Chapter 21
Chapter
Twenty-One
M y mind races. I know if I had a full dose of medicine in my veins or if I’d been eating properly, I’d be able to think straight.
But all I can think of is that the Fellian has stolen the last of my firewood. He’s strong enough to drag it up the stairs to his room, and that sled represents days—maybe weeks—of slow-burning fires, enough to stave off the worst of my sickness through the winter. I need it. He stole my knife from me, and now this?
He has to die.
I didn’t want to kill anyone, but he’s forcing me towards this. The logic of killing him makes more sense with every breath I take.
The Fellian has plenty of supplies. He has three of the globes that produce light. He’s got wood. He’s got books, and they’ll make a finer fire than my dresses will, even if I run out of wood. If I kill him, it all belongs to me.
It’ll be more than enough to last me until the next solstice, when more supplies will be delivered to me.
If I have to choose between the enemy or myself, I’ll obviously choose myself. Setting my light down in a safe place, I touch my bodice to make sure that my knife is in place. I can do this. I eye the stairwell, hidden in shadow. The first floor is Nemeth’s. I can go up there. Kill him. Find something to burn. Return to the kitchens and make my potion. Inject it the moment it cools, and then deal with the blood and his body later, once I feel better.
One thing at a time. Murder first.
I take a step onto the stairs, then another…and nearly collapse. I’m weaker than I thought. It’s all right , I remind myself. You can rest all you want once the potion is made. Go up the stairs one at a time, but you must go up the stairs. Kill your enemy, then everything will be fine.
I go up the steps. Slowly. Achingly slowly. I have to pause several times, and I’m not sure if the blackness swimming in front of my eyes is because of dizziness or shadows. I can do this, though. I can.
I make it to the top of the stairs and sway, holding onto the wall. Panting, I wait for my breathing to calm and then I head toward his quarters, drawing my knife from my bodice. My hand trembles with weakness, but I should be able to stab his throat, I think. That will kill a man, won’t it? Or should I go for the groin? Which one bleeds more?
Pausing outside his door, I draw a breath. I can do this. He’s proved himself to be my enemy time and time again. No hesitation.
My life versus his.
Before I can knock on the heavy door, it opens. A large form melts from the shadows, coalescing in the faint light emanating from his room. Nemeth’s green eyes reflect and shine as he gazes down at me. “Candra?”
I stab.
It’s a clumsy effort, and if I was thinking clearly, I would have tried seduction first. But I can think of nothing except my medicine, and how desperately I need that wood. So I plunge my knife towards his broad chest, towards the slabs of muscle that cover his torso.
He grabs my wrist before the blade nicks the skin, stopping me.
“What do you think you’re doing, little princess?”
“Killing you,” I choke out. I struggle against his grip, but it’s useless. He holds me in a vise, and I can’t break free. Spots swim before my eyes and I glare up at him, defiant. “I won’t let you destroy me.”
“Destroy you?” Nemeth laughs, as if the idea is ludicrous.
He gazes down at me, and as I snarl up at him, the lights seem to go out. Everything dims around me, and the last thing I see before I pass out is the bright, amused glow of those great green eyes.
I’m lost in dreams.
They’re terrible dreams, though, because even in my dreams everything hurts. My body aches and I’m sweating. The space behind my eyes throbs with pain, and I can’t seem to escape any of it. I’m so thirsty, too. My mouth is a desert, and I dream of cool glasses of water, only for them to be held away from me, taunting me.
Now I’m in a desert. I stagger through the sands, and come upon a large statue of the goddess. She looks angry, and when I collapse at her feet, she lifts one enormous stone hand and clutches me in her grasp, her fingers supporting my lolling head.
“Which is it, princess? Injected or imbibed?”
I have no idea what the goddess is talking about. Her face is cruel as she leans in towards mine, and I flinch back. “W-what? I don’t understand, great lady.”
The Golden Moon Goddess clutches me in her arms. It’s like being hugged by rock, and as she leans in, I’m terrified. “Your medicine, little fool. Which is it? How do you take it?”
“N-needles,” I manage. “Needles. Injected. Please don’t kill me, goddess. I’m here, aren’t I? Haven’t I done everything you asked?”
She makes a derisive sound and sets me down gently on the sand again, and I escape to darkness once more.
“Drink this.”
A low, rumbling voice wakes me from feverish dreams. This time, it’s not the hand of the goddess that’s lifting me up, but a warm touch and a light scrape of claws as I’m pressed against a hard chest. My eyes flutter and I catch a glimpse of gray skin and broad muscle—and a far too bright light behind him. I squeeze my eyes shut again, because everything hurts.
“Princess.” Nemeth’s voice is cajoling. “I made this especially for you. You must get something in your belly or you’ll be sick again. Drink this for me.”
I lick my lips—or try to—but my tongue is dry and there’s no moisture. I think about that blinding light. “Are we…outside?”
“Alas, no. Is the light too strong? You said you liked it so I wanted it to be bright in here for you.”
“Hurts my eyes,” I manage. “Hurts my head, too.”
I’m gently set down on the bed again, and then I hear a tap tap, followed by another tap tap. Nemeth’s large form sits on the edge of the bed again, the frame groaning with effort, and then that gentle hand lifts me upright once more. “Better?”
I squeeze an eye open and there’s no stab of light this time. Thank goodness. I blink, trying to focus my gaze, but all I see is Nemeth’s green eyes in the darkness. His face is perilously close to mine, and I worry that he’s going to kill me. A whimper escapes.
“I made you a broth,” he says. “You have to drink it.”
A cup is held to my lips and I take a hesitant sip. Flavor bursts on my tongue, and I moan at how good it is. And he made this for me? He’s not trying to kill me? He’s…taking care of me? I try to take a large gulp, but he pulls the cup away and I whine in protest.
“Small sips,” he tells me. “You can’t have much. You’ve been sick and I don’t want you losing it all again.”
Losing it all…again? Oh no. I know when I miss my potion, my stomach tends to rebel. Have I puked all over him? And he’s just trying to take care of me? I grimace at the realization. He probably hates me more than ever now. I take another sip when he offers it to me, savoring the flavor and the warmth of it. How long has it been since I’ve had a warm meal of my own? At least a week, since the last time I made my potion and hastily made a quick soup of vegetables and meat while I had the fire going. Mine is never as good as this, though, and each time he lifts the cup to my lips, I drink more.
I want to protest when he pulls it away, but then I’m offered a cup of water and that’s just as delicious. I drink as much as I can, and sigh with relief when I’m done. “Thank you.”
There’s no response to my words, and my skin prickles with awareness. He gently sets me back down into the bedding again, and even though I’m exhausted, my mind races. The thick blanket that’s pulled over me is not mine. The wide, hard bedtick I lie upon? Not mine. My weak hands brush over my chest, reaching for my knife, but it’s not there. I’m not wearing my bodice or my dresses, nothing but a thin chemise.
And I’m too weak to do anything about it.
I can’t decide if he’s going to kill me or exact his revenge in other ways. “I’m in your quarters,” I point out, unnecessarily.
“You are. It seemed a good idea since you collapsed at my door after trying to murder me. No sense in going upstairs.” There’s a touch of reproach in his voice. “Not that you have a lot upstairs that you’ll be missing.”
Terrible, horrible Fellian. “Where is my knife?”
“Safely out of reach. You can have it back when I’m assured you won’t slip it into my ribs the moment I turn aside.”
“It was a gift from my sister. I want it returned.”
“And it will be. Right now you just need to rest.”
“In your bed?”
He snorts. “If I wanted you, I’d want you willing and healthy, not sickly and weeping.”
I clench my jaw at his irritatingly arrogant words. “I don’t weep.” Of course, the moment I say that, I think of how I broke down and sobbed when I couldn’t tear my sled apart, and that he watched me cry. Bastard. I hate that he saw me in my weakest moment.
“Next you’ll be telling me you don’t get sick when the proof is all over my clothes,” he says, voice dry. Those green eyes lean in close in the darkness, and then gentle fingers brush a lock of hair off my brow. “Just rest. You can pick a fight with me when you feel better.”
Am I picking a fight? He’s the enemy. We’ve been at odds since we got here. He’s a thief and a liar, and yet here he is, tucking the blankets around me and feeding me soup. I want to say more, but I’m exhausted. I close my eyes.
Before I drift off, a claw rubs against my cheek. “How often do you need your medicine? So I know when to give it again?”
“Once a day,” I mumble. “In the arm.”
“I’ll remember. Rest now.”