What was he now?
“Can I help?”
The words escaped my lips before I knew I was going to offer them.
His smile was tired.
“Ye have—this meal is delicious. But I think…”
He stood, swaying just slightly, and smothered a yawn.
“I think I’ll go to sleep early tonight.”
When he turned toward the hearth, I saw his injury—dark and inflamed—and frowned. He pulled his plaid around himself and lay down on his side and didn’t move again all night.
Aye, the guilt was eating at me.
I told myself he deserved the pain and infection after what he’d done. Issa had said that the dead humans deserved their fate for standing between the Battleborn raiders and their goal, and in that same vein, Vrogul deserved this.
But that didn’t make me feel less like shite.
He was gone the following morning when I awoke, and I assumed he was sparring with his men, as he seemed to do each morning. As I tidied the house, I realized thoughtfully that I had made thismyplace in a short amount of time. My trews hung from a peg, along with a spare gown one of Issa’s friends had given me, and a long apron. My favorite foods were in the larder, and I’d claimed one side of the bed.
Was that why Vrogul was avoiding his own home?
Avoiding me?
Or did he rightfully hold me responsible for his current pain?
I was still musing this, my head tucked and my shoulders hunched, as I hurried through the village to fetch water later that morning.
“Rowena!”
The call pulled me up short, and I spun about—ignoring the way the water splashed from my bucket—to see Matthias and Maardok hurrying toward me. The healer looked concerned, but the warrior was glowering.
I resisted the urge to back away.
“Good morrow,” I offered hesitantly.
“This is yer fault,” Maardok growled, reaching me. “Ye need to fix it.”
I glanced back and forth between the two men.
“What is my fault?”
“Vrogul is killing himself?—”
“‘Tis no’ so bad,” Matthias interrupted, and thank God he did, because at Maardok’s announcement, an unexpected hole of dread opened in my stomach, and I felt as if my blood had drained out.
“What is going on?” I croaked.
The healer fumbled to pull a packet from his belt, but the warrior answered.
“My brother is no’ sleeping, no’ eating enough. He is wan and frail and?—”
“I am sorry,” I blurted, lifting the water bucket in front of me as a sort of shield. “But he attackedme. I had notplannedon stabbing him.”
I knew the defense was weak—I could still be smashed to a pulp by Maardok’s giant fists.
