"Get him to his quarters," she orders the guards. "I'll fetch the physician. And someone find the Warlord—he'll want to know about this immediately."
Vaike. Evran's heart clenches at the thought. The Warlord will hear that he's been in a fight, that he's injured. Will he think Evran was reckless? That he should have run with Eira instead of standing his ground?
But there's no time to worry about that now. The guards are helping him up the stairs, each step sending jolts of pain through his battered body. His head is swimming, vision blurring at the edges, and he has to focus all his remaining energy on putting one foot in front of the other.
His room, when they finally reach it, looks like a sanctuary. The guards help him to the bed, and he sits heavily on the edge, his hands trembling now that the fight is over.
"The physician will be here soon," one guard assures him. "You did well, defending her like that. Took real courage."
Evran just nods, not trusting himself to speak. Now that the immediate danger has passed, the reality of what just happened is crashing over him. He'd been in a real fight. He'd used a blade on another person, drawn blood, hurt people in self-defense and defense of another.
His hands are shaking. There's blood on them—some his, some theirs—and he stares at them like they belong to a stranger.
The door opens and an elderly woman enters, carrying a leather bag that marks her as the physician. She has sharp eyes and gentle hands, and she begins examining him with brisk efficiency.
"Head wound first," she mutters, probing gently at his scalp. "Not too deep, but you'll have a nasty bruise. Your wrist—twisted, maybe sprained. Ribs are likely bruised but not broken, from the way you're breathing. You're lucky, young man."
Lucky. Evran supposes he is. It could have been much worse. If the guards had been even a minute later...
He doesn't want to think about that.
The physician cleans his wounds, her touch expert and efficient. The head wound stings fiercely as she applies some kind of salve, and his wrist protests when she wraps it in clean linen. She gives him something to drink—a bitter tea that she says will help with the pain and help him rest.
"You'll be sore for several days," she informs him. "Keep that wrist wrapped and don't use it if you can help it. Someone will check on you this evening. For now, rest. Your body needs time to recover."
She leaves, and Evran is alone with his thoughts and his aching body. He lies back carefully, every movement sending new complaints through various parts of his anatomy. Thetea is already making him feel fuzzy at the edges, warm and disconnected.
His last coherent thought before sleep claims him is a question: what will Vaike say when he hears about this?
Then darkness pulls him under, and he knows nothing more.
Chapter 10
Evran wakes to the sound of his door opening, pulled from uneasy dreams where he's fighting shadows that won't stay down no matter how many times he strikes them. For a disorienting moment he doesn't know where he is—his head throbs, his body aches in too many places to count, and the light filtering through his window has the golden quality of late afternoon rather than morning.
Then memory crashes back. The attack. The fight. Eira's terrified face. Blood on his hands.
He tries to sit up and immediately regrets it as pain lances through his ribs. A groan escapes before he can stop it, and he falls back against the pillows, breathing carefully through the discomfort.
"Easy," a familiar voice says, and Evran's eyes fly open to find Vaike standing just inside his door, closing it behind him with a soft click.
The Warlord looks... different somehow. Still imposing, still carrying that aura of controlled power, but there's tension in his shoulders and something sharp in his eyes that might beconcern. He's dressed more casually than Evran has seen him outside of that night in the training grounds—a simple dark tunic and trousers, his hair pulled back loosely, the silver torc at his throat catching the lamplight.
Evran's heart, which had been beating sluggishly from sleep and medication, suddenly kicks into a faster rhythm. Vaike is here. In his room. And Evran looks like he lost a fight—which he did—and he's probably about to be told exactly how inadequate his performance was.
"My lord," Evran manages, his voice rougher than he expects. His throat is dry, and he winces as he shifts to try to sit up more properly despite the pain.
"I said easy," Vaike repeats, moving closer to the bed with those fluid, predator-like movements. "Don't aggravate your injuries trying to observe formalities."
But Evran can't just lie there like an invalid while the Warlord stands over him. He manages to prop himself up slightly against the pillows, biting back another groan as his ribs protest. At least now he can meet Vaike's eyes with something approaching dignity, even if he's certain he looks terrible.
Vaike pulls the chair from beside the window over to the bedside and sits, which somehow makes everything worse. Now they're at eye level, and Evran can see every detail of the Warlord's expression—the tightness around his eyes, the set of his jaw, the way his hands are clenched on his knees.
"I came as soon as I heard," Vaike says, and his voice carries an edge that makes Evran's stomach drop. "The guards gave their report about two hours ago. I was in the eastern watchtowers dealing with supply issues, or I would have been here sooner."
Here it comes, Evran thinks. The reprimand. The disappointment. He should have been better trained, should have been more skilled, shouldn't have let himself get injured by three common travelers. If he'd been a real warrior, a realmember of the clan, he would have handled it without getting hurt.
"I'm sorry," Evran says quickly, the words spilling out before Vaike can start listing his failures. "I know I should have been better. I should have remembered more of Kellin's training, should have been faster, should have—"
