Page 121 of Untempered
She sat up, shuddering with the cold. She hadn’t made it further than the chamber pot in days. “Go,” she told me, shooing me with a weak flick of her hand.
I went, once I was certain she was as okay as I could make her. I didn’t tell her about yesterday afternoon or how I’d stood in the rain for hours, watching the sliver of a shadow over the road that I suspected, but wasn’t certain, was an enemy archer. I didn’t tell her about how my veins had looked black, and my bones had hurt so much I couldn’t make a fist.
I missed being able to tell her everything.
Tears jammed up in my throat, and I dressed with extra care. There was going to be a lot to do today. We had to relocate an entire hospital, and Chay had taken a prisoner. He wouldn’t have killed the man.
He was still sleeping when I returned. Resisting the urge to give his foot a nudge, I curled up in my mountain of warm blankets and rested my aching body, trying to gather up my strength rather than sit and worry. When that failed, I practiced my breathing.
When he finally stirred, I heard the change in his breathing and the sigh of fabric moving against fabric. I opened my eyes to find he was staring straight at me, a crease on his cheek from the arm of the chair and his dark blue eyes shiny from sleep.
“Morning,” he said, blinking a few times. “You’re looking better.”
I’d probably looked poorly when I’d dragged myself in yesterday. I’d sure felt it and hadn’t had the energy to disguise it. I wondered if I was allowed to point out that he ought to shave and organize a haircut. Plague or no plague, guard expectations remained.
He sat up and vanished for a while. My eyes fell on my gloves, stiffened now, beside the fire. Then, beyond them, my boots. Not myladyboots, but my sensible boots that had returned with me from the wild flight from Ylva’s people.
I went and found the beeswax polish and brush and set to work. I’d need these boots again, possibly even today. The less water they’d take on, the better they’d serve me.
The rhythm of the task was soothing. I remembered sitting beside Isolde working wax into leather in silence, a chair under the door. She’d let me lean my shoulder into hers. A few times, when her smiles were soft and free, and her eyes were bright, she’d even pressed a kiss to the top of my head.
Something had to give. How many others were like Isolde, curled up and unable to help themselves, but not yet gone? The soft brush rubbed circles into the leather, and the pieces of the puzzle rumbled around in my head. I felt like they were all there, but I couldn’t put them together. And I didn’t have anyone I could ask.
Ylva had cited pre-Barloc information. That was treason.
What I’d give to go back to her now, with what I knew, and ask her some equally treasonous questions.
My mind went to those yellowed scrolls I’d retrieved quietly in the aftermath of Isolde’s decline, which were also most definitely treasonous to have accessed.
Our library was deep and old. I’d always known it had been cared for throughout the ages by crafty scholars and gutted by warriors expecting no resistance.
Butknowingandactively exploringwere separate things.Discussingthe forbiddenwas another tier again.
Actingon it, even if I could figure it out? I’d wishI was dead if word got back to the powers that be.
But Isolde was dying.
I reached for Chay’s boots. They were the ones he’d worn here, in the cut of Raider’s Ban, lower at the back and front, with a soft, rounded toe and an indent for stirrups in the arch. His had decorations stitched across the top, black designs that might’ve been waves or perhaps horses’ manes. Brush already in hand, I avoided the threadwork, focusing on the points of wear, and wondered if the Matri’sion footwear would be different again.
When Chay returned, the crease was gone from his face, his hair was neat, and he was holding a platter of food. His sword belt chimed gently as he made his way in.
I swapped him his primary pair of boots for some food, and he took them with a surprised, “You polished my boots?”
Breakfast was porridge made with more water than milk and a little honey. My stomach rolled, but I took the spoon. “Mine needed to be done, and yours were there.” I cringed at the thick sludge hitting my tongue. At least it wasn’t cold.
“Thanking you,” he said firmly, and almost like a reprimand. “That was kind.”
I swallowed down the mess of it. He was still standing, holding the boots. I was tucked up inside my blankets again. He didn’t have the expression of someone who’d been on the receiving end of an act of kindness. “My apologies?” I offered, unsure, hoping he wouldn’t go back to being as cold and distant as he’d been previously. He’d been grumpier than usual, but at least he’dtalkedover the last few days. “Was it the wrong thing to do? I should have checked.” I should have, but I hadn’t thought to. They were just boots. But they werehisboots.
He didn’t have much that was just his, I supposed.
“I’m grateful,” he said firmly. “Even if it’s just a small thing for you, it means I can wear comfortable footwear today. It shows me you were thinking of me.”
Heat flooded through my bloodstream. I’d tried very hardnotto do that. He’d made it clear he didn’t want it. And he didn’t look happy now. His dark brows weren’t bunched up, but his eyes were slightly narrowed, and he shoved food in his mouth like he was forcing himself to eat.
Itwashorrible food.
I needed to figure this out. We needed to be able to work together. “Should I not do it in the future without asking first?” That would be inconvenient in instances like this morning, when it was easy to go from mine to his, just like when I did Isolde’s. But I could manage. A bit of forethought went a long way.
