The amarach glanced down at the immortal vessel, who broke Ambrous’ gaze to turn and look up at the formidable creature behind her. She gave a small, hesitant nod, then turned again to study the aged Brother. The amarach did as well, and a few locks of his hair—the same dull, metallic grey as his massive wings—brushed forward against his cheeks as he dipped his head toward Ambrous. “Until tomorrow,” the immortal said in a low rumble, though it sounded more like a purring cat than any thunderous warning or enmity.
“Of course,” Ambrous replied. He found himself nodding at the celestial being, as if they’d done this a thousand times before—as if he’d submitted himself to this unending process at the beginning of time and knew its intricacies better than his own mind. Making his vow to the amarach vessel had provided this sensation, which settled within him just as easily as his oath to her had been drawn from his lips. And he knew in his core that he would be here every night with her, to ease the woman-child Dehlyn’s passing into slumber and rejoice in the amarach vessel’s reemergence. He would be here every night to ensure her safety, her security, so she could be delivered into the hands of this amarach guardian until the dawn.
Keeping Ambrous’ gaze, the vessel slid her fingers from his grasp and rose from the straw pallet. Then she extended a hand without looking, which her grey-winged amarach took as if he were about to escort her through a ballroom or for a mere stroll through a garden. Together, both beings nodded at the Brother; it appeared they agreed simultaneously on some conclusion to which Ambrous himself was not privy. He felt a surge of pride at that, and then the windowless room exploded in a flash of brilliance, momentarily blinding him once more.
When the old man’s vision returned, a horribly tight, pinching ache rose from his chest. Any pride or satisfaction he had just harbored had now frozen into an icy terror at the sight of the empty room. The vessel was gone, and though he knew this occurred every night—that it most likely had since the vessel’s inception—he only now felt her absence like a physical wound in his aging body. He longed for her return with as strong a need as if he had been waiting for it and anticipating it every day of his long life, and tears sprang to his eyes.
But just as quickly, the feeling dissipated, leaving him confused and a little unnerved. Never in his wildest dreams—in all his years spent studying and poring over ancient texts with more knowledge than he could ever hope to possess himself—could he have foreseen this. Never could he have prepared for the unexpected link he had just forged with one of the most powerful beings known to their world—and to a few other worlds, as well. He wanted both to rejoice and to never set foot in daylight again. Ambrous understood the joy, the excitement, but he could not for the life of him understand where the shame came from or why he felt it so acutely. He had done absolutely nothing wrong; he had cared for a helpless albeit unnatural Dehlyn and had formed an alliance with the amarach vessel based on respect and a desire to protect what risked defilement. And yet, somehow, he felt far more incompetent, his efforts far more insufficient, than he had amongst his brothers and their rabid obsession. He no longer felt like himself.
Dazed by his own choices, the man spent a few moments in near darkness and complete silence, alone on the floor of this makeshift prison cell. Then slowly, achingly, he shifted and bent and groaned his way to his feet. He’d regret that time spent on the floor in the morning, whether or not he slept at all tonight. And tomorrow, he would have to face the repercussions of what he’d done. Somehow, he felt those extended far beyond his ties with the Brotherhood, whether or not they discovered his unlikely dereliction.
Chapter 7
It was a strange thing to have lost so many hours of daylight to the purple-misted realm while for them, almost no time had passed at all. Kherron found himself completely unable to sleep, and Paden, too, seemed to have difficulty in acclimating to their odd jump in time. Neither one of them wished to disturb Aelis’ much-needed rest, which understandably had not been affected by Kherron having hurtled them into nightfall.
They passed the night in quiet, unfatigued vigil, Paden occasionally pressing the back of his hand to Aelis’ forehead and gently lifting her wrist. This, he’d told Kherron in a low voice, was to measure the beating of her heart. Certain fevered illnesses presented themselves in different ways, and while some showed clearly in flushed cheeks and sweaty brows, others bloomed secretly and raced unseen through one’s veins. Kherron had little knowledge of healing or the human body in general, beyond knowing himself when he’d suffered a wound or had fallen ill. The latter had not been a frequent experience for him, and he admired the healer’s understanding of the risks and attentiveness in holding the worst at bay.
The red-haired woman did occasionally stir and groan in her sleep, though it seemed to Kherron that she did so more from the discomfort of ill dreams than from sickness. But it was not his place to assume as much. Still, Paden assured him on a regular basis that Aelis did not show any warning signs of infection or irreversible damage for which he harbored such concern. Not until she woke on her own, the healer explained, would they know the true extent of her recovery.
Kherron was more than grateful for the fact that his silent companion through their late-night watch asked very little of him at all—of where he had been or what had brought him here in the first place. Most surprising of all, the man possessed a great deal of restraint even on the subject of Kherron’s odd abilities, ranging from summoning the violet doorway to lighting wet logs with nothing more than a simple request. Paden had said he’d seen things, which apparently counted for his lack of surprise and consequent amusement, but Kherron still felt some unknown hesitation toward the man—sensed something important yet to be revealed. Still, the silence of the night’s darkness, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire within their cavern and the rare whisper of some animal roaming the forest, did not leave suitable room for broaching that subject.
He shared what provisions remained in his pack, doling out bread and nuts, aged cheese and a few apples. He had not needed to share his food; even Siobhas had found his own when they’d traveled together, which now felt like eons ago. But he could not begrudge the healer his necessity to eat, especially after what Paden had done to aid him and the bull-headed woman asleep beneath her fur cloak. They dined silently on simple food, and while Kherron thought it prudent to leave at least a little of it tucked away in his pack, he felt distinctly certain that finding food when he needed it would no longer be as difficult as he’d previously imagined. Not for him—not after what he realized he could do.
DAWN GREETED THEM WITH a crisp glow of sunlight and a surprising choir of birdsong for such low temperatures. After the long night, Kherron found his eyelids growing heavy with morning’s arrival. He did not want to sleep now, and he knew it would be taxing to stay awake until the end of the day, when he could best realign himself with normal rhythms. But he was no stranger to staying awake through hours of travel on little sleep. He’d managed it so long ago, when he’d stepped away from the cottage in the woods with Torrahs and the tattooed woman, Dehlyn trailing along at his side. That was when he’d known so little of the world’s strangeness, of who he was, of Torrahs’ deception and the awful forces working in perpetual secrecy around them all. He’d spent every night sitting awake in terror, wondering if the angry amarach Wohl would return Dehlyn safely to him, only to be led further toward his own rash and devastating mistakes. The memories of that time now held but little weight; Kherron had relieved himself of those burdens, of his vow to Dehlyn, of any animosity toward Torrahs he’d once clutched so tightly with his wounded pride, because none of it mattered anymore. He’d chosen a different path, and while he did not yet know where it led, he was certain it had nothing to do with any of them.
Paden’s energy also seemed to lag, but the man’s fatigue vanished amidst a flare of preparedness when Aelis stirred with a grunt beneath her cloak. Kherron had just stepped back inside the fire-warmed comfort of their hollow, and he kn
elt when he noticed the change, though he knew to give the healer plenty of room.
Aelis blinked rapidly, met first Kherron’s gaze then Paden’s, and with a groan of irritation flung her fur cloak aside with her good arm. “It’s stifling in here,” she exclaimed. “What’s wrong with you two?”
Kherron had to bite back a chuckle, and the corner of Paden’s mouth twitched upward before he wiped the amusement away completely and proceeded to inspect Aelis’ shoulder. The healer poked and prodded, suffering the woman’s pointed scowl before she gazed impatiently at the low ceiling. Paden’s professional curiosity brought a tiny frown, as if the man had stumbled upon something he did not expect. At the sight, Kherron’s stomach tumbled; he could not fathom losing this woman now, not when he’d only just found someone who could guide him so much further beyond what he knew of himself. But the healer merely stated, “Sleep did you some good.”
“Aye, and now I’m famished.” Aelis whipped her head toward Kherron, as if she only just remembered he was there. “You have any food?”
Kherron smirked and handed over his pack. He tried to meet her wild, brown-eyed gaze, but the woman was far more concerned with eating than his presence. He’d already removed everything that wasn’t edible, having expected her to be hungry after a full night of her body doing all the hard work. But he had not counted on her being quite so ravenous; she nearly ripped his pack in two in her hurry to relieve it of its contents, shoving one fistful after the next into her half-empty mouth without thought for what it was.
The healer and the forge-less blacksmith exchanged a wary glance, and when Aelis paused to work on swallowing what had lodged in her throat, Paden silently offered her Kherron’s waterskin. She took a long draught, wiped away the water spilling down her chin with the back of a hand, and resumed devouring Kherron’s provisions until there was nothing left. When she seemed to realize this, she frowned and upended his pack, looking for more. Then she glanced at each man in turn. “That’s it?”
Kherron nearly choked. “That’s all I have,” he said, fighting to suppress his surprised laughter and to keep his voice level. He’d never seen anyone react quite like this after nearly losing their life, especially a woman.
Aelis turned to glance at Paden, who merely shook his head. With a disgruntled sigh and another roll of her eyes, the woman leaned forward from against the wall. “I have to hunt, then.” She rocked forward into a squat and stopped when Paden put a warning hand in the center of her back.
When she turned to look at him in surprise, he said, “I’m not sure that’s the best—”
“I’m much more inclined to listen to you with a full stomach, healer,” she interrupted, then stood with a grunt, retrieved her fur cloak, and wrapped it about her shoulders. Her wounded shoulder and the surrounding joints and muscles were clearly still a little stiff, but her color had returned entirely, and she moved with more purpose than she had when she and Kherron both were trying to keep her alive.
“With what?” Kherron asked, awed by her burst of energy and singlemindedness.
“Hmm?” Aelis regarded him from where she stood as if he had just spoken to her in some long-forgotten language.
“Hunt with what?” he clarified, lifting a questioning hand. “You don’t have any weapons.” He wasn’t sure what he would have done if she’d agreed with him and asked to be lent what she clearly lacked; he didn’t think he would have given her his dagger anyway. But he didn’t have to consider it.
“I have what I need,” she replied flippantly, clasping her cloak. Then she gazed at each man again, as if she heard their own hidden judgements of her before they themselves grew aware of such opinions. “Ah, don’t kill yourselves worrying about me.” She turned toward the open mouth of the hollow and trudged into the cold glow of dawn. “I’ll be back.”
When the sound of her footsteps over the frozen ground faded, which took hardly any time at all, Kherron glanced at the healer. “What did you see?” he asked, hoping with far more intensity than he’d expected that Aelis’ new fervor was founded.
Paden shrugged and scratched the side of his head. “Nothing,” he replied simply. “Her wound is clean. No sign of infection. The bleeding must have stopped as soon as she fell asleep. And she obviously feels much better.” Kherron smirked. “I’d expect this kind of recovery after a week or two. Not one night.”
Kherron took a deep breath; he’d experienced very much the same thing when the tattooed woman Lorraii had stabbed him in the side and left him for dead in the forest. His unnaturally quick healing had been a parting gift from the fae—all of whom, it seemed, had appeared in that clearing to offer such a boon and all of whom had delivered themselves to the realm of purple mists until such a time as their strength could be restored. That thought made his heart jump just a little; he wondered whether or not the fae would ever leave that place, now that he’d broken his connection to Dehlyn. He wondered if their self-imposed stasis there would ever lift, whether or not it was dependent on him fulfilling his vow to Dehlyn, whether or not the Unclaimed released herself into the world once more, as they’d put it. But he no longer tread that path. And Aelis had certainly not been visited by fae in the night.
“Well, let’s not ‘kill ourselves worrying about her’, shall we?” he said, choosing not to drag Paden’s curiosity into further discussion. If the healer pressed the issue, Kherron suspected he would find himself willing to engage in such discourse with whatever little knowledge he now had. But he wanted Paden to make the first move, to reveal what he truly sought in aiding the two strangers who had come to him under such astringent circumstances—or at least more of his intentions.
The healer dipped his head with a quiet, amused smile. “Whatever will we do to pass the time?” He grabbed Kherron’s waterskin and took a long drink himself.
Kherron glanced down at the smoking fire between them, which had burned itself nearly to ash. “Keep the home fires burning, I suppose,” he replied with a wry chuckle. Paden met his gaze with a snort. Kherron stood, dusted off his trousers, and turned toward the hollow’s morning-lit entrance. “Care to join me?”
THE MEN GATHERED WOOD while Aelis hunted. Kherron thought it quite amusing despite the fact that he could not decide whether or not he thought she would return with food for either of them. But he enjoyed the focus, something upon which to center his drifting mind, and he now rather looked forward to keeping a fire going inside the hollow now that he’d realized how to do such things. At first, Paden had sifted through the twigs and branches of the forest floor with great care, trying to find what could be stripped down to drier wood or used for quick lighting. It must have been ingrained in him; Kherron had to remind the man three times that the state of their firewood didn’t matter—he’d make it work. Then it took far less time for each man to collect a huge armload of branches and logs for their impossible fire, some of it almost entirely soaked through, it would otherwise have been no good.
Within the hollow, they arranged wet logs and twigs over the nearly extinguished remains of the first fire, smothering what smolder remained, and Kherron sat back to repeat his unexpected communion. For a brief moment, he wondered at the possibility of Aelis’ absence affecting his ability to do this; it seemed a simple thing—to make fire—but it was far more than that when he was communing with the very spirits of both the flames and the fallen wood themselves. He hoped, for his own sanity, that he had not tied himself so closely to her already that he could not do what he had been born to do without her gaze upon him. And he did not wish to humiliate himself in front of Paden. That might have already happened, had Kherron cared more about the opinions of other men, especially when it came down to who believed his story about meeting Aelis and the men he’d killed defending her. But this was who he was—it was all he had—and it did not wish it to be mocked either by his own failure or Paden’s disbelief.
The healer saved him from the tense expectation of a perfect performance. With a sigh, the man slumped back
against the wall beside the fire and dusted the mud, melted snow, and tree bark from his cold red hands. “So how does all this work, anyway?” He gestured toward the assembled wood with a casual wave.
Kherron snorted. “That’s what I’m trying to learn.” Quickly, he looked up at Paden to gauge the man’s reaction; he had not meant to give away his lack of knowledge so soon. Not now. Together, they’d managed to protect Aelis and aid in her recovery, but that did not instantly mean he could trust the man. And it was far too soon, even amidst their abnormal circumstances, for his once-hostage to now call him friend.
Paden merely gazed at him with wide, expectant eyes. His question had obviously been posed with genuine interest and perhaps some need to incite conversation, but there was no judgement or malice there. Still, he pushed Kherron to answer further. “Is fire more difficult than what you did with the...” He fluttered his hand from one side of the hollow to the other. “With the sun?”
Kherron almost laughed. “Not at all. At least, I don’t think so.” He rubbed the back of his neck with a stiff hand. “There are small differences, mostly, but it all draws down to the same thing in the end.” You need to learn to listen. He blinked and chose instead to focus on the pile of wood before him, thinking Paden would see exactly how much he didn’t know if he let the man hold his gaze for too long.
“What’s that?” The healer sounded only curious, his questions provided merely to pass the time. Even still, Kherron would only let himself say so much.
“That it’s a part of me,” he said. “The one thing I know for certain.” Paden gave a hum of acknowledgement, and Kherron smothered an uncertain chuckle. “I’m just not quite used to doing it as a conscious choice. You know, without the pressure of trying not to be killed.” That was all he seemed able to reveal, though the simple act of voicing the words made them more true than he’d expected—made them his.
Sacrament of Dehlyn (The Unclaimed Book 3) Page 7