Chapter 11
Reis slept against a tree under a tarp. The pitter of rain began to fall, drenching the sandy soil.
He slept lightly, his instincts refusing to surrender to a deeper sleep. Something scraped the edge of his mind, warning of impending danger. Tension lingered in every muscle.
When he woke, he knew something was wrong. His eyes flew to Mirielle's tent. She was mostly shrouded from his vision. Her heart was beating hard and his stomach dropped.
He ran across the camp and his fears were realized when he saw her.
She was sleeping fitfully, her face pinched in pain.
She lay on her side, her bindings remained under tangled furs.
Mirielle's black hair clung damply to her forehead and fever flushed her sweated cheeks as each breath escaped in a ragged pant.
He knelt and brushed his hand against her forehead.
Scorching.
She stirred weakly at his touch. Her brows pinched as a faint sound escaped her. Her body trembled beneath the blankets despite the heat pouring from her skin.
"Damn it," Reis cursed himself.
Her injury, her exhaustion, the cold water—her body couldn't fight it all.
He needed to get her somewhere dry, somewhere warm and he needed to get there fast. His eyes swept the land around him. They were still days away from the border, days away from safe refuge and solid shelter.
With grim efficiency, Reis moved through the camp. He smothered the fire. Then he went to where the horses were grazing on a loose line. He untied Maisey, setting her loose. He couldn't bring her anywhere with haste. Better she be free.
He turned to the massive black stallion waiting nearby. Hank pawed the ground anxiously as if sensing the danger himself. He tossed his head in anticipation, his breath misting the air.
Reis secured only the essential supplies to Hank's saddle.
Then, releasing her from her binds, he wrapped Mirielle in his cloak and hers and lifted her.
She barely stirred, her head rolled into his chest and she made a faint pained sound in her sleep.
Fear gnawed at his chest and a heavy darkness invaded him.
He mounted Hank in one motion. Hank shifted under their added weight. His muscles tensed in restless energy.
"Now we run," he murmured, though she could not hear him.
Hank took off through the forest at a brutal pace. His hooves hammered the earth, tearing through fallen leaves. Branches cut across Reis's face and hair.
Mirielle shivered violently in his arms, caught somewhere between sleep and delirium.
The border lay far to the north. Hank ran like Death himself was chasing him.
*
The world itself seemed to challenge him.
Rain fell from the sky in waves, soaking her hair.
Every protruding root seemed to block his path while the path dissolved into slick mud.
The great horse's flanks trembled with exhaustion, foam dripping from his bit, yet he never slowed as if knowing the danger himself.
They had ridden through the day and the angry clouds were turning darker as the day's end approached. Reis had stopped only to feed her the broth mixed with thimweed he had stored in a flask.
He held Mirielle tightly against his chest as Hank flew through the endless, twisting forests. Her body had given up on shivering, too tired to even accomplish it. Her breaths were shallow, uneven, barely there.
Reis pressed his hand against Mirielle's forehead only to find it burning. Panic tightened in his chest. She was getting weaker.
They weren't close enough. The only village he knew of was still hours away past the border.
"Stay with me," he said roughly over her damp hair.
Then he saw it. A light above him against the dusk's dark through a tangle of leaves and trees.
A hamlet just above perched on a hill, small but unmistakable, carved into the forest itself.
Lights lit windows of small stone hovels as smoke rose from a chimney from a fire only recently lit.
It was like the new night had granted him a blessing, one he did not deserve.
Relief hit him so hard it was nearly painful.
Reis steered Hank up the hill. The mighty horse seemed to relax under him, as if he knew that they had reached their safe haven.
Reis slid off Hank's back the moment they arrived at the nearest cottage. He hit the wet ground hard enough that he staggered, but he barely noticed the protest in his own limbs. All of his attention was on the girl in his arms, the strain of her heart, the weak little breaths that sustained her.
Reis strode toward the simple cottage. Its weather-worn stone walls and sagging thatched roof stood proudly among the others surrounding a small courtyard. Smoke curled steadily from the chimney, making his choice for him.
He didn't bother knocking. He only slammed the door open, bringing the cold air with him. "I need a bed," Reis demanded, "and a healer if you have one."
A lanky man with a popped-out belly in his aging years looked at him wide-eyed before leaping out of his chair and grabbing the nearest weapon.
Which happened to be a rake.
He held it high with trembling hands. "Off with ye!" he shouted. The rake trembled and so did the man.
Reis stared at him for a moment. His body was heavy with water. Mud caked his legs up to his shins. His sword clung unoffended to his back. Hank stood just behind him in the downpour, his sides heaving.
The silence that followed was almost insulting.
Then a woman stood from beside the hearth.
She took one look at her husband, one look at the rake and closed her eyes. She held the look of a woman who had spent thirty years compensating for her husband's shortcomings.
"Put it down, Gerald!" Her voice pitched.
He waved his rake threateningly. "He's the Blood King, he is!"
"I have eyes!"
"He'll kill us all!"
"Fat chance you'll have with a ruddy rake. Look at what's in his arms, you ol' fool."
Gerald's face blanched when he saw the unconscious girl bundled beneath cloaks in his arms. Mirielle's face was white as sleeping death.
The woman immediately took charge.
"Bed. Now."
Reis moved without hesitation.
"I need to get those clothes off her and Gerald, stop threatening the man with gardening equipment and go get the herb chest and tie his horse." She walked to the bed. "And wake the Donnelies while you're at it."
"But Marta..."
"Now!" She barked.
Gerald, apparently having some semblance of survival instincts, hurried outside.
Reis started peeling off layers of wet cloaks.
"I'll do that. You go get some rainwater and boil it," she said, shoving past him. She began working her hands along the laces of Mirielle's bodice. "We need to get her warm. Her limbs are like ice."
Reis hesitated, not wanting to be more than a few feet from her, but he compromised to just not letting her out of his sight. He found two shallow buckets and got to work filling them with water that fell from the roof just outside the door.
"Come here and help me with this while you're waiting for that."
She had dressed Mirielle in a shift she pulled from a small dresser and was rubbing her arms and legs, trying to get blood moving in her.
Reis sat next to her and carefully, far more carefully than a man his size should be capable of, wrapped his rough hands around her wrists and began working warmth into them.
Her hands were freezing. Her heartbeat fluttered weakly under her wrist like a dying bird.
Reis felt panic rise in his chest again.
"Poor things freezing and burning at the same time," Marta muttered. "That ride nearly killed her."
Mirielle stirred at the touch. A weak sound came from her throat.
"That's it now, girl," Marta said, "come back to us."
Gerald returned carrying a small wooden box.
"Go boil the water and get that vial of white powder. We'll mix a spoonful in her cup."
Reis looked at her, a warning behind his eyes.
"What is it?"
"You don't want to know what it is," she sing-songed.
"I need to know what it is." His voice was laced with threat.
Marta huffed and looked at the king. "Boy, I ain't going to poison her. That'd be the death of me and we both know it. But if you really must know, it's dried worm powder. They help with the fever."
Gerald made a forced gagging noise.
"Why don't you get some blankets and make yourself useful?" she barked, continuing to rub Mirielle's feet and legs.
Reis relented and got busy dumping water into an iron pot over the fire, then returned to rubbing her hands. He saw color return to her cheeks. His relief was palpable until she let out a horrible wet cough.
"Coughing is good," Marta said reassuringly. "That means she's working it out of her."
They covered her in blankets and Marta started laying rain-soaked rags over Mirielle's forehead. Mirielle let out a groan as the cool sensation clearly eased her pain.
Reis finished making the hot water. He poured it into a chipped stoneware cup he found on the shelf and then mixed in the powder.
He sat next to her on a small wooden stool. She looked impossibly fragile beneath the heavy wool blankets. Her skin was pale and damp with sweat and her breathing was coming out in huffed pants.
"Mirielle." His voice was unsteady and low.
Her brows pinched in response.
"That's it. Wake up for me."
Her eyes opened. Confusion flickered across her face, only for exhaustion to pull her back down again.
Reis slid his arm behind her and helped her sit upright. She made a weak, pained sound as her ribs protested the movement.
"I know." His words were oddly gentle for a man like him. "Drink."
She didn't understand him at first, but when the scent reached her nose she obeyed weakly. She winced at the bitterness.
"That means it tastes like the underside of a saddle," Gerald remarked from his chair.
Marta rolled her eyes. "It's not supposed to taste good."
Mirielle managed another sip before breaking down in a fit of wet coughs.
Reis rubbed her back through the fit. "Slow."
Mirielle moaned in protest and her head rolled into his chest. Her body relaxed only slightly.
Reis stiffened.
Then more carefully he brought the cup to her lips and tipped it back. "Another sip, Mirielle."
"She trusts you," Marta muttered next to him.
Reis looked down at the pale woman beneath him.
"No," he said, his voice low, "she's tired."
Mirielle finished the entire cup before Reis would let her sleep. When she succeeded, she sagged heavily against him as unconsciousness took her.
Reis looked down at her for a moment. Fever still clung to her but her body was warm again. Her cheeks pinked and her skin had regained most of its color. Her heartbeat was stronger, if only slightly.
Reis lowered her slowly into the bed and pulled the heavy blankets over her. She sighed with relief.
Reis sat on a stool next to her in cautious silence, gauging her heartbeats, her breathing, the heat coming off of her forehead.
Marta made herself busy gathering the rain-soaked clothes and tossing them into the laundry bin.
"Please, Mirielle," he murmured so low only she might hear, "stay."