He merely crossed his arms over his chest and raised one brow. He couldn’t know she’d never hurt anyone, even if she hated him, for his pain would become hers and she’d have to stay with him until she healed his wounds. It was just the way she was, had always been. Of course he couldn’t know that. As a soldier, weapons were likely all he knew and trusted.
Solena gave a resigned sigh and lifted the nyka up, holding it up like a curtain. Rundan nodded and held it for her, averting his face slightly. After quickly changing into the dry clothes, she tugged the animal hide down. He took the sodden leathers from her, wrung them out into the briars outside the entrance, and hung them on rocks near the fire, a strangely domestic gesture given their circumstances, one that made him seem less threatening somehow. A dangerous thought, Solena realized. She had to remain on guard. She had to watch him, couldn’t allow herself to trust him.
Then, as he removed his plate of chest armor, she realized she wasn’t so much “watching him” as staring. Though she knew the correct action was to turn her back, she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away from him. She continued to watch him move, noting how each motion was performed with the efficiency of a trained soldier. He began to lift his tunic, exposing a strip of marble pale abdomen, and paused. His eyes met hers and held a glimmer of humor as he muttered something.
Solena spun to face the cave wall, her face burning. Though she’d seen many male bodies in her training as a healer—old men, babies, youths of all ages—this soldier was not her patient and she had no right to look at him that way.
And why gape at him, she demanded, disgusted with herself. So he had the ridged stomach muscles of a dock worker. And strong shoulders, which tapered down to his waist, and those long, powerful looking legs.... So he was strong and well-made. As a soldier, he was likely accustomed to pitching tents and hauling gear and swords and all sorts of armor. All that meant was he was a nicely formed young man, which was no business of hers. He’d captured her and brought her into that awful camp, hadn’t he? Now he was taking her to the palace, or at least that was where she thought he was taking her, where the Odenian court would likely execute her; she’d heard the stories. And besides that, Solena thought with an inward grimace, he probably had a girl back in Oden wearing his mark of betrothal tied around her wrist. And—and she’d just looked at him like she had a right to, well, to look at him that way.
Solena thought she heard her captor chuckle under his breath, but she didn’t dare glance back at him. Now was perhaps a good opportunity to grab her votif, but she felt suddenly shy in the hollow of the cave with him. He had given her the dry clothes after all, and they looked to be his own things. He could have easily let her freeze.
Feeling the beginnings of a headache, perhaps from being under water for so long, or maybe from fighting back the constant strain of fear, Solena turned as Rundan spread the nyka hide near the fire. He beckoned her closer, indicating she should sit beside him. Solena came cautiously, eyeing the fire. From where she stood, the barest hint of warmth reached out and brushed her cooled cheeks. Its heat was tempting, but she didn’t want to go closer to him. Then he held out an even more tempting portion of cheese and bread and her stomach rumbled. Unable to help herself, she dropped to her knees beside him and fell upon the food. She gulped down hunks of bread and hard cheese almost too big to chew. When he handed her a jug of water, she realized he was staring at her.
She continued to drink deeply, closing her eyes against his gaze. Though her face burned with embarrassment, she was too hungry to stop and kept eating until her portion was gone. Why should she care what he thought anyway? It wasn’t like she wanted to make a good impression on him. She was just hungry and thirsty beyond measure. When she was done with her rations, Rundan simply held out half of his portion of bread too.
Solena froze in confusion.
He was offering her his portion? He had to be hungry too. So why? It couldn’t have been out of kindness. He was a soldier. His job wasn’t to take care of her. His job was... She didn’t know what his job was.
She hesitated only an instant longer and then snatched the bread from him. She sat there chewing and waved at him to eat. He smiled in understanding, as if he knew of her long journey and many days without food. The compassion in his eyes made her look away. He wasn’t kind, she reminded herself. He was her captor and that was all. As soon as she could, she’d grab her votif from him and slip away.
He brought out some dried meat, which put an abrupt halt to her planning. She closed her eyes in appreciation as she chewed on salted meat surely fit for the feast of paradise.
Rundan continued watching her as he ate. When the food was gone, he took a votif stand from among his things and set it carefully by the fire. Then he untied his votif from his belt and, after removing its cork, he began breathing prayers over it. Solena watched his every inhalation and exhalation in rapt attention. She couldn’t have moved or looked away if she’d wanted to.
After placing his votif in the stand, he glanced at her from under the sweep of unexpectedly dark lashes. After some hesitation, he removed the cork from her votif as well and breathed a quick prayer over it. Solena stared at him, not daring to blink. He reached to place it in the votif stand, stopped mid-reach, as if noticing her fixed gaze, and then he replaced both corks and tied the votifs to his belt. With this done, he rubbed the back of his neck for some time and avoided her eyes.
Solena opened and closed her mouth with a snap.
He’d prayed over her votif?
The action was so unexpected, so shocking, she could barely connect her thoughts. What he’d done was the most intimate of acts. What a father might do for his child. Or a husband for his new bride. She and Theta had whispered about it often, wondering what it would be like, and here he was praying for her.
Rundan’s unusually pale eyes met hers briefly and the flash of vulnerability in them disconcerted her. The expression fled as quickly as it had come and the cool mask he always seemed to wear slid into place. He was again Rundan: captor, soldier, enemy.
Solena moistened her suddenly dry lips and stared into the fire, desperately trying to make sense of her thoughts—and of the strange tightness in her chest.
Without a sound, Rundan shifted onto his side and drew her down against him. She was too cold to resist. He pulled the edge of the nyka hide over them both, but it didn’t cover them completely, so she huddled closer, tucking her hands into the folds of her borrowed tunic. Grandpeer would be horrified at her circumstances, being captured, lying in the night beside a stranger, but he didn’t even know where she was. He was probably worried. And he should be. She was worried about him too. Was his cough worse?
She lay in silence, unable to sleep, but too tired to lift her eyelids, as Rundan curved his body around hers, and fit his face against her neck. Almost immediately, his breathing grew steady and deep.
Solena absorbed what heat she could from the fire—and from Rundan’s heat at her back—and she waited.
Three
RUNDAN JOLTED AWAKE, reaching for his sword. He couldn’t find it in the dark and cursed his stupidity. This was the kind of thing the other soldiers mocked him for. The girl was gone; he could see that now. Maybe she’d made some sound that had alerted him. That or he’d missed her warmth next to him. It wasn’t like he’d use the blade on her, but if he was carrying it maybe she’d be less likely to run again. He felt around, finding only the warmed nyka hide, a small pile of kindling, and the votif stand. He searched the stand, but it was empty. Remembering he’d tied both votifs to his belt, he searched there and found only one.
She’d taken her votif and fled.
With a groan, he stumbled to his feet. He found one boot in the dark and laced it to his knee, his motions made awkward by the confines of the cave. Years of his father’s commands echoed in his ears: don’t ever fall asleep; you always have to be half-awake, always alert. Rundan had the second boot on and halfway laced when he froze. His father....
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br /> Rundan dropped the laces and sat down, resting his forearms on his bent knees and forcing himself to slow down and think.
He could return to camp and tell his father the girl had escaped. And it would be the truth; he could honestly say he hadn’t freed her. The story would haunt him for years though. The other soldiers already mocked him. Now this. He was resigning himself to enduring many lessons in rope tying from his tent mates, when he heard a high pitched scream that chilled his blood.
He quickly tied off his laces and ran.
Solena fought the man who’d grabbed her as she crept through the forest. When he slapped a heavy hand across her mouth so she couldn’t scream again, she tasted blood. She thrashed back and forth, desperate for air and freedom, but her struggles seemed to have no effect. He simply hauled her into his saddle and slung her facedown over his lap. Solena sank her teeth into his thigh, but he merely grunted and brought his fist down hard across the back of her head.
She lost the world for a moment. When she came to, her captor’s horse was galloping wildly through the dark forest. A branch stung her face, wrenching another scream from her throat.
Words sped through her mind, soundless prayers.
Please let Rundan hear.
Please let him come for me.
Solena again wrestled against the man’s hold and he muttered vicious words that could only be curses. He reined the horse in and dropped to the ground, rolling her under him. His body crushed her into the hard ground, knocking all the breath from her lungs. She thrashed against him as he grabbed her with angry hands, hurting her. He yanked the neckline of her tunic and she heard the fabric tear.
Solena braced for more pain, but none came. She found herself suddenly free and her attacker was gone. In the dark, she heard the rustling of dried leaves and the horrible thud of fists.
Two figures loomed over her in the dark, the shadowy forms of Rundan fighting a much larger soldier. Rundan had the other man by the throat, but the soldier struck back, pushing Rundan away. Solena heard the harsh rasp of metal against scabbard as he drew his sword. She cried out a warning, but it was too late. Rundan fell to the ground with an awful cry. Solena smelled the sickening rusty scent of blood and began to shake uncontrollably. She was afraid for a man who’d captured her and intended to bring her harm, for all she knew. But that didn’t seem to matter right then.
He’d given her dry clothes and fed her.
He’d prayed over her votif.
And she didn’t want him to die.
The soldier came up on all fours, coughing. Perhaps Rundan had struck a sharp blow to his chest or stomach; she hoped so but couldn’t see clearly enough in the gloom.
The man stumbled toward her, and Solena tensed, gathering her strength to fight him off. When she tried to stand, her foot caught on the hem of the long tunic Rundan had loaned her and she fell backwards onto an exposed root. She gasped at the pain. He was going to take her now, or kill her. Nothing would stop him.
Her fingernails dug into the packed dirt and leaves under her. She gathered her strength and kicked him, striking his leg. It was like kicking a tree trunk and she gasped aloud at the pain.
He cursed and stood still, doubled over, clutching his jaw. Maybe Rundan had hurt him after all. The soldier spat and something warm, thick, and absolutely revolting hit her face. It smelled like blood. With a string of muttered curses, he mounted his horse and rode away, leaving her there.
As if he’d decided she was no longer worth the effort of lifting her.
His thick, bloody spit dripped down her cheek. Solena wiped at her face, desperate to get his filth off her, and scrambled on all fours over to Rundan’s body. She felt for the beating of his heart at his neck. Shaking with relief at the strong, steady pulse she found there, Solena probed his limbs and chest with her fingers, searching for a wound. As she passed over the curve of his shoulder, her fingers came away distressingly warm and wet. He was bleeding freely. Though she couldn’t see the wound, all her experience as a healer told her the wound was a bad one. There was a chilling frost in the night air. If she couldn’t get him back to the cave, back to the warmth of the fire, to a place where she could see and treat his wound, there was a good chance he wouldn’t last the night. Her head dropped back and she stared upwards into darkness. It seemed to stretch forever, making her feel too small. How could she possibly move him?
Rundan awoke in the dimly lit cave. The last thing he remembered was a big soldier looming over him, one of the ones who’d gamed for the girl on the riverbank. He also remembered the sound of a sword being drawn from its scabbard and the hiss of air as it swept by his ear. By all rights, he should have been dead.
He also remembered fighting with great violence in his heart, something he’d sworn never to do. As if it were still happening, he could see the soldier before him, lying sprawled across the girl in the moonlight. Rage had filled him, hot and immediate. That same rage hummed beneath the surface of his skin. There was nothing he could have done differently, but, even so, he thought about the vow he’d broken and his chest burned with the hollow sensation of grief. His vow had been all that remained of his life as a scholar of the ancient texts. It had been his honor, his last stronghold. And he’d lost it all in a moment of rage.
With that loss vaguely haunting him, Rundan turned his head and saw the girl kneeling beside him. Before her lay an emptied pouch of healing supplies: a small metal cup, many cork-stopped vials made of red clay, some delicately forged spoons and mixing spatulas, and a few other items he didn’t recognize.
She was safe, he thought, feeling the tension in his body fade a little. He’d fought another man and broken his vow, but she was safe.
And, he realized, he’d do it again if he needed to. Something had changed, not only in his body, which ached, the most intense pain radiating from his right shoulder, but he’d also changed within. He felt older suddenly and not the same idealistic boy as he’d once been, thinking he could live his whole life without participating in the horrors of battle. There were different kinds of battles, he acknowledged. Some were necessary to fight. Others were demanded by a sense of honor and concern for those he loved.
Not that he loved this girl. He barely knew her. They couldn’t even understand each other. But she was here because of his action and he was responsible for her care. He’d probably feel the same for anyone who needed him.
As if the girl felt his gaze on her, she gave a start and covered his forehead with her hand. Her fingers were freezing. Though the cave felt unbearably warm to him, it must have grown cold. He’d have to see to the fire, make sure she was warm.
Rundan tried to lift his head, but the girl spoke sharply to him and, with only one slim hand placed over his forehead, she was able to hold him down. Gah! How weak he’d become.
So he’d been injured. She was treating his wound...and a fever, he realized, which was why he was sweating, while she was almost desperately cold. The knowledge swirled through his mind in a confusing current that barely made sense.
She stirred a spoonful of crushed leaves into her small metal cup and offered it to him. He began to drink eagerly, for his throat was dry, but as soon as the bitter brew hit his tongue, he felt the urge to spit it out. The girl pressed her fingertips to his lips and silently pleaded with her eyes: don’t. Rundan stared back and reluctantly swallowed. The hot steeped herbs trickled down his throat, nails scraping, claws clenching brutally around his stomach. Every muscle in his body jerked taut. The wound to his shoulder flared to life with a searing pain and he sucked in a breath. She immediately rested a calming hand on his abdomen, as if she’d expected this reaction, and touched her cool fingers to his forehead.
A languid numbness spread out from her fingertips, seeping down into his increasingly heavy limbs. He knew then that she was taking his pain, and she hadn’t even made the weakest attempt to seek his permission first. There was no lifting of her brows, no hesitation. But, from the stubborn wobble of her chin, he re
alized how much it cost her. She had to stop—the pain of a sword wound was too great for her. Besides, it was his to bear. He was the one who’d fought. He deserved the pain.
Rundan tried to speak, but no sound came out. Colors began to dance across the cave walls, brilliant sapphires, greens, and purples. As if someone had thrown flecks of ore into the fire.
Was there a fire?
He couldn’t hear it snapping.
The walls of the cave faded to mist.
Every day that Solena labored over Rundan’s fever, she feared for Grandpeer’s life. Whenever she could, she searched the surrounding woods for tymia, but found none. Without it, Grandpeer’s lungs would continue to waste away. Every hour she’d spent bathing Rundan’s forehead with cool cloths, she could have been scouring the mountains for the precious herb. She told herself to leave, that her grandfather was worth more than a soldier trained to kill, but the softness in her heart wouldn’t let her leave Rundan to die. Especially not after the way he’d saved her.
But was she trading her grandfather’s life for a soldier from Oden?
Though Solena feared the worst could have already happened, she couldn’t hate her captor. He could have let the other soldier have her. He could have gone back to his camp and did whatever it was he did there. But he hadn’t done that. He’d come after her and he’d freed her.
That wasn’t the action of an evil man. He’d captured her and brought her to the camp, that was true, but, since then, all Rundan had done was take care of her and protect her.
And she liked his eyes. At first, she’d been slightly repelled by how pale they were. Blue was an unnatural color for eyes, a cold color, or so it had seemed to her as one who’d grown up in Torrani, where everyone’s eyes were some warm shade of brown. But when Rundan had given her his bread, his eyes hadn’t been cold at all. A gentle light had shone from within him and warmed them, like the sun warms a tide pool. They were kind eyes. Concerned eyes. And she wanted him to wake up so she could see those eyes again, watching her the way he watched her, alert and a bit worried.
The Language of Souls Page 4