If we survived this,Iwould get drunk, and we’d never speak of this night again.
Taran lifted the jug and took a long swig despite his awkward half crouch against the wall, expression as furious as when I’d last seen him.
“You’ve had enough,” I said, reaching for the wine.
At my movement, Taran wheeled away, trying to put his back to me.
“Get your own,” he snapped.
Either his tone or the jerky way he’d moved made me take a second glance at him, and it was enough to wash away at least half my anger. His pupils were blown wide and shocky, and the handthat held his cloak shut didn’t entirely conceal the raw burns on his throat.
There were drips of liquid on the floor behind him, and until I was close, I thought he’d spilled the wine. But no, Taran’s blood gleamed like newly minted gold coins on the dirty inlaid wood of the floor.
“What did she do to you?” I whispered.
“Nothing. Get out of here.” He convulsively licked his lips before trying again to lift the jug. This time I managed to snatch it out of his resistant fingers. If he was hurt, the last thing he needed was more wine.
Quickly scanning the hallway, I tried doors until one opened to an austere bedroom. The air was stale, but the single bunk and simple cedar furniture were clean and neat, ready for a crafter-priest who’d never returned for the shoes tucked under the bed.
“In here,” I ordered him. I held out my hand, which he ignored to shuffle unsteadily to his feet.
“I told you to go home.”
“I didn’t listen. Get on the bed and let me see whatever injury you’re hiding,” I told him, fairly certain I would win this argument, as I had a lot more experience with stubborn patients than he did in commanding priests.
“Skyfather’s done worse when he didn’t like how I bid him good morning. It’ll heal by tomorrow.”
“No. We’re both leavingtonight, even if I have to push you out in a wheelbarrow.”
With an angry twist of his lips, Taran moved stiffly to the bed. I gave broad warning of my movement as I approached him, but he was still reluctant to release the white-knuckled grip on his cloak and let me peel it away from his skin.
I hissed as my mind automatically reconstructed what had been done to him.
The bruises were the oldest. On a mortal, I would have said they were a few days old, vivid and painful, all up and down the breadth of his chest, with only his unlaced trousers and the folds of his cloak concealing the extent of it. Bruises in different shapes, sizes—from fists, boots, belts, whatever objects had come to hand.
That had been done first, and his immortal constitution was already trying to heal the damage. What was more recent, what had me struggling to keep from crying, was the incision. It started at the vee of his collarbones and went down the length of his chest, all the way past his navel. Someone had neatly peeled through layers of skin and muscle, down to thebone, cut him open like a field-dressed buck to be aged until tender. Blood still welled along the edges, thin spiderwebs of red over bright gold—a mortal wound on an immortal body. The burned skin on his throat, puffy blisters in the shape of a handprint, told me how he’d been kept still long enough for the Huntress to do this.
“Oh, sweet Maiden,Taran, I need to suture this,” I said wildly. A mortal wouldn’t even be conscious by this point, let alone panting fury through clenched teeth.
“Leave it alone.”
“The hell I will.”
I fumbled with my pack for a needle and thread—how would I sterilize anything? Could Taran even get an infection?—then climbed onto the bed as Taran tried to bat me away.
“Don’t bother. She used a steel knife, not stone. It won’t kill me.”
“Whywould you let her?”
His lip curled. “You remember they were about to hand you over to Death, don’t you, darling?”
I wouldn’t have let him go if I’d known this was what she’d do. I should have dragged him out when I had the chance. “I thought she just wanted—” I couldn’t get the words out through the choking deluge of guilt, because I’d been thinking about my own uselessjealousy rather than the expression on his face when I first mentioned Smenos. He didn’t want to come here, but I made him.
“You know, I would have preferred that,” Taran said caustically, arms wrapped around himself. “It’s harder to close your eyes and think of something else when yourliver’sbeing fondled. But no, she was called away by some alarm before she could turn to the romantic portion of our time together.”
His teeth were bared like a fox with its leg caught in a trap, both of us snarling and angry because anger was easier than fear. Easier than my bottomless sadness that Taran had obviously endured this at her hands before.
I pressed my hands over my eyes, dashing tears away against my palms. My distress finally registered with Taran, who stopped trying to push me off the bed. He lay back, hands still protectively curled over his stomach.
