Court's Fool (The Aermian Feuds Book 6)

by Frost Kay

  He huffed and laid his head on his paws, as if to say he was laying down because he wanted to, not because she told him to.

  Exhaustion seemed to slam into her from nowhere, and she scowled at Nege. She hadn’t planned on sleeping in the first place, but with the prickly leren there, it was definitely not possible now. He closed both of his eyes. That was something.

  She sighed and Nege cracked one eye. Sage scowled at him. “Excuse me if my sigh bothered you.” A sharp longing rose in her chest for Nali. How similar the leren looked, but their temperaments were so different. Again, he huffed, and closed his eye, dismissing her. “You’re just as bad as Nali,” Sage muttered.

  Nege’s eyes sprung open, and he pushed to his feet, his tail flicking back and forth. She glanced around in confusion. Was someone coming? “What is it?”

  The leren slunk closer, watching her. What had she done to catch his attention? Nali. “Do you remember Nali?”

  Nege’s ears pricked at that. Her breath seized when he halted no more than a handbreadth from her, his face level with her navel. She hissed when he butted his massive head into her stomach, causing her to stumble into the canvas wall. He released a deep purr and sniffed heavily.

  Sage held up her hands. “Can you smell her on me? She’s okay, Nege. I take care of her, I promise.” To some it might seem odd to speak to an animal, but living with Nali had taught her that leren were far more intelligent than people gave them credit for. He arched his back and pressed harder against her, just begging for attention. Her heart squeezed when she noticed new scars marring his gorgeous coat. “Oh, handsome boy. I’m so sorry.”

  With care, she ran a hand along his spine and was rewarded with another rumbling purr. He twisted and bumped her so hard, Sage lost her balance and ended up kneeling, face to face with Nege.

  “Don’t eat me.”

  He blinked at her and then bashed his face into hers, purring loudly. Sage smiled and began to massage the feline, enjoying the experience, and yet… her gaze was glued to the entrance to the room, guilt tainting the moment.

  It seemed her greatest weapon had fallen into her lap.

  And possessed teeth longer than her palm.

  Sage jerked upright, her eyes blurry and her heart in her throat. How in the blazes did she fall asleep, and what woke her?

  Nege rumbled softly, his attention honed on the entrance. The warlord slipped inside silently and paused, pulling off his cloak. That was a nifty leren trick. She ran a hand over the feline’s head that rested in her lap. Even if she couldn’t detect when the warlord was lurking around, her furry companion could. Every muscle in the feline’s body was tight, on edge.

  So, we’re of the same mind. She and Nege both knew who the predator in the room was.

  Her focus moved back to the monster. The warlord was splashed with crimson, looking like a nightmarish creature that had crawled from the pits of hell. He tossed his cloak over his desk and placed his hands on his hips, his head hanging, raven hair hiding his features. Sage took the moment to study him. He looked tired.

  “Judging me already, consort?” he asked, not looking in her direction.

  She pursed her lips. “You can’t judge something you care nothing about.”

  He chuckled. “So venomous with words. I’m surprised you weren’t born from serpents.”

  Sage let the slight go and just shrugged. “I am who I am.” Her gaze was once again drawn to the blood. Who had he slaughtered or wounded? Was it Tehl? Hayjen? Rafe? Her stomach clenched.

  Don’t think like that. You need to focus. If it were someone close to you, he would be gloating already.

  The thought relieved and sickened her that she could know his mind so well.

  “You’ve changed,” he murmured, lifting his head and locking eyes with Sage.

  “War does that to a person.” She attempted to keep her tone even, but bitterness seeped through. There had been too many casualties.

  “It also sharpens them and forges strength.”

  While he wasn’t exactly wrong, there were other ways to go about it.

  He moved to the desk and leaned his hip against the furniture, and crossed his arms. “It’s not like you to hold back.”

  She blinked at him, his words filtering through. Her attention hadn’t been on his words, but how he’d casually drawn closer. Sage shifted to get her legs beneath her. It was uncomfortable to have the warlord tower over her. It made her feel like a cornered animal. Nege growled softly at being disrupted.

  Sighing, the warlord ran a bloody hand through his dark hair. “You’re going to be difficult, aren’t you?”

  “I’m here as you asked, my lord.” How was that for sidestepping the question? Sam would be proud.

  “Zane.”

  Every fiber of her being rebelled at the name. Zane didn’t exist. He was just a part the warlord played when he needed to. Her jaw clenched. In no way, shape, or form would she ever call him by his given name. Monster? Yes. Demon? Every inch of him. Bastard? Absolutely. But never, never Zane.

  He must have read the mutiny on her face. He sighed again and then blurred toward her. She screamed and leapt to her feet as he lifted his hand and blew a purple powder into her face. Sage stumbled away from him and screeched as she landed on the bed, her eyes watering. Her fingers clawed at the silk bedspread as she scrambled across the mattress and over the trunk, cracking her knee against the wood.

  Lethargy seeped into her muscles as she crawled over to the edge of the rug, desperate to get to the nail, but her body wasn’t responding. Arms like steel wrapped around her waist and lifted her into the air. She weakly clawed at his arms and kicked his shin with her heels, wishing she had her boots on. Her head bobbed, seeming too heavy to hold up.

  “What did you give me?”

  “Something to help you sleep.”

  True terror filled her, and she released a wail of horror.

  “Shhhh, wild one. I promise you’ll feel better in the morning.”

  She wouldn’t. “Why do you keep drugging me?” she slurred, her body slumping against his.

  The warlord pressed his face into the crook of her neck and inhaled. Stars, it was disturbing. Her skin crawled, goosebumps rippling across her skin.

  “It’s better than chains, is it not?”

  It wasn’t. “Chains.”

  He released a huff of laughter against her shoulder. “You’d make too much noise. I need my sleep tonight. I can’t worry about you trying to kill me in my sleep, and from the bags beneath your eyes, you need a decent night of sleep as well.”

  Sage rolled her eyes. As if he truly cared for her well-being. He was just playing another game. It was always a game. The world blurred a little more and darkness crouched at the edge of her vision.

  “I hate you,” she mumbled through lips she couldn’t feel.

  He nuzzled his face into the hair behind her ear. “As I hate you, consort. Yet, neither is whole without the other. Sleep well, my love. We can fight in the morning.”

  Her eyelids slid shut despite how hard she tried to keep them open. His haunting words echoing in her ears—words she knew not to be true. Then why were they ringing with truth?

  Thirty-Five

  Mira

  All hell had broken loose tonight. The Scythians attacked without warning again. During a snowstorm. They were bloody insane—monsters whose only goal was to spill more blood.

  Mira pulled the shard of metal out just before the wound began spurting blood.

  “Wicked hell, no.” She dropped the knife, pressed her hands against his stomach, into the blood, and threw her full weight onto the wound. Biting her lip, Mira pressed harder still, desperate to stop the bleeding as he began to thrash.

  Damn it. “I need help,” she hollered. Several soldiers rushed to her side. “Hold him still.”

  The men gathered around the cot and held down the wounded man’s arms and legs, all of them wide-eyed and red-faced as they tried to keep him from rolling off the make
shift bed. The rickety cot beneath her wounded patient creaked and complained at the added weight, as the infirmary filled with the sound of their grunts and the man’s groans of pain.

  Mira lifted her head and scanned the room, searching for the queen. Nowhere in sight. Double damn. She was probably attending more soldiers as they arrived. She was stuck with untrained foot soldiers.

  Blood bubbled up between her fingers, warm and thick. The metallic smell was strong and settled in her mouth. There was something wrong with the smell, but she was too busy to really focus on it. “Bandages,” she commanded.

  One of the men, a banged-up looking fellow, snatched a wad of fresh bandages from a nearby table and waved it in front of her eyes. Mira snatched it from his sausage fingers and crammed it into the wound, pressing down.

  She had to get the bleeding to stop. The bandage turned crimson within a matter of seconds. Mira hissed out a distressed breath and refused to lift up when the wounded man screamed and thrashed hard, attempting to get away from the pain.

  “I’m so sorry. Just a little while longer and the pain will go away. I promise,” she soothed.

  It didn’t help.

  The shortest soldier lost his hold on the patient’s arms. Mira caught a glimpse of a flying arm before she saw stars. Her vision blurred for a few moments as her head rocked back with the blow. “Swamp apples,” she choked out. “That one hurt.” She’d have an ugly bruise across her cheek in the morning.

  A blonde lock of hair slipped from her braid and fell into the blood that coated her hands. The soldier cursed, and wrestled the wounded man’s arm back to the cot.

  “Sorry, Mira,” he gritted out.

  “Hold him tighter,” she bit out. Her voice was too sharp. Was she losing her touch? She’d never had a harsh word for anyone working with her. They weren’t trained healers, and they were doing their best. Her gaze flicked to the burly soldier to her left whose face was pale and bloodless. He looked like he was one second away from vomiting. Bloody hell. Hopefully he would puke on the ground, not the wound.

  Her shoulders and biceps tightened as she tried to increase the pressure. If she didn’t staunch the blood, he’d bleed out. Where was the queen? She needed another experienced healer. Hell, she’d take some of the other inexperienced healers.

  “I need help here,” Mira yelled, not caring if she roused any of the other wounded.

  “Mira? What’s happened?” the queen’s calm, strong voice asked from behind her.

  Osir. Thank the stars.

  The wounded soldier surged up again with a burst of strength he shouldn’t have possessed, and the cot groaned in protest. If they weren’t careful, the rickety thing would break.

  “How is it possible that he’s still fighting?” the burly soldier to her left gritted out.

  “Battle rage.” Something was triggered when men fought. It was as if they gained unearthly strength for a short period of time.

  The soldier nodded, and leaned more weight onto the wounded man to keep him still. He yelled and then sagged back as the battle rage left him.

  The queen muscled in and eyed the situation, her eagle-like eyes assessing. “What happened?”

  “The shard came out clean, but he’s bleeding,” she answered breathlessly. Was there something still stuck inside? Mira hadn’t seen anything else.

  The queen grunted in a very unqueenly manner, and then leaned closer to the bloody mess. She pulled a deep breath in through her nose and pursed her lips. The man jerked again, and Mira gritted her teeth. While she loved the Methian woman, she also hated how she’d taken to giving Mira lessons during life and death situations.

  “Do you know what’s wrong?”

  The queen made a noncommittal sound. “What will you do once the bleeding stops?”

  Her voice was quiet. “Mira.”

  She didn’t dare look at the queen.

  “Mira, darling. You know what you must do.”

  The scent of waste in his blood was apparent. She closed her eyes for a moment and tried not to cry. Mira hadn’t detected it at first, but she could now. It was a smell she’d become too familiar with. A strangled sob escaped her, and she released the pressure on the wound. The soldiers looked at her like she was crazy.

  “What are you doing?” demanded the shorter soldier, his ginger hair sticking up in patches.

  Mira gazed at him with sorrow. “I’m sorry.”

  He gaped at her, and then his lips thinned. “No.”

  The queen moved to his side and guided him away. The other soldiers released the wounded man’s arms and legs and walked away. All but the burly soldier to her left. She ignored him as she moved to a washbasin. Meticulously, she washed the blood from her hands, the water in the bowl turning pink. Mira dried her hands and prepared herself for what came next.

  She faced the cot and smiled gently at the last remaining soldier who’d procured a stool for each of them to sit on. Mira sat on the wounded man’s left and the burly soldier on his right. Mira picked up the patient’s hand and noted how his skin had cooled.

  “Why did you stop?” the solider asked.

  “Belly wounds that stink of waste mean a slow and horrid death. Sometimes, letting a person go is a kindness. Death isn’t always the enemy.” While her words were true, they still tasted bitter upon her tongue. There were so many limits to healing—to her abilities—she hated letting go. It felt as if she was failing. Giving up.

  The soldier nodded.

  “How do you know him?” Mira asked.

  “I don’t.”

  That surprised her. “And yet you’re here by his side?”

  The soldier shrugged. “War can be a cold and lonely thing. No one else is here for him. A man shouldn’t die alone. The soldier needs someone to stand by his side when he leaves this world.”

  “Very noble,” she murmured.

  Her skin prickled as she stared down at the blood covering the front of her apron. Mira placed the wounded man’s hand on the cot, and stood on trembling legs. She took a moment to yank off her soiled apron and rinse her dress of the worst of the blood, not that it would help things. The garment was stained to a point it should have been tossed in the fire. Since she’d arrived, she didn’t possess a piece a clothing that wasn’t covered in bloodstains.

  Woodenly, she slipped a clean apron over her soiled garment and ran a cool, wet cloth over the heated skin of her neck. Stars, it felt good. Mira tossed the cloth in the basket of dirty clothes, and picked up a fresh bowl of water and a clean cloth before turning back to the dying man.

  Carefully, she set the bowl on the ground and dipped the washcloth in the cool water before bathing the man’s face. Her gaze darted to his belly wound. The bleeding had turned sluggish. Her heart squeezed. It wouldn’t be long now.

  The wounded soldier sighed, his muscles relaxing, and he pressed his cheek more firmly in her palm. This was always the hardest for her. When they gave up and accepted death, even before their mind fully comprehended what was happening.

  Her father had taught her so many skills as she grew up to prepare her for this profession, but the one thing he couldn’t train out of her was her soft heart. Each death pained her, and while she couldn’t save him, she’d do everything in her power to offer him comfort in his last hour.

  The soldier sighed again, and his breathing slowed. The water seemed to ease some of his suffering. Mira put down the cloth and steadied herself. Mechanically, she forced herself to rinse her bloody hands in the water, focusing on getting the blood from beneath her nails. The same pesky lock of hair fell from her shoulder, crimson tipped. Her lips tightened and she took a moment to scrub the blood from her blonde hair. With jerky movements, she pinned her hair back into place. While her papa loved her long locks, she longed to chop them off. They were always in the way, no matter what she did.

  She was already considered a fool among those in the court, despite her training and family name. A woman doing a man’s job. How scandalous. A hint of humor
lightened her temporarily at the thought of chopping her hair off. They would positively lose their minds if she cut off her hair more in the fashion of a man’s, like it somehow made her more male than female.

  People were absurd.

  Mira glanced around the quiet infirmary. Most of those healing had fallen back to sleep. Luscious rugs were strewn across the floor, decorative lamps hung from the ceiling, and every table was covered with jars and bowls of ointments and remedies. It was a blessing that the queen had given up her own tent to help care for the men. In truth, most of them probably hadn’t ever stayed somewhere so opulent. Mira had fully expected the queen to take her trinkets and luxuries with her, but she hadn’t. When she’d asked the queen why, the woman had patted her on the hand and told her it boosted morale. She eyed the bright colors. It certainly was a cheery house of death.

  A small noise drew her attention back to her patient. His eyes fluttered open, his gaze glassy. Mira once again began to lave his face. As she worked, his gaze focused on her face, a question in his pained blue eyes.

  She smiled, brushing the cloth along his dark red beard. “You are in the infirmary. You took a wound. Rest, please.”

  He licked his cracked lips, and his brows furrowed. “A spear to the gut. The tip broke off…”

  She nodded, keeping all despair from her expression. She was here for his comfort. No need to speak. He knew.

  He closed his eyes, then opened them again and for the first time, he seemed to really look at her. “Your father is a great healer. I am honored to have his daughter care for me,” he wheezed as if the effort caused him pain.

  She paused. There were very few who knew her father personally. The only way he would know her father is if he were one of the Elite. “How long have you been with the Elite?”

  He didn’t seem to hear her or notice the soldier to his left. “He was always a gentle sort of man, but tough as nails, your father. I’ve never seen one look so frail and yet act the part of a dragon.”

  Mira smiled at his description. Her papa did resemble a dragon when his patients didn’t listen to him. “I assume you were a stubborn one?”