On impulse, I turn my lips to his ear, brushing my mouth across his earlobe, conscious of his sharply indrawn breath.
“I’m not helping you, Stellen,” I whisper, again brushing my lips to his skin, the same gesture he used when his song kept me alive. “I’mtellingyou, as your equal, that I’m going to move you over to the rock wall and lay you down.” My voice hardens. “And you’re going to let me.”
My right arm is already secure across his back, and I’ve kept his left arm across my shoulders, but now I raise my left hand back to his heart, ensuring I have good leverage over his chest.
When he twitches again, I snarl into his ear. “If you continue to fight me, I’ll pick up your blades and ensure the Alak-Teah makes short work of both of us. Is that what you want?”
Softly, he huffs.
The resistance finally drains from his body, but the visible clamminess on his forehead worries me. A sharp contrast to the ice radiating from his chest.
Bracing against his weight, I push upward, knowing full well that I won’t be able to hold him up for long.
I need to make the most of the next few seconds.
As quickly as I can, I draw him toward the rock wall. One heavy step after the other, while my knees nearly buckle, and I barely make it there.
Rapidly twisting to the side so that my back is to the stone, I crouch, then lower myself down and him along with me.
“Lie down,” I tell him. “On your side. Head on my lap. Turned toward me so you don’t choke.”
It’s all I can do to pull one side of my cloak beneath his hips and upper legs before he reaches the ground.
His head settles on my lap, his hair sticking to his damp forehead and cheeks. His eyes are closed, and his breathing is ragged, but somehow, my left hand has stayed near his heart.
I keep my voice firm. “Now. Tell me: what’s wrong?”
He’s silent for a long moment before he speaks, a clipped explanation. “My heart was injured. Three days ago. An assassination attempt. Nothing new for me. But it seems that if I overuse my power—” He gives a short exhale. “Apparently, this happens.”
My mind whirls at his mention of an assassination attempt. An assassin killed my father. Another tried to kill me. Now it seems someone came after Stellen, too.
I can ask him questions later. For now, I focus on what I need to do.
Getting him to lie down was only the first step.
Carefully avoiding the wordhelp, I ask, “What do you need now? Do you need water?”
“No,” he says. “I just need to rest.”
With excruciating slowness, he presses his left hand over the top of mine, covering his heart again, but this time, he doesn’t push me away.
He exhales heavily and lies still.
Carefully, I brush the hair from his face, checking his lips. No new blood.
“Well, then,” I murmur, “was that so hard?’
He doesn’t respond.
No whispered rebuke.
No warnings of pain.
A silence descends over us, but the calm feels as powerful as when he hums.
His silences matter.
I suppose mine do, too.
