7. This Day Keeps Getting Worse
7
THIS DAY KEEPS GETTING WORSE
WREN
I haven’t even made it ten feet before the clouds open up and water pours from the sky. Because, of course, now it starts raining.
Grumbling a slew of curses under my breath that would have Mother fainting, I heave the man back to my shelter. It feels like he’s getting heavier with every step, and when the stone overhang finally comes into view, I can barely breathe.
My cloak and dress are plastered to my body, my feet slosh through mud, and wet strands of hair are sticking to my face. Drowned rats probably look better than me.
I blink rapidly, trying to clear my vision enough to see.
It seems inconceivable, but things keep getting worse. Someone must have it out for me. That’s the only explanation I can think of.
By the time I reach the shelter, being dry is a distant memory. I drag the unconscious man beneath the overhang, and a groan slips from his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, reaching down and wiping a wet lock of hair away from his skin. “I’m being as gentle as I can, but you weigh so damn much.”
He doesn’t answer, which is just as well. My muscles are screaming from the burden of having to bring him across the forest, and I’m not sure I could hold a conversation at the moment.
It’s not like I haven’t carried injured beings before, but a mewling cat doesn’t compare to a heavy, injured man. Thank the gods, I get him situated without too much trouble.
The ground is elevated, so the rain can’t get to us, although it’s a close call for him. He’s so tall that even with the top of his head grazing the stones, his toes barely miss the rain. Other than the occasional moan, the rise and fall of his battered, muscular chest are the only signs that he’s alive.
Now that we’re beneath the shelter, I take a moment to breathe and study the man I rescued. His skin is pale beneath the blue-black scruff decorating the bottom half of his face, his jaw is sharp, and from what I can see, which is a lot, thanks to the torrential downpour, he’s covered in muscles.
He probably wouldn’t have any trouble running for days on end. If I had to guess, he might even choose to exercise for fun.
I frown. No, thank you. I’ll take my curves and disdain for exercise any day.
Still, there’s an undeniable pull about the man that makes me want to get closer to him. It’s not all that surprising, since even unconscious, he’s undeniably handsome, in a rugged I can survive in the woods for a month by myself sort of way.
Is it wrong to think of someone I just dragged through the woods as handsome? Probably. Do I have it in me to care? Not really.
I do, however, force my thoughts away from his handsome face to focus on his injuries. He needs help, and I’m the only one around to give it. At least this, I can do.
Dropping down beside him, I undo my cloak and pull my satchel over my head before drawing my hood back on. Miraculously, even though the exterior of my bag is wet, the inside has remained fairly dry.
I sift through it until I find one of the jars of blessed salve. Drying my hands on my dress, I untwist the lid. A floral aroma floods the air, mingling with the scent of fresh rain from all around us. The creamy ointment is a stark white tinged with flecks of green. I reach in with one finger, careful not to take too much. After all, the ointment is worth its weight in gold. Enchanted medicine is both rare and expensive.
The royals are the only ones with magic. Queen Lucinda, the suns protect her, only blesses a specific number of salves each year. Mother has used a portion of my Giving Allowance to purchase a jar of blessed salve once a year for as long as I can remember, accumulating a tiny stock of it at home. That’s why she was able to save Father after the wolf attack.
It doesn’t escape me how odd it is that the prized healing salve comes from the same court that is rumored to be soaked in blood. Even in Grenbloom, isolated though the village is, we often heard tales of the king’s cruelty.
Some say King Andreas bathes in the blood of his enemies. Others say that he took his first life when he was merely ten years old, and he hasn’t stopped killing since. There are arguments about how bloodthirsty the king truly is and disagreements about how many lives he’s actually taken, but the one thing people can agree on is that King Andreas is not a man to anger.
And yet, his wife makes this salve that is sold all across the kingdom.
Musing about what I’m sure must be a complicated relationship between a dangerous man and his wife, I lean over my unconscious patient. My heart beats harder in my chest from my proximity to him—it’s not like I’ve been around that many men in my life, other than my father and brothers—but I ignore it as I carefully apply the cool salve to the laceration on his forehead. His skin thirstily drinks in the cream, and I dip my finger back into the jar twice more before the cut is fully covered.
Now that the worst of his injuries is looked after, I stare at the man. Even unconscious, there’s no hiding the fact that he’s so much bigger than me. I pat him down, careful to avoid any major injuries and check for weapons. When I’m satisfied that he’s unarmed, I shuffle away and rest against the stone wall.
My feet are killing me. They’ve been hurting for what feels like an eternity, but I’ve been ignoring the pain. Unfortunately, the time has come to see what exactly I’m dealing with.
Leaning down, I undo the laces and ease my boots off. They’re surprisingly resistant to my efforts, and a low moan rises in my throat as I lift my right foot in the air.
My once-white stocking is red with blood. Wincing, I peel it off my foot before moving to the other one. I try to keep the fabric away from my skin as much as possible, but they’re both so wet with blood that it’s a losing battle.
“Oh, suns,” I moan.
My feet are red and angry. Popped blisters line my soles. No wonder it felt like I was walking on embers.
Tears prick my eyes again, and I don’t have the energy to stave them off. I’m too tired, too wet, and in too much pain.
I don’t even care that there’s a witness to my weakness—although he’s unconscious, so thank the gods for that small mercy, I suppose. Wet, salty tears pour down my cheeks as I lift my feet and apply the cream to my raw skin.
At the first touch of the salve, the fire that had been burning beneath my skin dulls from a roaring blaze to a slow burn. Thank the gods I had the foresight to bring this with me. When I’m done, I replace the lid on the jar and stare at it. Guilt is creeping up inside me for taking this from my family, but I shove that emotion down, down, down.
I can’t acknowledge it right now because if I do, it will devour me from the inside out. This isn’t the time for things like grief or homesickness; I need to focus on my goal of staying alive.
To that end, I shove a piece of jerky into my mouth. The meat is stringy and tastes like a melange of dried spices, but I can’t afford to be picky and go hungry. Luckily, I’m past the point of caring what I eat, so it’s not difficult to pretend the jerky is a rare delicacy and force it down. I continue until it’s all gone, and by the time I’m done, my tears have dried up.
That’s good. Tears have no place in the wilderness.
Needing to occupy myself with something in order to forget that a single strip of meat doesn’t make a filling meal, I turn to the man I saved.
My breath hisses through my clenched teeth. Rugged handsomeness aside, he’s in bad shape. Now that I’m paying attention and we’re out of the rain, I count more bruises than before. His shirt is ripped, and I can make out the edge of a nasty bruise that is as dark as a night sky on his pale chest.
This isn’t the work of an animal. One of the bruises on his chest looks an awful lot like a bootprint, and a few others echo the shape of a very large fist. Whoever attacked this man must’ve wanted him dead because it looks like they kicked and punched every part of his body.
Even though I’ve already patted him down and felt for weapons, I don’t pull his cloak and tunic away to look more closely at his chest. That seems like an invasion of privacy.
I lay my hand across the uncut part of his head to check for a fever and exhale. His skin is cool. Hopefully, I got the cream on in time.
When I was eleven, I rescued a limping kitten in the woods behind our house. She’d been so tiny, barely the size of my hand, and she’d cut her paw before I found her.
I brought her home and cleaned her wound as best I could, but it was so dirty. Even though I begged, Mother refused to let me use the enchanted cream on her. She said we couldn’t waste such a valuable resource on a stray.
The cat died a week later, and I cried for a month.
I don’t want the same thing to happen to this man. Not only because he looks like he has a lot of life left to live, but because witnessing Amelia’s death was enough for me. Even though it’s a natural part of life, I’ve had my fill of death.
Grabbing my canteen, I untwist the lid and carefully bring the vessel to the man’s lips. I ignore the way his mouth seems so perfectly formed and lift his head with one hand, slowly pouring the liquid into his mouth. Water sloshes, and half of it dribbles down his scruff-covered chin, but the rest seems to go in.
That’s better than nothing, and honestly, it’s all I can manage right now.
Once my attractive patient has had water, I apply more salve to his forehead. The laceration seems to be the worst one he has, although there’s another on his chest that must’ve hurt. I also coat that one in medicine, trying not to think about the firm muscles beneath my fingers. There’s no doubt in my mind: this handsome man must love exercise because it feels like he’s made of iron beneath his skin.
I move to replace the lid on the jar once again when my lips tug down. Bloody hell. I’ve already used a third of the salve.
This does not bode well for my survival. If I want to make it to the Sapphire Coast, I’ll have to be more careful in the future. My resources are extremely limited, and I need to remember that.
I repack my satchel and grab my stockings. Holding them in one hand, I crawl to the entrance of the shelter. My knees ache from kneeling on the hard stone, but it’s nothing compared to the way my feet felt earlier. I hold the stockings under the rain, letting them get soaked before I wring them out. Red rivulets run down the stones as the material fades to a light pink. I repeat the process several times until my hands are shaking and my eyes are drooping.
Crawling back, I lay the stockings out beside me to dry before placing my satchel on the rocky ground. Stretching out a few feet from the stranger, I draw my cloak tighter around myself. The material is wetter than I’d like, but I can’t afford to take it off and let it dry.
I think it’s early evening, although the sheets of rain make it hard to tell, and I’m done with this day. I take out Father’s knife and hook the sheath onto my belt, thankful I have something to protect myself with.
Resting my head on my bag, I shimmy around until I find a semi-comfortable position. By comfortable, I mean that the rocks are only digging into part of my back and not all of it. This is nothing like a real bed, but with the direction my life has taken, even a wisp of comfort is better than nothing.
I stare into the trees, listening to the sounds of the forest. It’s hard to hear over all the rain, but that doesn’t stop my mind from remembering that dangerous predators call Myreth’s woods their home.
Are they coming for me?
My heart races in my chest, and I jump at every cracking branch, every skitter of paws on the forest floor, and every whistle of wind.
I’m not sure how long passes as I stare into the rain, but eventually, the heaviness of my eyes is impossible to ignore. Sleep drags me into its embrace, momentarily freeing me from the hell that has become my life.
* * *
I don’t dream at all, and the next time I open my eyes, the suns are shining brightly in the west. Well. They’re shining as brightly as they can, since rain is still pouring from the heavens.
I didn’t get eaten.
One would think I’d be delighted by that, but I barely manage a smile. Not getting eaten is great, but it doesn’t help me with the mess that is my life. As if reminding me of that fact, my Mark is burning again. Can’t I catch a single break?
My clothes are damp, which is an improvement from earlier, but it’s still not great.
Rather than wallowing in pity for the terrible circumstances of my life, I turn my attention to the man beside me. He’s just as handsome as I remember him being last night, but he seems bigger now that I’ve rested. More imposing and more good-looking, which shouldn’t be possible.
I frown, gnawing on my bottom lip as I stare at him. I’m not entirely sure that bringing him back here was the best idea I’ve ever had. What will I do if he wakes up and sees my Mark?
The thought has me grabbing my hood in a rush, yanking it over my head, and covering the blue swirl. The movement sends fire running through me, and I swallow a strangled cry as tears prick my eyes.
The past two days were bad, but today? Today is going to be worse. I can feel it in my bones… and in my feet. They’re going to be a problem. The open wounds have healed, thanks to the salve, but the skin is red.
When I gingerly touch my right foot, my finger might as well be the fire poker we used at home to stir the flames in the hearth.
“Fucking gods-damned suns,” I hiss, drawing my finger back.
Stupidly, I poke the left one next. Unsurprisingly, it’s fucking worse.
One touch and it feels like flames are licking at my feet. A scream crawls up my throat, but I slap a hand over my mouth. I can’t afford to attract attention, especially when I’m injured. The threat of predators seems even worse now. I’m stuck here for the day.
When the fire has abated to a more manageable burn, I apply more salve to my feet. I wish I didn’t have to, but right now, I can’t imagine walking to the edge of the forest, let alone the length of a kingdom.
Once that’s done, I dig through my bag and pull out the white roll of bandages. Thank the gods I brought them with me. I wrap them around my feet, careful not to touch the inflamed flesh.
One time, I rescued a dog whose leg had been bitten by a wolf. When I brought him home, Mother showed me how to wrap his leg tightly—after she yelled at me about how foolishly sentimental I was, and couldn’t I let someone else take care of animals, for once? Well, the dog’s leg healed, and with any luck—not that I think there’s much of that on my side—my feet will, too.
After they’re wrapped, I ease my feet back into my boots. It’s a much tighter fit than before, but I make it work. Just in time, too. I’ve been ignoring the call of nature, but I can’t any longer. Using the rocks to help steady myself, I stand on wobbly legs.
A mangled scream rises in my throat, but I manage to shove it down. Hobbling away from my patient, I slip into a nearby grove of trees to relieve myself. I manage to stay mostly dry as I take care of my needs and find some leaves to wipe my hands before stumbling back to the shelter.
Every step feels like I’m walking on burning coals in bare feet, and I know deep in my soul that I won’t be going anywhere today. I wish I could, because I need to put as much space between myself and the king’s soldiers as possible, but that won’t happen.
As soon as I can get off my feet, I do. Resting my back against the shale, I slip off my boots once more. Stretching my legs in front of me, I adjust my hood before letting my head fall back. There’s nothing to do now but wait for the rain to stop and my feet to heal.
* * *
I hate waiting almost as much as I hate secrets. The suns seem to creep along the sky, and the day crawls by. Every hour feels longer than the last.
Waiting is exhausting . Or maybe it’s all the running I did. Either way, sleep is pulling at me, trying to drag me back into its embrace.
I don’t want to sleep, though. I’m not sure if it’s the size of the unconscious man beside me, the realization that I can’t go anywhere today even if I needed to, or the series of howls that I heard in the forest a short while ago, but I’m fighting sleep as best I can.
I’m using so much mental energy to stay awake that I can no longer fight against the thoughts that have been vying for my attention since my escape.
I left my family.
I’m an outlaw.
This isn’t fair.
Everything is a lie.
What is the point of my Mark, anyway?
And on top of all that, there’s one that’s louder and more persistent than the others.
Amelia is dead.
She’ll never smile, never laugh, never do anything again.
My chest aches, and I shove those thoughts away. I don’t want to think about the Giving or my family or Amelia. If it won’t help me survive, it’s not worth worrying about right now. Making it past today, then tomorrow, and the next day. That’s all I can handle right now.
Maybe in the future, I’ll consider what more I want. The people I’d like to meet, the life I want to lead. Whether I still want to be a healer or if there is something else I want to do. I don’t know. For so long, my identity has been wrapped up in my fate—I’m a Given, nothing more.
Now, I have no idea who I am. Not really.
“Gods above, Wren, get a grip.” Thoughts like these aren’t helpful in the slightest. I don’t need to think more about how dire my situation is. All that will do is pull me into a pit of despair that I’m not certain I’ll be able to get out of.
In an effort to distract myself, I check on my patient. His bruises are growing lighter, tinged in green and yellow, and his skin is a bit warmer than yesterday. His cuts are healing, and his breaths are more even.
He’s going to make it.
Profound relief fills me, and a knot I hadn’t realized existed loosens in my stomach. I may not know the man or anything about him, other than the fact that he was traveling in the woods all by himself, and he’s extremely good-looking, but I don’t want him to die.
Now that my patient is firmly on the path to health, I start thinking about what’s to come. I can’t leave yet—my feet are still far too sore—but once I can walk, I will go. I shouldn’t wait around for this man to wake up. What do I know about him, really? He could be dangerous or ask too many questions. No, leaving before then would be best.
Going over my plan for the next few days, I gnaw on another piece of jerky and drink water. At least the rain is drinkable—I learned that from Markus—so I fill my canteen and drink as much as I want.
Eventually, despite my best efforts to remain awake and watch for predators, the drumming rain lulls me back to sleep.
* * *
The brush of a wet nose against my cheek pulls me out of my dreams. I wake slowly, my eyelashes fluttering against my cheek as I swat the animal away.
“Go away, Truffle,” I mutter, my voice rough. “I thought I told you to stay home.”
She presses her nose more firmly into my cheek and my brows furrow. Truffle’s nose isn’t this big. It’s cute and tiny, like the cat she is.
Frowning, I pry open my eyes.
A half-gasp, half-scream crawls up my throat, and I barely swallow it. My heart races in my chest, and any vestiges of sleep vanish.
The suns are rising, casting the forest in dim light. Somehow, I slept the entire night away. That isn’t what has my heart hammering in my chest, though.
No.
That’s all thanks to the massive feline standing in front of me. The animal’s silky midnight fur shimmers in the morning light. It tilts its head, looking at me curiously. It’s easily ten times Truffle’s size, and at the end of its paws are claws that look like they could tear through my skin in a heartbeat.
“G-g-good kitty,” I whisper, trying to keep the fear out of my voice.
Animals know what you’re feeling, and the worst thing I can do is show the enormous cat that I’m terrified of it. I’ve been scratched by a regular house cat before, and it hurt. I cannot imagine how much it would hurt to be scratched by one of those claws.
It takes a moment, but the creature’s name eventually crawls out of the recesses of my mind.
Panther.
Silver eyes that are pools of shimmering moonlight stare at me for so long that my mouth dries. I like cats, I do. But this panther isn’t just a cat; it’s a predator.
Well, it’s official: my day has somehow gotten even worse.
My hand creeps towards the knife sheathed on my hip. I don’t want to hurt the panther, but if it comes at me, I’ll have no choice. I didn’t run from my awful fate, only to die at the paws of an oversized cat.
“Please leave,” I beg the panther, pulling out my knife and twisting the hilt in my hand. It’s a foreign weight, and I hate the way it feels in my palm. “I really don’t want to hurt you.”
That would be a new low, even for me.
The longest moment passes before the feline cants its head and slowly backs away. Did it understand me? I don’t dare look away as its paws move soundlessly over the shale. The panther pauses at the injured man, bending its head and licking the dried blood off his forehead.
Disgusting. I shudder as the cat continues its ministrations, only stopping when the man’s skin is clean. Then, with a final glance of those silver eyes in my direction, the panther bounds off into the forest.
I shiver, staring into the trees long after the panther’s disappearance. The entire encounter has left me feeling strange, and I won’t be able to fall back asleep. Not that I particularly want to. Nightmares of being caught had filled my slumber, and it had been less than peaceful.
The rain has slowed to a gentle pitter-patter, and the forest is calm in the wake of the storm. The trees glisten, their leaves shining brilliant yellows, oranges, and reds. Tiny brown and grey squirrels hop from one branch to another. Gentle bird songs lilt through the air, insects chirp, and a rabbit darts by. The forest is coming to life before my eyes.
There’s a beauty in it that I cannot stand. How can beauty exist in a world built on a foundation of lies?
It hurts to watch the trees swaying in the wind, to hear the beautiful symphonies the birds sing, and to see the lush plants growing all around me.
I’m mourning the life I thought I’d have as a gods-blessed, and the world doesn’t seem to understand. Everyone else is going on with their lives as if my world isn’t crumbling around me.
It isn’t fucking fair.
None of this is.
I tug my hood further over my head and gather my cloak around myself, wishing I could burrow into the fabric. If I possessed magic and was capable of disappearing into thin air, I would. Vanishing and never dealing with the absolute hell that has become my life sounds perfect right now.
I’ve never wished to be royal more than I do at this very moment. Why did Esyn decide that they would be the only ones blessed with magic?
Rude, honestly.
What makes the royals so special, anyway? Besides the obvious facts, of course. They have magic; I don’t. They rule over the kingdom; I’m on my own. Perhaps most notably, considering my current situation, they aren’t on the run for their lives. I very much am.
What a mess. If I had even a drop of power, I’d use it to save myself.
I scoff, shaking my head to clear it of these ridiculous thoughts. I’m not royal, and I never will be. My veins are devoid of power, just like the majority of the population in Myreth. To top it all off, I’m in a far worse situation than most.
I’m a Given on the run, and chances are, I’m going to die before I ever find freedom. I decided to live, and to be honest, yesterday, that sounded great. But now that I’ve slept and survived an encounter with a panther, I’m realizing how difficult and lonely it will be. Not to mention the soreness that will inevitably plague me if I have to keep running.
Living seems like so much more work today than it did yesterday.
I stare into the woods, wondering if I should try to call the panther back. Maybe I should let it rip out my throat. At least then, I’d be dead, and I’d no longer have to deal with this.
Maybe—
A groan comes from my patient, breaking through my spiral of despair. That’s good.
Feeling sorry for myself and my circumstances is another luxury I don’t have time for. Wishing to be royal won’t help me survive, and hoping for magic won’t miraculously infuse my veins with power. If wishes worked, my Giving Mark would be gone, and I’d be free.
But they don’t, so I’m stuck with my shitty circumstances. I can’t do anything about them, but I can help my patient.
I crawl across the shale, careful to keep my weight on my knees. My feet feel… better.
Well.
Better is probably an overstatement. A rather large one, if I’m being honest. But at least, instead of burning, they’re throbbing incessantly. It’s progress, though, and I’ll take it.
I reach the man as he groans again.
Frowning, I quickly sheathe my knife and brush back a lock of his hair. From afar, it appears black, but up close, there’s a blue tint to it like a raven’s cloak caught in sunlight. His laceration has healed, and his skin isn’t nearly as pale as it was when I first found him.
That magnetic pull seems stronger than it was before, and I couldn’t pull my gaze away from my patient, even if I tried.
His face is chiseled and well-defined, his cheekbones are strong, and his eyes…
They blink open, and suddenly, two shimmering emeralds are staring right at me.