Page 9 of Humans Don't Have Horns
“Then death it is. You will not practice Renyan witchcraft on me.” He still grips my hand in a bruising manner. What an infuriating man. I change tactics. Instead of writhing in an attempt to get free, I punch him in the nose with my free hand. His eyes widen in shock, and he lets go of my hand. I blink. He stares at me, still baffled.
I punched someone in the nose. I’ve never punched anyone in anything. Now both my hands hurt. The one he grabbed still hurtsfrom where his fingers pressed into my wrist, and my knuckles on the other hand are bruising from the punch.
“Renyans are not witches,” I tell him. My mother was not a witch. This is ridiculous. The Butcher sounds like an Aldonian priest.
Daton looks tired and in pain. “It’s just a binerra’s tree sap mixed with a forest mushroom and pine tree bark. That’s it, I swear,” I say, trying to appease him. He got wounded trying to save me, after all.
“You’re disclosing Renya’s secrets? To a Mongan?” Astonishment is evident in his now weak voice.
Shit, that’s not allowed. My mother told me that when the Goddess had gifted the first Renyan queen with the secrets of healing, the stars all trembled in awe, for such a great gift was never granted to any human before or after. The first queen swore to the Goddess that Renyan women would forever keep her gift and use it only for goodness and grace. She swore that the secrets of the healing would be kept among the Goddess’s daughters and would never be risked, for every good can be corrupted. If a daughter of the Goddess were to betray the secrets, she would no longer be considered her daughter. And the grace of the moon and the stars would be forever lost to her, which is why Renyan healers would choose death over disclosure of their secrets.
Maybe it’s because I wasn’t raised in Renya. Maybe it’s because my colors aren’t blue. Maybe it’s because my mother died so many years ago. But if it’s the only way for him to stay alive, then so be it. “Well, let’s keep it between us. You got hurt trying to save me. What were you doing there anyway?”
It only just occurred to me that he followed me.Why? He’d already saved me from the other Mongans. But the direwolves—what was that about?
“Is there a spell?” he grunts.
“Yes.” He remains quiet, and I wonder if he has passed out again.
But then he surprises me by speaking. “You can apply the paste. But no spells, Princess.” The wordprincessis wrapped with heavy scorn.
“You are aware I have a name, right?” I say, miffed by his attitude.
“No spells,” he barks at me curtly. Sun knows where he finds the strength to be so irascible with one foot in the grave.
“Fine. No spells.” I don’t mention that I already recited it while making the paste. But it was a benevolent spell for health. All Renyan spells are good. This guy is entirely paranoid and a bigot. I use the water from the waterskin to wash some of the blood away from his neck and torso. I apply the paste gently to his wounds, and he hisses in pain because binerra sap feels like acid on open flesh. He faints again.
There is nothing to do now but wait and see if the remedy will succeed. I observe him closely for the first time. All his features are rough. Too rough to be considered handsome. Even without the two horns, just the sight of him in a dark place could give a person a near heart attack. He’s all hard muscles. Dark hair is scattered on his chest and abdomen and leads in a narrow line to his pants. His black hair is wet from his sweat. His nose looks as if it was broken more than once and didn’t heal precisely right. Although, not by my punch. His cheekbones are high, and his lips look surprisingly full and soft. There are thin creases at the sides of his eyes as if he once laughed. I can’t imagine him ever laughing or smiling. I catch myself as my fingers almost touch his creases.
What is wrong with me? In the name of Sun, I’m an idiot. Better to get some sleep instead of ogling the damn Butcher.
Daton is still passed out when I awake in the evening. I eat some of the forest mushrooms I picked earlier. My stomach growls in anger at the insufficient meal. In the forest, with the stench of the swamps replaced by the smell of the pines, I’m famished. What I wouldn’t give for some decent food. And coffee. In Aldon, I was served tea every morning to the point I was sick of it. Coffee was always a treat though, something to look forward to. I might be tempted to sell a body part for some decent coffee right now. Yep, coffee for a pinky toe sounds like a reasonable deal. I consider what other parts I’d trade for coffee, until I doze.
I dream of being drowned in water. A man’s hand holds my head under as I squirm helplessly, my lungs burning from lack of air.
I wake up with a start, squinting at the morning light. Daton is sitting near me on his haunches, holding a wooden prayer beads in his hand. “You had another nightmare.” He frowns at me.
I’m too embarrassed to acknowledge that, so instead, I ask, “How are your wounds?”
“Almost gone,” he grunts as if he finds that fact extremely annoying. I sit up to take a better look at him. I’m surprised to find his wounds have turned into scabs, a process that should have taken at least a week, not one night. And by his posture, I can tell he’s no longer in pain. As much as I want to take credit for his recovery, the paste I conjured would not heal such significant wounds in a single day. It probably would not heal injuries to that extent at all.
Before I have the chance to comment, Daton stands up. “How did you speak to those direwolves?” he asks warily, pocketing his prayer beads. I stand mainly because I don’t like how it feels when he looks down at me. Of course, even when I stand, he looks down at me. He’s a head taller.
“I don’t know,” I say, not bothering to tell him that I wish I did. He glowers in response. He thinks I’m lying, and I hate how it twists my stomach into knots. I shouldn’t care what he thinks. I refuse to care what he thinks of me. I just healed him, so he can keep his derogatory attitude to himself.
“I can take you to the River of Tears,” he offers. “It’s close to Renya. You could find your way easily from that point. It’s not the shortest way, but fewer Aldonian soldiers are there. At a good pace, it’ll take us five days.”
I don’t want to cross him and make him change his mind, but I can’t help but ask, “Why do you help me? Why did you follow me?” His behavior is such a mystery.
“You saved my life, so honor requires me to take you to the River of Tears. That’s it. I don’t owe you explanations,” he responds, sounding even angrier than usual, as if he hates being compelled to help me.
“Tell me or I’m not going with you,” I challenge him.
He huffs at that. “It’s not like you have a better option, so stop acting like a child.”
“Don’t call me a child.” I stomp my feet in anger. Yeah, I could have picked a better gesture for making that point. “I am not a child. And I’m tired of being treated like one.”
He looks at me as if I have just grown a second head. But I’m not going to be anyone’s puppet anymore, most certainly not his. “Why did you save me against your people’s desire? Put your life on the line with the direwolves? Does it have to do with Baghiva?”
