stood gray-brown ramparts that looked as if they had been molded from ash and sand. She leaned closer to the window to take them in.
Raedgo Castle seemed built from slabs of raw rock piled high upon one another.
Massive outer ramparts, stripped of any ornament, wrapped the foot of the hill, while towers and bastions made only of sharp, straight lines rose starkly above them.
Her hand rose instinctively to the nape of her neck.
Perhaps it was the sheer barrenness of the place where she was meant to live, but a cold shudder crept down her back.
END