Gilene called after her. “Good night.”
She found Azarion by a pallet under one of the big oaks. Made of layers of blankets and furs, the makeshift bed looked both comfortable and warm and big enough for them to sleep without fighting for the covers. All very enticing except for the fact that she’d have to share it with her captor.
Azarion took off his shoes and slid gingerly between the layers of bedding, fully clothed. He stretched out on his back, one arm crooked behind him so that his head rested in his palm and acted as a pillow. He watched Gilene, who stood at the foot of their bed.
“Your ribs don’t trouble you now?” Just days earlier, he’d been unable to sleep lying down, the pain in his ribs too sharp to stay in such a position. Cracked ribs took weeks to heal, yet he lay there, looking peaceful and pain-free.
“Don’t sound so disappointed,” he said, and his eyes narrowed with a silent amusement that made her back snap straight. “They still ache, but Halani used a salve for bruising, and it’s taken much of the pain away.”
Gilene looked to where Halani stood talking with her uncle and three others. They spoke too softly for anyone beyond their immediate circle to hear, but whatever was said elicited argument from Halani and excitement from Hamod and the others.
The trader woman possessed a gift or two worthy of note: thatof storytelling and of healing. The second was remarkable in its effectiveness, and Gilene suspected there was more to her poultices and salves than just a skilled hand with herbs and beeswax.
“You can’t stand there all night, wife. Come to bed.” Azarion’s teasing interrupted her musings, and Gilene growled at him.
“Don’t call me that,” she said.
“Gilene then.”
“That either.” She sat down on her side of the blankets and pulled off her borrowed slippers, wondering whether anyone would question things if Valdan was found dead of suffocation the next morning. Such a plan was doomed to fail as she didn’t think she could summon enough false tears to convince even the most sympathetic soul she was a grieving widow.
Like him, she slid under the blankets fully clothed, trying not to sigh her pleasure that the heat generated by Azarion’s big body already warmed the space between the covers. She lay on her side, back to him, and pulled the blankets up to her jaw.
“Did you like Halani’s tale of Kansi Yuv and the draga?” he asked.
Gilene flipped to her other side so she might face him. “I liked her telling of it, though I think the ending sad.” Why was she even carrying on this conversation with him?
Tiny lines fanned at the corners of his eyes, as if he heard her thoughts and found them funny. “The dragas, they say, were once many, and only became destructive when the Empire hunted them for trophies and glory. The Sun Maiden’s draga was the last of its kind.”
That was the element of the story she found tragic. “It must have been something to behold when it lived.”
“It’s still something to behold in death. Golnar’s bones hang asdecoration in the empress’s chambers. They circle the entire room at least twice.”
She gasped. He’d seen the actual draga’s bones? Part of her only half believed in the story. No one she knew had ever seen one draga bone, much less an entire draga skeleton. They seemed more myth to her than history—until now. That made the story even sadder.
The dying flames from the nearby fire cast shadows that hollowed out the spaces under Azarion’s cheekbones and turned his bright gaze dark. “You told Halani you’d sleep with me?”
“Aye, though she offered her wagon to me for another night.”
“If you try to escape...”
Whatever faint truce existed between them for that transient moment died with Azarion’s implied warning. Gilene bared her teeth at him. “If I promise not to repeat several times a day how much I loathe you, can you do the same and stop threatening me? I’m aware I’m a mere woman and you are the great warrior who can catch me at any time.”
He didn’t mock her, and his expression turned intense. “I will return you to Beroe when I no longer need you,Agacin,” he said in an oddly fervent voice.
Her heart leapt at his words, yearning to believe him yet not daring to. His tone brought forth a vague recollection. She had asked him a question in the forest adjacent to Midrigar, and he had answered with the same fervency.
What if I had fallen or couldn’t keep up?
I would have carried you.
Had that exchange been real or a figment of fevered delirium? Her heart wanted to believe the first, believe that there was more to this man than threats, and violence, and relentless resolve. Hermind shouted down her heart, and she frowned. “Why should I trust you when you’ve lied so often?”
Azarion stretched out his hand as if to touch her, stopping when she drew back. “Because in this, I’m not lying.”
His declaration had no more substance than a puff of smoke from the nearby fire. And even if it did, there were ways of interpreting it that made the hairs on her arms rise in warning. “Then the question remains,” she said. “When you no longer need me, will you return me to my people dead? Or alive?”
CHAPTER SIX
