But this red-haired woman, though wounded and quite obviously weakened by the ordeal, did not seem to hide much behind any mask at all. The fact that she’d been nothing but stubborn, ornery, and brutally direct had been a welcome relief within Kherron’s world of others’ secrets and false pretenses. She had not yet attempted to direct Kherron’s thoughts or his actions, and even then, she seemed to know far more about what Kherron himself could do than anyone he’d encountered thus far. Torrahs had known of his odd effect on things, but the knowledge had ended there. The woman had pulled Kherron back from the void—from the brink of despair and nonexistence brought by his own terror—with nothing but a glance and a few sure words. Though he could be frustrated with her having sent him out for this pointless task—and he guessed even that would not last long—he already considered her more of a guide than any who might have assumed that position along his journey. The only difference now was that Kherron had removed the burden of Dehlyn’s pull at his own heart, had released himself into a world of possibility and choice and freedom. Knowing this, he could not imagine the red-haired woman wished him to be anything but what he was.
He found no shortage of wood just beyond the mouth of what was not entirely a cave. But it was, in fact, all damp, some of which he pulled from beneath half-frozen piles of snow; he did not want to stray too far from the others. Part of him felt responsible for them—even the healer—should anything happen, and the other part of him simply no longer wished to be entirely alone. In a matter of minutes, he’d gathered enough cold, wet branches in various sizes, not bothering to clear them of the mud and wet brown leaves clinging to the bark. Then he trudged back into the hidden lair of rock and lichen, feeling less foolish for completing this task than he’d expected.
The woman still sat against the inside wall, head back and eyes closed. Her fur cloak covered her now like a blanket, tucked beneath her chin and the flow of red hair falling around her face, shockingly bright even in the darkness. She breathed slowly but steadily, and she seemed asleep until Kherron stopped inside the cavern and she said, “Build it.”
Kherron felt the healer’s eyes on him as he lowered into a squat and let the wood softly tumble from his arms. He thought he would have felt foolish, more self-conscious for doing as he was told and not bothering much to question the reasoning. But the healer did not seem to judge him as most others surely would have; the man watched him with an open, steady gaze, glancing between Kherron and the pile of wood as if he wondered how Kherron would manage such a thing instead of why he thought it was even possible. There was something different about this man, too, who commanded far more composure and deference than expected from a simple healer, especially within the realm of soldiery. And though he wished to draw out the man’s explanations of himself, Kherron bent to arrange the branches on the ground, wanting first to be sure the woman had what she needed.
Admittedly, he had not spent much time building fires outside a forge, but the task seemed inordinately simple now. Each piece of wood, from twig to thicker branch to naturally fallen log, had its own place within the structure, and he positioned them almost as if under explicit directions for each piece. The act brought a certain sense of calm, of rightness, centering Kherron within the turbulence of everything he knew he did not understand and the residual fear of what he might have done had the woman not steadied him within the doorway he had conjured. When he finished, he sat from his squat and crossed his legs, staring at the lattice of wet branches before him as if it already produced a mesmerizing flame.
He was about to ask for his pack, where he kept the flint and steel Zerod had given him, when the woman raised her head again, opened her eyes, and stared directly at him.
“I assume you know by now how to ask.” The wavering thinness of her voice diminished neither the knowledge behind her words nor Kherron’s understanding of them.
He blinked, feeling as if he’d just been caught doing something intimate and private though not necessarily forbidden. This woman knew enough about his abilities—passed on to him from whatever spirit or deity had once loved his human mother—to at least name this for what it was. Kherron had quickly come to understand that he commanded nothing around him—not the trees, not the air, not the rocks, not even the Sky Metal dagger, all of which had acted at his behest. His communion with these seemingly lifeless things remained just that, a relationship formed on awareness and unity, created when the objects listened to his requests, as he himself had learned to do. But the woman’s naming of it made him remarkably aware of how much he still did not know, shining a glaring, disconcerting light on his shortcomings. “Not for this,” he replied, swallowing hard beneath her gaze.
The woman nodded, her eyes closing in a slow blink before she focused on him again. “This is no different.”
Taking a deep breath, Kherron looked down at his handiwork of damp wood and forest debris, hesitant to fully believe her words. The idea of using what he had been given just to start a fire felt more than a little contrite. He’d managed the connection only when his life had been threatened, when no other option seemed possible and his emotions had overcome any rational thought. He wanted to help this woman, more now for her wisdom and guidance than when he’d only aimed to save her life; a fire seemed remarkably crucial to her physical well-being. But the consequences for her did not hit him with nearly as dire a force as they had when they were his own.
Briefly, he glanced at the healer, who seemed entirely too focused on his lap, as if he were trying either not to pry or not to laugh. Then the woman closed her eyes again, and Kherron cleared his throat. “Would—”
“You’re not asking me,” the woman interrupted, though she did not look at him again. “I don’t need to hear your conversation.”
Kherron felt the heat rise in his cheeks, and he placed his hands in his lap and closed his eyes. He’d apparently tried to put on airs for the strangers before him, and she had sniffed that out like a hunter to its prey. Why had he thought he needed to show her what he was doing? He’d pulled himself from the realm of violet mist, had severed an immortal covenant he hadn’t entirely been sure existed—why would fire mean any more or less than that?
Another flush washed over him, and he heard the thump and scramble of the healer against the cavern wall. When Kherron opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the rise of golden-orange flames cradled in the bed of his once-wet firewood. Then he looked past the sudden glow to see the healer pressed against the wall, eyes wide, his body turned toward the wounded woman, as if he’d considered fleeing this hidden place before realizing he still had a wounded charge and a difficult task ahead of him if he meant to escape. Kherron then glanced at the woman, who still had not opened her eyes again, though she seemed to have finally relaxed beneath her fur cloak, and her mouth turned up in the tiniest hint of a satisfied smile.
That was enough for Kherron. He caught the healer’s gaze, who finally seemed to have gathered the wherewithal to make eye contact. The man might have nodded, acknowledging either what Kherron had done or the man’s own realization that he would stay, but Kherron could not be sure; movement was a tricky thing when firelight danced in the dark. Either way, he tried to hide the smirk celebrating his success, then he returned his gaze to the fire.
Gratitude overwhelmed him, and if he had been alone, he thought he might have bowed to the flames and the wood, both of which had answered his call as if they had been given no other purpose. And the thought did not strike him as odd this time; it felt exactly as it was meant to be.
After a few more minutes in silence, the woman grunted and shifted against the wall. Both Kherron and the healer moved, then hesitated, waiting for her to show what it was she might have needed. “Tell me why you’re here,” she said softly, and the men glanced quickly at each other, neither entirely sure which of them she’d addressed. She seemed to realize this as well, for she opened her eyes, raised her brows, and gazed at the flames. “Apparently, we skipped the introduc
tions,” she added, the wryness of her voice undeterred by how little she moved. Then she rolled her head to the side and gazed at the healer first.
“You can call me Paden,” he said. He seemed a little too forthright in his answer, wrapped up in the disguise of not having explicitly said this was his name. Kherron didn’t think the man harbored any ill intentions—at least, not toward them; the healer had seemed remarkably willing to submit to his abduction in order to aid the red-haired woman. But something about the man felt decidedly like the truth but not quite the truth itself.
The woman dipped her head toward Paden, then swung it slowly to gaze at Kherron, brown eyes wide and expectant, as if they met now for the first time and she had never been shot with an arrow.
“My name is Kherron,” he said slowly, not intending it to be a challenge but hoping the man who called himself Paden would note the difference. Kherron had no reason to hide. Not now.
“Aelis,” the woman said, holding Kherron’s gaze for just a moment longer. Then she leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes once more. “So that’s that. Now we’ve sniffed each other out.” She took a deep breath, as if exchanging names and banal greetings were as vile to her as discovering her food had spoiled. “Paden, I was speaking to you.”
The man blinked at her, then glanced toward Kherron and back. A chuckle escaped him, and he seemed completely unable to repress the full-throated roar of laughter it then became. Aelis did nothing, as if she’d expected this reaction all along, but Kherron frowned.
“What’s so amusing?” he snapped, unable to discern between the heat of the flames and the rush of irritation flooding him.
Paden wiped at his eyes, forcing down his humor, and finally settled himself enough to grin at Kherron and say, “You were telling the truth.”
Kherron nodded slowly, wondering if it were possible for a madman to be a successful healer. “What finally convinced you?” He gestured to the hidden cavern around them and the fire he’d conjured from nothing but wet branches and a silent request.
With a nod, Paden deftly acknowledged Kherron’s frustration and cleared his throat, regaining some of his previous composure. “I will admit,” he said, “whatever you did with the...” He waved his hand above his head. “With the sun. That was impressive. And I must give you credit for lighting an impossible fire.” He smiled, his eyes creasing in genuine kindness and admiration. “Thank you.”
“You didn’t seem overly surprised by either,” Kherron replied, realizing he’d been correct about the man not being wholly who he claimed to be.
Paden took a deep breath. “I’ve seen a lot,” he said. “More in the last few fortnights than in my entire life. I’ve come to expect what I cannot explain through logic or force.”
Kherron had nothing to say to this; he knew what forces roamed this world, whether or not they had yet to find him, as they seemed so inclined to do. Knowing this man’s constitution had been hardened by witnessing inexplicable forces—perhaps even some of the same—brought Kherron both relief and an unexpected disappointment. At least Paden did not seem to think him insane.
“Evar should have allowed you the opportunity to explain yourself,” Paden added, fixing Kherron with a small frown serving as both acknowledgement and apology.
Kherron swallowed, then had to look away. He watched the smoke of the crackling fire drift to the cavern’s ceiling, trailing slowly above them toward the wide mouth of this place and out into the cold darkness of night. “He was right,” he said softly, blinking away the images of scarlet blooming across blue tabards. “I did kill those men. If I had known what would happen, I would have...” He swallowed another hard lump in his throat, then frowned down at his lap. “I would have tried to handle things differently.”
Paden let out a low hum of consideration. “They were good soldiers,” he said. “I’m not certain they were very good men.”
Kherron looked up at him. It sounded very much as if he were being forgiven in not so many words, and it made him feel worse because he did not think he deserved it.
“While I do not believe death is the best solution,” Paden continued, “I do believe in the balance it brings. You acted in her defense.” He nodded toward Aelis. “Who’s to say Torrick and Veyne would have done the same?”
Kherron nodded slowly and fell silent again. He wanted to acknowledge the man’s words, to believe them as much now as he thought he had when he first spotted Aelis, but he thought any other conversation on the matter would have felt like dismissal. Instead, he nodded toward the red-haired woman bundled beneath the fur cloak. “How is she?”
Paden turned to lightly place the back of his hand against the woman’s brow. Then he searched her face, leaning closer to listen for something, and nodded. “She’s asleep. No fever. That’s good. Hopefully she will have improved more by the morning.” A small smile tugged the corners of the man’s lips, and he shook his head to ward off a burgeoning disbelief. “I’m amazed she’s done so well thus far.”
“Something tells me,” Kherron said, feeling the pull of his own amusement, “she’d be furious to discover she bleeds like the average person.” The healer chuckled, and Kherron joined him in silent laughter, both surprised and incredibly grateful that such a thing could be shared now, in a place like this, after everything that had happened. Then, when the moment had passed, he met Paden’s gaze again and said, “You never did answer her question.”
“She never asked me anything,” the man replied, eliciting another chuckle of concession from them both.
“What are you doing here?” Kherron asked, again finding himself remarkably curious as to the motives behind this man’s surprisingly calm decisions. “You had plenty of time to leave us and go back to your camp... before and after you saw what I can do. Why did you stay?”
The healer rubbed his forehead, then brought his hand down to run his fingers over his hairless chin. “I had to do what I could for her,” he said, glancing quickly at Aelis. “You seemed hardly equipped to handle such necessities.” Kherron closed his eyes and bit his lip to keep from laughing; somehow, the man’s words having highlighted his incompetence in the realm of healing seemed remarkably amusing. “And you,” Paden continued, and Kherron opened his eyes. “There’s something about you I trust.”
“I held a knife to your throat.” Never would he have imagined at the time that he and his spontaneous hostage would have come to speak so openly together beside a fire, as if they’d met instead as colleagues.
“It wasn’t the first time,” Paden replied. “And I recognize a man’s need to escape.” The glint in his eyes reflected more than humor—something deeper, a near mix of envy and nostalgia. The man looked at Kherron as if he’d once been exactly where Kherron stood now in his life, as if he remembered his own past self with as much fondness and regret. Kherron’s previous, halting suspicion of the healer bloomed just a little more then despite their newfound comradery; something told him Paden referred to more than Kherron’s escape from the man’s camp.
“It sounds like you don’t want to go back,” he said, feeling remarkably proud of himself for having correctly read the man when Paden raised his brows and tilted his head.
“To the campaign?” The healer clicked his tongue. “The duty of my birth makes me responsible for those soldiers. For men like them, and their families, and others I do not know.” Paden blinked slowly, staring into the fire as if his next words drifted there on the smoke. “The duty of my heart lends its responsibility to those who actually need me. I wish to be nothing more than a healer, but that is only part of who I am.” He glanced up at Kherron then, reserved and slightly cautious, as if he expected Kherron to make some untimely jest on his account. Kherron only nodded. “So a military healer was the most I could manage,” the man continued. “The best of one world and the worst of another.”
“I imagine they’ll be rather upset to have lost you,” Kherron offered, unable to truly decipher any of what the man had
just told him. He had no sympathy for the army to which those who had attacked Aelis belonged, whether or not he knew the details of their campaign or why they were here in the first place. But that topic seemed too heavy to broach tonight, and he did not think the healer wanted to speak much about it.
“They’ll be fine,” Paden replied, then huffed out a breath with a small smirk. “And I didn’t say I would not return. Just not yet.”
Chapter 6
“Come, child. Put this on.” Ambrous extended his arm, the fresh linen shift dangling from the tips of his fingers, and averted his gaze. He was an old man, yes, but the youth and beauty of a woman’s form still held sway over many old men. It had been too long for Ambrous himself—not since the last time he’d ventured beyond the walls of Deeprock Spire, before he considered himself old—and that seemed to render his deference even more of a necessity.
The woman stood from the copper tub, filling the room with the sound of dripping water, and Ambrous maintained his stare upon the far corner where the wall met the ceiling. He could not call her a woman—not truly—and she was no young girl. Dehlyn was something else entirely. But this version of her, this innocent, trusting, frightened woman-child, he much preferred to the other ancient thing. He did not fully understand what creature appeared to them in the tower when the Brotherhood moved to compel it; Torrahs had explained away their purpose with eloquent words and subtly complex misdirection. Ambrous was not nearly as artful or astute as their prodigal Brother in the ways of manipulation, but he was intelligent enough to recognize when he was not being given the truth in its entirety. But that was Torrahs; the man had never really dealt with the truth.
The shift lifted from his fingertips, and he turned to face the door to Dehlyn’s room—her prison, really, if any of them wished to be honest with themselves. It was a poor excuse for chambers, especially when his Brothers had agreed with Torrahs’ decision to never release her from it. Unless, of course, they aimed to assault her with muttered chants and powerful sorcery.
Sacrament of Dehlyn (The Unclaimed Book 3) Page 5