Xandril attempts to shake off one of the grooms, but in doing so, he cries out, toppling to the hay-strewn floor, his breaths coming in labored wheezes. There’s a part of me that wants to be worried about him, about what will happen to this place—tome—if something happens to him, but there’s no time for worry or fear right now. Instead, I let anger take the reins.
“Do you see where being stubborn has gotten you? Now stay put until we can get you moved inside and upstairs, I don’t want you hurting yourself any worse.”
No one in the stable says anything or makes eye contact with either one of us. The group of grooms is putting together something they use to move sick and injured animals while Morwen’s already gone, happy to leave this place as soon as she arrived. Visri is in the stall with Starcaller and her calf, tears streaking his face.
As much as I want to be irritated with Xandril for his stubborn disregard for his own wellbeing, I can’t deny that we accomplished something incredible here.
“I’m the king,” he wheezes from a pile of hay at my feet. “You can’t give me orders.”
“Hmm,” is my only response.
Despite his protests, he doesn’t move again until he’s being transported gingerly into the castle’s keep.
Our procession takes him up toward the royal quarters, stopping short when I can’t bear to hear his breaths grow any shallower.
“In here,” I instruct the grooms, gesturing to a long table in what looks like a meeting room. Whatever it is, the table is big enough for my betrothed, groaning under his weight as he’s set down.
Arms trembling from the effort of transporting his muscular form, even with half a dozen of them, the grooms lower him as gently as possible, but there’s only so much room with Xandril’s size and spikes, and one of them jostles him while removing their arm.
Xandril snarls, eyes burning coals as he lashes out with his claws, too lost in his own pain to even know what he’s doing. The groom jumps back, knocking over a chair and vase, the crash echoing through the room. Xandril’s claws didn’t even catch the groom’s fabric, but the whole cadre of them is now another step further from the table. That solitary burst of energy is all the king seems to have, and he collapses back to the table with another strangled groan.
I’ve spent enough time around injured animals to know how they can seem angry and vicious when they’re really in pain. I don’t think Xandril would be happy if he wound up hurting someone in his haze, especially not when he’s still trying to earn their trust and loyalty.
“Thank you,” I say to the group of grooms. “Please go back and enjoy the festivities.” Visri’s told me more than enough about the feasts and celebrations that would follow the birth of a new ifrak. Even with circumstances being less than ideal, the need to celebrate remains. Is perhaps even stronger.
Morwen passes them on their way out, bringing with her a cart laden with jars and bottles, vials of powders and little pots of salves and ointments. She’s frowning at the collection as she begins to group things, opening a selection before I can stop her.
“Morwen, I should be the one to treat him.” My voice is soft, but Morwen’s been around me long enough to know that it’s not a request. “Just tell me what these do and how to administer them. I don’t want anyone else risking harm.”And for some reason, I’m confident he won’t hurt me. I keep that part to myself because it sounds naive even to my own mind.
Morwen frowns at me, then back to the groaning king, looking like she’s considering arguing with me about it. Finally, the debate in her mind is over, and she reluctantly starts explaining the different ways to treat pain, infection, bleeding, fever, and anything else she can think of.
“I’d be able to fix him up right now if we had some halemercy essence. I checked the stores. Thought maybe there was a little bit that escaped Farandir’s notice before he fell into the stem…” It’s almost as if she’s muttering to herself more than explaining to me. She’s never been so candid with me about the former king.
Then again, we’ve never had to conspire together to save the life of thecurrentking. Things have changed between us.
“Would they have any in the barracks? Or in the village?” I don’t like how dark and cold he looks on the table, not a hint of the inner fire peeking through the fissures in his flesh. If there’s some magical thing that can heal him right away, I want it here. Now.
“Oh no, no,” Morwen says with a tut. “Soulstem choked it all out decades ago. We tried to keep some as long as we could, butitwasthe king’s. We couldn’t keep it from him. Doubt there’s any left in the reaches if it’s not here.”
Great. Doesn’t do me any good to know about this cure-all if it doesn’t even exist anymore.
Quickly, I run back through the important bits with Morwen, double-checking on anything I don’t quite remember. She’s hardly made it out the room when Xandril’s thready voice comes from the table.
“Leave…me,” he wheezes, each word halfway between a wince and a rasp. “Don’t need—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. You don’t need help,” I answer. I never really understood why Phillip sometimes rolls his eyes at me, but now the urge suddenly hits, and I get it. I have no more intention of listening to Xandril’s protests than my brother does with my warnings of caution.
The ferocious, conquering warlord of a king gives the most feeble, half-hearted growl in response, and I’ve got to bite back a chuckle. I don’t think he’d appreciate me laughing at him in this moment, but the idea that he’s any sort of threat right now is delusional. He can’t even move, let alone attack.
“Now,” I say, rolling the cart over to his side, everything laid out in the order I think I’ll need it. “Are you going to tell me where it hurts, or am I going to have to look over every inch of you?”
My attempt at levity is met with stony silence.
All right then.
If he thinks he can intimidate me into fleeing, he’s going to be sorely disappointed when he comes to and realizes I’m the one who’s nursed him back to health.
Bit by bit, I rip off strips of his clothing and wash away the blood and viscera from our ordeal in the stables. And little by little, relief begins to settle in as I realize none of the blood is his. He’s utterly still and quiet while I inspect him—I’m caring for him and checking for wounds,notexploring the planes of his muscles or the gentle grooves between them. With the condition he’s in, I’m not sure if he’s even conscious, so I take my time, trying to accomplish my tasks without disturbing him if possible.
