They would all leave my rooms before it got too late, but I knew that Griff would be back. Ever since that first nightmare after Ignistar, he had spent every night with me. No more mysterious trips to visit holes in the Veil. Sometimes he reappeared almost immediately after leaving with Finn; other times, he showed up after I was already in bed. But he always returned, not willing to leave me alone for a night. The dreams lessened when he was there, although they didn’t disappear entirely. I still didn’t know what he was worried about, nor did I know why exactly he was there—duty or something more?
But I knew we couldn’t keep this up. Especially since before my nightmares, he had been gone constantly, and if he was here, who was dealing with the hufen and the other chaos caused by the holes? Predictably, he said little when I confronted him about it one night before bed.
“It’s necessary for me to be here.”
“I thought you said you were the only one who could do it.”
“There haven’t been many recently. And those that have happened, others can handle.”
I got the feeling he was lying to me. Especially given the knowledge I now had from the council meetings. “You don’t need to spend every night here. They’re just nightmares.”
“Dreams have a way of being real. Even if it’s just in your head. I’m not running the risk of you getting lost in the darkness when I can be here. I’ll hold you every damn night if it keeps you safe. Now hush.” He rolled over and rested his arm over my waist. We always started off with him loosely touching me, just reminding me of his presence, and every morning, I woke up tangled in his arms.
We had yet to talk about that.
My mind was considering the contradiction of Griff the following morning at the training yard as I worked my way through a series of exercises designed to strengthen my muscles. I had taken over one of the empty sparring rings and had been joined by other soldiers who wanted a similar workout. My ever-dutiful Champion had accompanied me and had positioned himself just in my eyeline, working on his hand-to-hand combat against a training bag. I definitely wasn’t admiring his bare forearms or the way his muscles rippled with every punch and kick, when a scream rent the air. Three sparring rings away, a soldier was on the ground, blood pouring out of him. Soldiers went running, but I reached him first. I shoved away a young man as I skidded to the wounded soldier’s side on my knees in my haste. In the center of his chest was a gaping wound. I pressed my hands, trying to staunch the flow, but the blood kept gushing out aroundthem. I was searching for something, anything to use that would be better than my hands, when a mass of black linen was thrust into my eyeline. Griff.
“Get a healer,” I commanded, shoving the linen against the soldier’s chest.
“Already done,” Griff replied, curving around me to add his considerable strength to stopping the blood. His large hands covered mine, but even with both of us, we barely made a difference to the flowing wound.
“I—I—didn’t mean—” A fresh-faced boy stood over him, steel sword in his hand.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Kaia snapped at the boy, having just arrived from across the yard at a dead run, her face tight with anger. “Who gave you permission to practice with real steel?”
I glanced at my patient’s face. He was just as young as his opponent, and dangerously pale. He wasn’t going to make it until the healers showed.
I thought back on everything Andrei had taught me in our one session together. Looking inward, I drew up my body channel, burgundy power flowing freely into my hands. Casting my mind toward the boy, I became aware of just how extensive the damage was and swore.
“Healers are on their way,” Griff murmured. “Can you help him hold on until they get here?” Somehow, he knew what I was trying.
“I don’t know how,” I admitted, glancing at him. “Do I just try patching whatever I can find?”
His tone was strangely calm given his blood-soaked hands. “Certainly can’t hurt him more.”
There was truth in that.
Drawing up the body channel again, I imagined throwing a burgundy blanket over the worst of the wounds, patching it with my magic.
“Keep going,” Griff urged.
I lost myself to it, to the flow of blood through hisbody, the delicate tissues pale and feeble, and my attempt to breathe new life into them.
Another pair of hands joined mine. “I have him.”
They edged under my hands, and I saw through my body channel as they began their work. Where I had thrown hastily constructed nets over anything I could find, they had a systematic approach, weaving a delicate, detailed healing that glowed green, gold, and burgundy. I gradually withdrew my hands and rocked backward on my heels, crashing into something warm behind me. Oh right, Griff.
He slowly drew me away from the boy, keeping his arms around me as a dizzy spell hit and I stumbled. So much of my energy was still tangled in keeping the wounded boy alive, keeping him breathing. It was a difficult process to separate myself from him, as the power wanted to continue its hold. Griff held me until I was steady. It was then I noticed I was pressed against his bare chest.
Oh. That black linen must have been his shirt.
I looked over at the boy, mostly blocked from my view by the healer. But my eyes were drawn to his upper arm, where a freshly inked black tattoo was healing. Two swords were crossed at the base of faint lines representing mountains. Flowing upward from the mountains in a spiral pattern were representations of what I recognized as waves, flames, and swirls of wind, interspersed with geometric maze-like designs, interlocking patterns, and something that could be light at the top. The seven channels represented.
I staggered into Griff for an entirely different reason.
I knew that tattoo. Had seen it every day of my life on Cormac when we sparred.
How had a mark from this realm ended up on my surly blacksmith?
