Chapter Sixteen
Ingrid
We did it. The reality of it hasn’t sunk in, my heart still racing from the excitement.
And realizing I’m wrapped up in Xandril’s strong embrace does nothing to slow my heartbeat.
His arms begin to tighten around me, but then he freezes.
For a moment, I think he’s going to pull away, or he’s expecting me to scold him.
But that’s ridiculous. I’m the one who embraced him!
I squeeze my arms around him a little tighter, stretching to try to get my fingers to link around his back, and he sucks in a breath. A wince.
I pull back, and he’s immediately apologetic, stammering about how he shouldn’t have touched me or assumed or—
“Where are you hurt?” I cut through his unnecessary apology, doing what I can to inspect him. I can’t tell if any of the blood is his. Was he gored by Starcaller’s tusks? Is he fading right before my eyes?
My stomach sinks like a stone in a stream.
I’ve hardly had one actual conversation with this man, yet the idea of him being injured is enough to make my blood run cold.
He may not have always been kind to me, but he’s shown himself to be harmless, and finding him at Starcaller’s side when she needed help most is not what I would have expected of the king.
“I’m fine,” he insists, turning to speak with Visri and the other grooms, wincing again when he does.
Nope.
I might not have fully pieced together the complete picture of who this scarred demon is, but I’ve seen his determination, his willingness to step in when no one else will, and I’ve felt the deep rumble of his voice when he speaks of his seldom-idle hands.
There is more to this quiet mountain of a man than meets the eye.
But before I’m able to uncover any of his hidden soft parts, I need to make sure he survives this night.
With a couple of quick steps, I’ve put myself between Xandril and Visri, concerns of rudeness far, far away. Xandril moves to step around me, but staggers when he does, his painful gasp loud enough to alert the nearby grooms.
“Help the king to the keep,” I tell the collected group. “However many it takes. He can’t walk on his own.”
“I told you, human, I’m fine.” Xandril shakes off the couple of grooms who have moved in to support him, grumbling under his breath.
He can grumble all he likes, because I’ve just spotted Morwen in the stable doorway.
It took her long enough to catch up with me, though I can’t imagine she was in any hurry to get to her least favorite part of the castle.
She looks, frankly, horrified at the state of me, and I think she might actually be considering turning around and leaving me to deal with this on my own—at least for a second.
I wave her over, and reluctant as she may be, to her credit, she toddles over to me.
As soon as she’s within earshot, I begin ticking off things I’ll need.
“Meet us with hot water, bandages, and whatever potions and poultices you have that could help treat his wounds. And you three, I don’t care what he says, the king needs help.
” Two of the grooms are still doing their best, but the other three who’d started to help have quickly taken the excuse to abandon the task.
Not on my watch.
Xandril attempts to shake off one of the grooms, but in doing so, he cries out, toppling to the hay-strewn floor, his breaths coming in labored wheezes.
There’s a part of me that wants to be worried about him, about what will happen to this place—to me—if something happens to him, but there’s no time for worry or fear right now. Instead, I let anger take the reins.
“Do you see where being stubborn has gotten you? Now stay put until we can get you moved inside and upstairs, I don’t want you hurting yourself any worse.”
No one in the stable says anything or makes eye contact with either one of us.
The group of grooms is putting together something they use to move sick and injured animals while Morwen’s already gone, happy to leave this place as soon as she arrived.
Visri is in the stall with Starcaller and her calf, tears streaking his face.
As much as I want to be irritated with Xandril for his stubborn disregard for his own wellbeing, I can’t deny that we accomplished something incredible here.
“I’m the king,” he wheezes from a pile of hay at my feet. “You can’t give me orders.”
“Hmm,” is my only response.
Despite his protests, he doesn’t move again until he’s being transported gingerly into the castle’s keep.
Our procession takes him up toward the royal quarters, stopping short when I can’t bear to hear his breaths grow any shallower.
“In here,” I instruct the grooms, gesturing to a long table in what looks like a meeting room. Whatever it is, the table is big enough for my betrothed, groaning under his weight as he’s set down.
Arms trembling from the effort of transporting his muscular form, even with half a dozen of them, the grooms lower him as gently as possible, but there’s only so much room with Xandril’s size and spikes, and one of them jostles him while removing their arm.
Xandril snarls, eyes burning coals as he lashes out with his claws, too lost in his own pain to even know what he’s doing.
The groom jumps back, knocking over a chair and vase, the crash echoing through the room.
Xandril’s claws didn’t even catch the groom’s fabric, but the whole cadre of them is now another step further from the table.
That solitary burst of energy is all the king seems to have, and he collapses back to the table with another strangled groan.
I’ve spent enough time around injured animals to know how they can seem angry and vicious when they’re really in pain. I don’t think Xandril would be happy if he wound up hurting someone in his haze, especially not when he’s still trying to earn their trust and loyalty.
“Thank you,” I say to the group of grooms. “Please go back and enjoy the festivities.” Visri’s told me more than enough about the feasts and celebrations that would follow the birth of a new ifrak.
Even with circumstances being less than ideal, the need to celebrate remains. Is perhaps even stronger.
Morwen passes them on their way out, bringing with her a cart laden with jars and bottles, vials of powders and little pots of salves and ointments. She’s frowning at the collection as she begins to group things, opening a selection before I can stop her.
“Morwen, I should be the one to treat him.” My voice is soft, but Morwen’s been around me long enough to know that it’s not a request. “Just tell me what these do and how to administer them. I don’t want anyone else risking harm.
” And for some reason, I’m confident he won’t hurt me.
I keep that part to myself because it sounds naive even to my own mind.
Morwen frowns at me, then back to the groaning king, looking like she’s considering arguing with me about it. Finally, the debate in her mind is over, and she reluctantly starts explaining the different ways to treat pain, infection, bleeding, fever, and anything else she can think of.
“I’d be able to fix him up right now if we had some halemercy essence.
I checked the stores. Thought maybe there was a little bit that escaped Farandir’s notice before he fell into the stem…
” It’s almost as if she’s muttering to herself more than explaining to me.
She’s never been so candid with me about the former king.
Then again, we’ve never had to conspire together to save the life of the current king. Things have changed between us.
“Would they have any in the barracks? Or in the village?” I don’t like how dark and cold he looks on the table, not a hint of the inner fire peeking through the fissures in his flesh. If there’s some magical thing that can heal him right away, I want it here. Now.
“Oh no, no,” Morwen says with a tut. “Soulstem choked it all out decades ago. We tried to keep some as long as we could, but it was the king’s. We couldn’t keep it from him. Doubt there’s any left in the reaches if it’s not here.”
Great. Doesn’t do me any good to know about this cure-all if it doesn’t even exist anymore.
Quickly, I run back through the important bits with Morwen, double-checking on anything I don’t quite remember. She’s hardly made it out the room when Xandril’s thready voice comes from the table.
“Leave…me,” he wheezes, each word halfway between a wince and a rasp. “Don’t need—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. You don’t need help,” I answer. I never really understood why Phillip sometimes rolls his eyes at me, but now the urge suddenly hits, and I get it. I have no more intention of listening to Xandril’s protests than my brother does with my warnings of caution.
The ferocious, conquering warlord of a king gives the most feeble, half-hearted growl in response, and I’ve got to bite back a chuckle.
I don’t think he’d appreciate me laughing at him in this moment, but the idea that he’s any sort of threat right now is delusional. He can’t even move, let alone attack.
“Now,” I say, rolling the cart over to his side, everything laid out in the order I think I’ll need it. “Are you going to tell me where it hurts, or am I going to have to look over every inch of you?”
My attempt at levity is met with stony silence.
All right then.
If he thinks he can intimidate me into fleeing, he’s going to be sorely disappointed when he comes to and realizes I’m the one who’s nursed him back to health.