Chapter 7 The Bondsmith #2
But the crunch of sand was completely wrong. There was no shuffling and no heavy footsteps. Instead, the movement was light but purposeful, their steps quick and assured. When they finally reached my position against the pole, their scent overwhelmed me to the point I almost gagged.
There was no lye, and the unmistakable smell of sweat, horse, and mud lingered, but beneath it all was the distinguishing sharp aroma of bergamot and something that vaguely reminded me of sunshine.
The unidentified person crouched before me, but didn’t move, didn’t say a word.
“May I touch you?” they whispered, the voice decidedly masculine.
Touch me? I tried to speak, but my throat was cracked and dry, my mouth and tongue long past the point of the moisture required for speaking.
“I need to remove your bindings and blindfold, but I don’t want to spook or hurt you.” His voice was like warm honey, and I let it wash over me.
He was saving me? Oh, one of Fate’s Children.
I jerkily nodded my head once.
He seemed to understand my gesture, and warm, calloused fingers gently and deftly untied the blindfold that had bound my eyes over the past few months.
The man struggled to remove the scrap of rough fabric from where it was tangled in my hair, and I swore I felt pieces of the skin on my face peel away as he removed the blindfold.
I inadvertently winced at the sharp pain, and the man halted his work.
“Are you in pain?” I jerked my head once in a nod.
“Do you want me to stop?” His voice was so full of compassion that I almost cried. I jerked my head in a ‘no.’
The man said nothing else, just returned his hands to the back of my hair, where he spent a few tension-filled minutes untangling my curls from the fabric.
“Fuck,” he swore. “This might hurt, but it’s the only way I can remove it.”
It was the only warning I got before he pulled hard on the fabric. It caught in the matted nest of curls at the back of my head, and I opened my mouth to cry out in pain as I felt chunks of hair pull from my scalp.
The man’s other palm moved to cover my mouth.
“Shh,” he whispered as the blindfold finally, blessedly, came free.
“Don’t open your eyes just yet,” he said as he tossed the infernal piece of fabric somewhere behind me. “You’ll go temporarily blind from the light.”
The light that was filtering through my closed lids was already brighter than I’d seen in months, and I heeded his advice, slowly opening my lids and letting my eyes adjust to the brightness of day.
As my eyes adjusted to the tent, I felt him move behind me to undo the bonds that kept me tied to the pole.
“This is going to hurt worse than the blindfold,” he quietly mused. “Your muscles have been frozen in place for too long—it will be excruciating to move them. I will help you, but not here. We have to leave, and quickly.”
His voice was still assured and calming, but there was an edge of panic to it now.
Solace and Kaos are coming.
The thought sent a spike of fear through my tattered body, causing my heart to beat faster beneath my breast.
At last, the man freed my hands and feet as my eyes fully adjusted to the light, allowing me to confirm my prison was a tent.
A small one, with a low roof and no windows—no wonder it was stifling in here.
I couldn’t see the man who rescued me—he was still behind me, slowly massaging my shoulders and upper arms.
My body screamed in protest as feeling returned to my upper extremities. Pain like I’d never experienced ricocheted through my body, burning my nerves and causing my muscles to twitch involuntarily.
The pain reached a crescendo, blocking out all other senses, and I opened my mouth in a silent scream before blackness blessedly took me.
I woke to a slow rocking, my back pressed against rough wood planks, and the sun warming my face.
Soft sounds filtered through the residual haze of pain as I slowly regained consciousness.
What was once sharp, burning, and all-encompassing was now little more than a light throbbing where the binding rope had bitten into my wrists and ankles.
My muscles were tight and sore, my body frail and weak, but I was alive.
Tears sprang to my eyes with the thought.
Pushing down the sudden onslaught of emotion, I focused on what I could hear. Even now, with my sight returned, I found it easiest to rely on the senses that had kept me sane during my months of captivity.
I heard the soft call of gulls, the gentle lapping of waves, and the creaking of wood. I smelled the distinct scent of salt and brine, the tanginess of seaweed.
I’m on a ship.
The realization caused my eyes to spring open, and I sat up abruptly, groaning in pain as lightning bolts shot behind my eyes and through my skull.
Immediately, the door to the room I was in opened with a thud, and I jumped in fright.
“Sorry! Didn’t mean to scare you. You’re awake!” The overly eager and beyond chipper voice was young, and very much did not belong to the man who rescued me.
Had I imagined him?
“The commander is going to be so pleased when I tell him. We’ve been waiting for you to wake for ages!
” The eagerness and glee in the little voice had me smiling behind my hands.
The little one reminded me distinctly of Faylinn, before I gave her to the couple beyond the Ice Shelf.
So curious. So full of life and exuberance.
What was a child doing with the rebellion?
I pulled my hands away from my face and gasped in surprise, both from the proximity of the child and how close the little girl in front of me resembled Faylinn.
She was probably nine or ten, with thick braids and rich bronze skin that glowed in the sunlight. Her gap-toothed smile was mere inches from my face, and her deep-brown eyes shone with excitement.
“You’re the Bondsmith!” she squealed excitedly, and I mustered the strength to give her a weak smile.
“I am.” My voice was cracked and husky from lack of use and water. I hacked a dry cough that struggled to stop once it began.
Worry creased the brow of the little girl as I struggled to rein in my cough.
It was like the months spent in the desert had lined my lungs and throat with impermeable dust that was just now working its way out of my body.
My hand came away with pink-tinged spit, and I saw the girl’s eyes widen in fear.
“Itanya,” a familiar man’s voice sounded from outside the cabin, “I told you not to disturb our guest.”
There was admonishment but also love laced in his tone, and a blush covered the girl’s cheeks as she gave a sheepish smile.
“I was just excited, Uncle,” Itanya admitted with a small shrug as the owner of the deep voice came into view.
He was tall, with corded muscle that stretched beneath his cream tunic and navy pants.
His skin was kissed by the sun, his deep honey-colored hair windswept.
But his eyes were what was most memorable—a writhing combination of deep brown and green with flecks of molten honey that seemed to undulate within his irises.
His full lips pulled into a smile as he gazed at his niece.
“Go and find your mother. She’s been looking for you, troublemaker.” His eyes glinted with amusement, and Itanya huffed before turning and flouncing from the room. As she reached the doorway, she stopped and made eye contact with me again.
“I’m happy you’re here, Bondsmith. We need you,” she said with a solemnity that should never grace the words of a child, before nodding once and continuing down the hall and out of sight.
The quiet in her absence was palpable as the man—my rescuer—gazed at a spot on the floor. He scuffed it slightly with the toe of his boot before lifting his head, his eyes boring into my own.
I gasped slightly, the sound catching in my abused throat.
Why does he look so familiar? There was something in his eyes, a soul-deep understanding that transcended age and the passing of time. The harder I thought, the more the relation seemed to slip away.
“We’re on our way north,” the man finally said in that calming tone of his, and I jolted from my musings.
I nodded my head in response, not trusting my voice again.
He took two confident steps toward a small table I hadn’t noticed earlier and poured me a generous cup of water from a pitcher. As soon as the cup was in my hands, I guzzled half of it in one gulp.
“Careful,” he warned. “We’ve dripped as much down your throat as we could, but consuming too much at once will cause you to be sick.”
I immediately pulled the cup from my mouth, the water finally wetting my cracked lips. I took small, measured sips as I regarded the man across from me.
Once I had drained the first cup and he had refilled it, I chanced a question.
“Wh—” My voice broke on the word, and I cleared my throat before trying again. “Where are we?” I rasped. I had a million questions, but this seemed at least like a good place to start.
“On a ship, bound for Imena. Lishahl is . . . loyal to our cause.”
I raised an eyebrow at that, but he offered no other words of explanation. I studied him a moment longer, part of the familiarity finally dawning. My eyes went wide, and I almost dropped my cup as recognition hit.
“You’re her general. The one who captured me,” I whispered.
A shadow passed across the man’s face, a moment of torture in his hazel eyes that made the gold spin faster, before it vanished. His shoulders sank a bit as he admitted, “I am.”
“But . . . why?”
He shrugged. “There are many questions to be answered, but now is not the time. Now, you have to rest and recover your strength. The journey ahead will be long. Arduous.” His words brokered no argument; his word final.
I cocked my head at him, my memories of capture and torture at the hands of the Matriarch so at odds with the man who rescued me, the one who melted at the sight of his niece.
When he was sure I wouldn’t say anything more, he gave me a short, curt smile before turning for the door. The material of his shirt stretched across his back, and I was once again struck by a familiarity that I couldn’t place.
“Who are you?” I whispered incredulously.
The man paused with his hand on the door frame, turning his head over one shoulder to answer me.
“Cael, Commander of the Last Keeper’s army,” he paused, “though I much prefer my true name.”
“Which is?” I prodded.
“Torin d’Eshu. Lord of Iluul.”