I hadn't even noticed. “You could have just steadied me.”
“This is faster.” He's not even winded. “And you need the rest.”
“Don't get used to carrying me everywhere.”
“I make no promises.”
He sets me down before the last flight of stairs, and I miss the warmth of him immediately. Which I am not going to think about right now.
The house at the top doesn't look like much. Stone walls, a wooden door weathered silver by decades of mountain wind, windows glowing warm against the gray evening. Kovren knocks.
The door opens.
The woman standing in the entrance is not what I expected.
Mother Sanque is ancient. Not old. Ancient. Her face is a map of wrinkles so deep they look carved, her hair pure white and wild around her shoulders.
She's tiny. She barely reaches my shoulder, which means the top of her head wouldn't clear Kovren's hip. She's wrapped in layers of shawls and scarves that make her look like a small, bright bird.
Her eyes are sharp as broken glass.
“Kovren.” Her voice scrapes like dry leaves on stone. “You look terrible.”
“I've been hunting.”
“You've been dying.” Those sharp eyes move to me, assess me in a single sweep. Head to toe and back, taking in the bruise on my jaw, the road dust, the cloak knotted at my waist, my empty hands where the pack should be. “But not anymore, apparently. And you've brought someone.”
“This is Maren. She's a healer.”
“Is she.” Not a question. Mother Sanque steps back, gestures us inside. Kovren has to fold nearly double to fit through the doorway, his shoulders brushing both sides of the frame.
The interior is nothing like the outside. Warm, cluttered, every surface covered with books and jars and instruments I don't recognize. The air smells of dried herbs and woodsmoke and something sharper underneath, something almost chemical. Shelves climb the walls from floor to ceiling, crammed with leather-bound volumes, scrolls, glass bottles full of things I can't identify. A fire burns low in a stone hearth.
“Sit.” Mother Sanque points to a pair of chairs near the fire. The chairs are normal-sized. Kovren looks at them, looks at her, and lowers himself to the stone floor beside the hearth instead. Even seated on the ground, he comes up to the chair backs.
I take a chair. My legs are shaking from the climb, and I'm not going to pretend otherwise.
“Both of you look like you haven't slept properly in days.” Mother Sanque is already moving, pulling jars and bottles from a cabinet with quick, sure hands. “When did you last eat? Don't answer that. It was too long ago.”
She sets a clay pot over the fire, starts adding things to it. Broth, herbs, something that smells like ginger. “While that heats, show me.”
“Show you what?” I ask.
“The wounds. Whatever she’s been trying to fix for you.” She waves a hand at Kovren without looking up. “Take off your shirt.”
He glances at me. I nod. He pulls the shirt over his head, and Mother Sanque turns, and stops.
She crosses to him. Her hands are small and knobbed with age, but steady. She touches the stitches on his side, traces the line of them with one finger, checks the tension, the spacing.
“Who did this needlework?”
“I did,” I say.
She looks at me. It's a different look than before. Not warm. Mother Sanque doesn't seem like a woman who does warm. But there's a sharpness to it that might be respect.
“In the field?”
“In a ditch the first time. With a sewing kit and a bottle of alcohol.”
