Page 43 of Realms of Swords and Storms
I examined the wound in the moonlight. The arrow had gone into the meat of his thigh, but the shaft had broken, leaving the head embedded. It needed to come out.
"You've been running errands for your resistance friends," I said. It wasn't a question.
His silence was answer enough.
"Do you have any idea what kind of danger you're putting Livia in?" I asked, anger rising in my chest. "If they find out her slave is involved in resistance activities—"
"Don't pretend this is about Livia," Tarshi cut me off, his voice tight with pain. "You’ve been avoiding her for weeks. Do you think she hasn’t noticed that you never go near her? That you can’t even meet her eyes anymore? You don’t care about her.”
His words were a blade, twisting in a wound I had tried to ignore.
A cold fury, directed as much at myself as at him, coiled in my gut. “You know nothing about what I care for,” I snarled, my voice low and dangerous. And yet, I had no defence, because he was right. I’d seen the hurt in Livia’s eyes every time I made an excuse to sleep in this cramped antechamber instead of her bed.
"She thinks you don't love her anymore.”
I stared at him. “She said that?”
“Do you?” he asked, his teeth gritted. “Still love her?”
“Of course I love her, you bastard,” I bit out, the words tasting like ash. My anger was a shield for the shame that burned in my gut. “I just… I can't be with her after—" I stopped myself, but Tarshi's eyes were on me, seeing too much.
"After what?" he pressed. "After tainting yourself with my body?"
The words were ugly, but they were the ones I'd been thinking. I looked away.
"That's it, isn't it?" he said, his voice hoarse. "You can't stand that you wanted me. That you still do."
The accusation hung in the air between us, but before I could respond, he tried to stand and immediately collapsed. I caught him again, this time sliding his arm over my shoulders and taking as much of his weight as I could. He was fucking heavy.
"What are you doing?" he demanded.
"Saving your worthless hide," I muttered. "Again."
I carried him to my chamber and laid him on my sleeping pallet. He was pale now, the pain and blood loss taking their toll. I lit an oil lamp and examined the wound more carefully.
"The arrow needs to come out," I said.
"I know that," he replied through clenched teeth. "Just do it."
I went to fetch what I needed—a knife, bandages, water, wine for cleaning. When I returned, Tarshi was shivering despite the sweat on his brow.
“This needs to come out,” I said, my voice flat as I pointed at the arrow. It was easier to focus on his wound than my own. “It’s going to hurt like a bastard.”
“Just get on with it,” he grunted, leaning his head back against the wall, his face pale in the moonlight.
I poured wine over the knife blade, then over the wound. Tarshi hissed but didn't cry out.
"Ready?" I asked.
He nodded, gripping the edges of the pallet.
I worked quickly, cutting away the broken shaft, then pushing the arrowhead through the other side of his thigh. Blood welled up, dark and thick. Tarshi made a sound between a growl and a whimper but remained still.
"Almost done," I murmured, surprised by the gentleness in my own voice.
I pulled the arrowhead free, then pressed clean cloth against both sides of the wound to stem the bleeding. Tarshi's eyes were squeezed shut, his breathing ragged.
"You're lucky," I said as I worked. "The arrow missed anything important. A finger width to the left and you'd be bleeding out in some alley instead of ruining my sleeping pallet."
