“Excuse me?”
“Quite the scene, wouldn’t you say?”
Perhaps, if his countenance were not so distracting, I could focus on the conversation rather than his appearance. Though the swelling is somewhat reduced, he is still a sorry sight to behold.
There is no natural flow to his features. His nose appears broken, bent horribly out of shape. His skin stretches in uneven patches across a jaw far too wide and sharp to be natural. Only his eyes are striking, slightly translucent in color, a certain curiosity darkening his gaze as he scans me from head to toe.
“Is it you I have to thank for my swift recovery?” he asks in a low, musical tone. The weightless timbre of his voice seems content to drift until the end of time. It is too pretty for his mien.
“It is,” I reply.
“Then I thank you.” He dips his chin, and gazes at me with a forwardness that draws heat to my face. “This is a kindness I must repay.”
After some consideration, I lower the dagger from his chest. I sense no ill-will from him. “No repayment necessary, but in the future, I would think twice before startling a woman in her bedroom. I could have hurt you beyond repair.”
“I do not think that is likely,” he says, eyes bright with amusement, “but I appreciate the forewarning.”
My mouth twitches in irritation, and I retreat toward my cot to put additional space between us. If the shutters were locked, how could he have gained access from outside the window, and on the third story no less?
“It seems that I am in your debt.”
“As I said, repayment is unnecessary. You were hurt. Anyone would have helped.”
“So you claim.” I cannot read the intention behind his response. “Even so, debts must be repaid.”
The intensity of his focus briefly forces my attention back to the window. Darkness lies thickly over Carterhaugh. It is not my business, the why or how or what of his predicament.
“I can sense your curiosity.” He lifts a hand, studies it front to back, before sliding it into his pocket. “What is it you wish to know?”
My eyes drop. I take a breath, then another for good measure.
“What manner of creature gave you those wounds?” Peeking through my eyelashes, I catch an emotion tightening his facial muscles, too fleeting to read. Doubt maybe, or pain.
“The manner of creature would be my brother, unfortunately.” A shrug. “What’s done is done. I insist on repaying your kindness.”
“It was nothing.”
“A life is not nothing. Isn’t that what your teachings preach?” He gestures to the contents of my desk, the heavy tome that is the Text.
“You keep the faith?” Intrigue colors my inquiry.
He pushes off the wall, and I am taken aback twice in the span of a few minutes. Buoyant. It is the only way to describe his gait. A seamless floating of limbs, nothing but ebb and flow.
“You could say I was once quite devoted to faith. Now I am merely faithless.”
The bell tower tolls the sixth hour, signaling dinner. At the man’s approach, I retreat further, lifting my dagger in warning. Was I naive to think him harmless?
He studies my weapon yet does not come within striking distance. Perhaps he recognizes I will not hesitate to use the blade if I must. “That’s a fine knife,” he says. “Where did you procure it?”
“I am a bladesmith, sir. It was fashioned by my own hand.”
He merely blinks. “Well, that’s not something you encounter every day.”
Insult, or compliment? I cannot discern his intention. “Is the dagger your weapon of choice?” I ask, unable to stop myself.
He laughs, and my heart skips a beat. “No. I favor the bow. I have found knives to be an inconvenience. They force you into an enemy’s space, which I find disadvantageous.”
So he considers the dagger an inferior weapon? “Perhaps practice is needed. Maybe then you would not feel unprepared.”
