Warden continues to stare at me, then, from under my bed, he draws out a sword. Not my sword, that is beside me here, but it is another sword.
“Then I will kill the witch.”
“Don’t…” I reach out, catching his hand before he stands up.
“Hazel.” His eyes turn back to me. “I cannot stand you hurting, nor the fact that someone has hurt you.” His fist is clenched around the sword hilt until his knuckles are white. “I have to do violence.”
“Not for me,” I half-whisper. “Never for me.”
“Only for you.” He puts down the sword, and his hand is on my face, cupping my cheek as light as light can be. “I watched you, wanting to give you my interminable life force, to do anything as long as you lived. I cannot do it again. Anything which threatens you has to die.”
“How long…?” I clear my throat weakly. “How long have I been here?”
“It has been a week,” Warden says, and his eyes are filled with pain. “A week of moon rises and sun sets.”
“Ah,” a female voice booms into the cavernous space. “Hazel is awake?”
A muscle jumps in Warden’s jaw.
“Yes, witch,” he responds, not turning around.
I crane my neck as far as I dare to get a glimpse of thewitchwho a second ago was going to die because of me.
A stunning woman, long blond hair flowing down her back, poker straight, and a set of brilliant aqua-blue eyes gives me a brief glance before going over to a table covered in bunches of foliage and thick granite bowls. She mashes something into one, pours in some hot water, and then strains the concoction into a horn beaker.
“How does she…how do you know my name?” I query.
“You told me your name, after the Shellycoat…hurt you,” Warden says through gritted teeth, and I have a feeling the Shellycoat’s days might be numbered.
“I shouldn’t have told you,” I say quietly.
“That’s what the Yeavering wants.” The witch hands Warden the beaker and nudges him with a sharp elbow. “Have your mate drink this.”
“Yes, Meg,” Warden says, his eyes not leaving my face.
“I am Meg of Maldon,” the witch says with a genuine smile at me. “Warden brought you here when you were injured by the Shellycoat. Those things have a nasty sting.”
“I was stung? By a fish-man?”
Warden hands me the beaker. I sniff at it, and it doesn’t smell horrible, so I risk a little taste. It’s sweet and refreshing. I drink it down in two gulps.
“Yes,” Warden growls. “You were stung by Beal. He will die in any case for violating you in that way.”
“I’d probably prefer for fewer things to be threatened with death today,” I say as a weariness comes over me.
“You still have much healing to do,” Meg says. “But you do not need to remain in my hall anymore. You can do the rest of your recovery with your mate.”
“My mate?”
“Warden, of course,” she says, as if I’ve been very silly. “Who else did you think? Me?”
She chuckles to herself as she picks up a wooden pail and walks out the door, followed by a deep growl from Warden, who immediately turns his attention to me.
“You don’t have to.” He rubs at his left horn again. “If you don’t want to.”
I’m feeling quite floaty, the pain in my joints dissipating nicely.
“I’d like to,” I hear myself say.
