Well, his question was far from lascivious. “Is the lethal blessing always cold?”
“For me. Or for Gerant, really.” The line of her neck stiffened, and she added, in a more brittle, preemptive voice, “It was Poram’s power long before the storms.”
“So it was.” Amris tried to sound calm but not patronizing. “Indeed, I know not if Thyran had intended the cold specifically, or if he even knew entirely what he was about. Not, that is, that I had opportunity to ask him.”
“Didn’t exactly seem like a tea party you were having,” Darya said, reverting back to herself. “Sorry. You get enough warding signs when they think you’re not looking, you start…trying to get out ahead of it, you know?”
* * *
On the other hand, Darya had thought she’d gotten used to the sidelong glances and the awkward questions. Any of the Sentinels dealt with a certain number of those. The ones with powers that governed cold or flesh took a greater share. Normally she was only glad she’d avoided the rare powers that read, or influenced, minds and hearts. This time, she’d bristled as soon as Amris had mentioned the cold.
It had been a long few days. Gods knew she had plenty to be on edge about. And if she wanted him to like her—this competent man that her partner had loved and loved still—that was reasonable.
She went on, not looking over her shoulder to see how the water clung to his bare chest, beads catching in the dark hair trailing down the center, or the muscles of his back flexing as he turned to rinse his clothing again.
Not looking more than once or twice, at least. She wasn’t made of stone. That was a different blessing, and another one she was usually glad she’d avoided.
“The lethal gifts are really gifts for the sword-spirits, not for us. Gerant says I stabilize him, and that gives more force—like pushing off the ground when you jump—but he’s the one who actually sees how to do it and reaches for the power. Mortals…our flesh is an obstacle, as I understand it. And so the swords generally go to Sentinels who get their major blessing from the same god, but sometimes you get differences. There was a man I trained with, blessed by Tinival, who carries a blade bound to Sitha. He can cause earthquakes and then leap clear out of the way.”
Behind her, Amris wrung his clothing out and spread it on the rocks. Darya heard the run of the water, then the thick slap of cloth against stone. She watched the forest. You never knew what might come out of the trees, inclined to find bathers tasty.
“Everything look all right?” she asked, realized how that could sound, and added, “I’ve got a little more of the lignath, and we can heat up a knife if we need to, but we’re within a day, day and a half of Oakford unless we have more mishaps. When I left, they had a Mourner, though a junior one, and a couple herbalist healers.”
“Likely I’ll be fine without magic or hot steel, but the lignath would be a useful precaution, if you’ve enough to use on yourself.”
“Plenty. I won’t need much for these.”
She didn’t turn around at the footsteps. She knew what they meant. That was Amris getting out of the water. The rustling was him rummaging through her pack. Then came a popping sound, and a splash, and then he hissed.
Darya chuckled. “Can feel it doing you good, hmm?”
“On second thought, I’m not certain cautery would have been less pleasant. Still—” He replaced cork and bottle. “No point in regrets.”
“There are bandages in there too.”
“You prepare well.”
“I have to. It’s generally just me out here.”
“With nobody to stand guard while you bathe?”
“I’m not generally long enough in the wilderness. Or in need of catching horses.”
“Or engaged in pulling down bridges and fighting monsters, I suppose. Not in the same day.”
“I generally leave the stonework alone. It’s never done anything to me.” She remembered the falling wall in Klaishil, and added, “Mostly. And it’s usually not its fault, when it does.”
Amris chuckled, but gave no other answer, just the sounds of dressing and then his footsteps as he came around the rock.
With that warning, Darya did prepare herself. She didn’t flush like a girl. She didn’t stare at Amris’s bare chest, nor the way his damp trousers outlined the smooth firmness of his thighs. She was fairly sure she sounded casual when she asked, “My turn?”
“Just so. I think I can ward off anything natural without plate—gods know I managed it when I was a boy with a sling.”
“I’m not sure I enjoy being compared to a cow,” she said, heading toward the water.
“Pig. They’re smarter, if that’s a comfort.”
“Some.”
