Chapter twenty-eight
Revna
What do you mean, our mate?
I stood unmoving in the doorway to the small room, frozen by Kindra’s words as Arne lay dying on the bed.
“Revna!” Jorgen was shouting at me, and I blinked at him. “Help me get this off him! We need to cool him down!”
I moved, feeling like I wasn’t in control of my own body.
Perhaps Kindra was in control as I helped Jorgen pull the tunic over Arne’s head.
His chest was mottled with scars, some long healed over and others still pink.
He must have spent a great deal of his life fighting, though all of the injuries appeared to have been made by blade rather than claw.
“Here.” Branka came sloshing into the room with a bucket of water and a pile of linens. She dipped the linens in the bucket and threw one at Jorgen, then another at me. “Cover his chest and brow.”
I placed the towel over his chest, unable to tear my gaze from his face.
His eyes were closed so I couldn’t make out their color, and he was certainly older than Arik by at least a decade.
His dark hair, cut shorter than most drage men, was graying at the temples.
His beard was liberally streaked with silver, and his strong features were weathered in a way that told me he was not in his first flush of youth.
Beautiful, Kindra noted smugly.
I couldn’t disagree. He’s rather hairy.
I like it. He’s age-appropriate.
I’m at least fifteen years older than him, I argued. I had bonded with Kindra four Riftings ago, and I’d nearly been twenty-five at the time. Arne wasn’t an old man, but he must be in his late forties at the youngest. Why don’t you tell me how to help him if you want to be helpful.
Kindra rolled in my mind. Simply place your hand over his heart. I shall do the rest. It will make me weak for a time, so you must warn the others.
Won’t it cut me off from you entirely? I felt like my head was swimming, the words Jorgen was shouting to Branka muffled as if beneath feet of water. If this is mistletoe—
I will not be taking the poison from him, Kindra said, her voice calm and sure. Just protecting his heart from its effects. Your hand, now.
I nodded, placing a hand over his heart.
Skin to skin, Kindra corrected.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Rev,” Jorgen demanded, shaking my shoulder as I pulled back the cold, wet towel and replaced my hand. “Wait for the healer–”
The skin beneath my fingers flared suddenly golden, and the sick man seemed to sigh as his brow smoothed out.
“What the—“
“He is our mate.” The words came out as barely more than a whisper,
“He’s you’re what?” Jorgen was staring at my hand. At the gold light pulsing steadily into Arne’s chest.
“My mate. Kindra says he will be. She is trying to keep him alive.”
“He’s Chaosborn?” Branka asked, her jaw dropping.
“Must be,” Jorgen murmured, his voice more gentle than it had been a moment ago. “Might explain how he made it here in this condition. Can you grab that stool, love? Yes, that one.”
“Sit,” Branka commanded, gently but firmly. “Gods, Revna, I’m so sorry. We didn’t know.”
“Neither did I.” I had no idea what to do with my body other than keep my hand over Arne’s heart.
Branka pushed me firmly into the stool and placed a comforting hand on my shoulder, exchanging quiet words with Jorgen that I didn’t hear.
This man would be my mate. Our mate. And I knew nothing about him, aside from the fact that he was Arik’s uncle. Would that make me Arik’s aunt?
I shook my head, unable to think about that as Kindra’s magic continued to flow into him. I could almost see it wrapping protectively around his heart like a golden cage, protecting the vital organ from the ravages of the poison in his veins.
Hearthmother, please, I begged. I wasn’t even sure I believed that the Goddess heard such prayers, but the rising panic that this was our mate and I was losing him fueled me. Please save him.
“The healer’s coming.” Ingmar stopped short at the door to the room. “And there’s nobody—what the fuck is going on?”
Jorgen explained, the conversation washing over me as everything else had for the last ten minutes.
“How can she have a human mate?”
“We think he must be Chaosborn.”
“What about Dragejakt?”
“Only son of a jarl. Probably got an exemption as part of the betrothal of his sister to the king.”
“Out.” It was too much. Too many voices in my head as I was trying to focus my energy on Kindra. On saving this man’s life. “Get out.”
The room went silent, and I could feel their eyes on me as mine remained locked on Arne.
“We’ll be right outside.” Branka squeezed my shoulder once, then shooed Jorgen and Ingmar out.
This is better, Kindra declared, her voice wavering as she strained to push her magic into Arne. Just us and our mate.
Not yet. He likely wouldn’t be for some time. The Rifting had just passed. It would be another decade before the next one, and who was I to ask this man to give up his jarldom and life for the vague promise of…of what? Me?
You are mine. And you are a prize.
I’m not worth a jarldom.
Kindra made a sound of disagreement, but didn’t push as she focused her magic on Arne.
His brow furrowed again in pain, and I had the strange urge to smooth it out with the pad of my thumb.
I hadn’t even wanted a mate this morning. Still wasn’t sure I did. But something in me couldn’t let him die if there was a chance that Kindra was right.
Was this how Arik had felt when he’d met Eisa?
Save him, I begged the Hearthmother over and over as Kindra and I sat vigil through the night.
A knock on the door woke me from my half-doze. I had fallen asleep with my head on my arm, my hand still over Arne’s heart. The golden glow was gone, and I quickly wiped the drool from my face as I reached out to Kindra.
All is well. He will live. I shall sleep now.
I gave her a mental scratch. You did well.
I know.
Vain beast.
The knock sounded again, and Branka poked her head into the door. “Revna? The healer’s here.”
I looked out the window to see the night was still thick. It was likely several hours before dawn. At least I’d only dozed off for an hour or two.
“Yes, come in.”
A nervous, middle-aged man entered the room, his eyes darting to my pointed ears before settling on his patient.
Arne had not stirred, but his fever seemed to have broken, and he slept peacefully.
“He was poisoned with mistletoe about three days ago,” Jorgen said, casting a wary look at me as he approached.
The healer jumped, as if surprised by Jorgen’s presence, and fumbled with his medicine bag.
“And the dose?” His voice was reedy, pitched high in fright as he fumbled through his supplies. Finally, he donned a ridiculous-looking pair of spectacles that I seriously doubted did anything useful.
“We’re not sure.” Branka said, coming to my side and lifting my hand from Arne’s chest. “It was mixed with wine.”
“Hmm.” The healer produced a horn from his bag that was cut open at one end. He held the wide end to Arne’s chest, exactly over the place Kindra had pumped her magic into him. The healer moved the horn once to the right side of his chest. Then the left. Arne stirred slightly, but still didn’t wake.
“His heart sounds normal.” The healer put the horn away and removed the glasses, wiping them clean with his tunic. He spoke rapidly, his eyes continually darting to the door. “He must have vomited up the poison during the gastrointestinal phase of the illness. Or he had a relatively small dose.”
“Or a dragon healed him.” I scowled at the healer, who swallowed.
“Yes, of course, that’s a possibility. I don’t know much about drage physiology. Is healing a talent granted to you by the dragons?”
“Only healing our mates,” Jorgen said, giving me a meaningful look.
The room was silent for a beat, and the healer laughed nervously. “Yes, well. Fascinating. Now, if there’s nothing else–”
“That’s it?” Branka asked, voicing the thought as it crossed my mind. “You aren’t going to give him anything?”
The little man jumped as Branka’s eyes flashed furiously gold.
“There is no antidote for mistletoe.” The healer gathered up his bag and began to back away toward the door. “It simply works its way through the system. Life or death depends on the size of the dose ingested, but please find me if the patient takes a turn.”
And with that, he fled from the room.
“Useless human healers,” Jorgen growled. “No wonder the jernblod die so easily.”
“Is that true? You can only heal your mate?” She glanced at me in question, and I nodded mutely. “Then why couldn’t Bryndis heal Sigurd from his mistletoe poisoning?”
“She would have if she could, love.” Jorgen kissed his mate’s temple, a small smile playing about his lips. “Healing a human body is much less complicated than healing a dragon or their bond with a drage.”
“Why would the Norns allow such a fatal flaw in the dragons?” Branka frowned and rested her head on Jorgen’s shoulder. “It was a serious oversight.”
Jorgen laughed, and the sound felt too big and bright for the sick room. “I’m sure you can raise the complaint when we reach Valhalla someday.”
“Where is Ingmar?” It was the first moment I’d realized they weren’t in the room with us. “Was Arne being followed?”
“They didn’t see anyone, so they returned to Ironholm, as ordered.” Jorgen blew out a deep breath, as if steeling himself for the next part of the conversation. “What are your orders for us, Rev?”
I frowned, focused on Arne’s face. He had a faint scar down one cheek that I wanted to touch, and it was taking all of my willpower to keep my hands on my lap.
“You can’t leave him.” It was a statement, not a question, as Branka kneeled beside me. “Do you want us to stay?”
I shook my head. “I can manage.”
“Like hell you can,” Jorgen declared gruffly. “Kindra’s probably all out of juice, and you’re in no state to defend yourself and a comatose man. We’re staying.”
“We owe it to Arik,” Branka agreed, squeezing my wrist. I felt my eyes prick with gratitude, but I couldn’t tear my gaze from Arne. “Why don’t you get some sleep, Rev? I can sit with him.”
I shook my head and swallowed, unable to look at Branka. “I can’t.”
Jorgen grunted, and Branka nodded. “I understand. We…uh…sort of commandeered the room next door. We’ll be there if you need anything. We can figure out the rest in the morning.”
I nodded again, barely paying attention as they slipped out of the room.
This was my mate. Mine. Ours. And I had no idea what he would do when he woke up and learned that I was his.