Chapter 18 #4
I woke to the noises of drills just past dawn.
Eden had vacated the room. I took a moment to myself in the bed, arms sprawled, mentally tracing the lines of the stone ceiling.
Settling into my quiet solitude, absorbing it carefully like the tip of a cloth set into the edge of a spill, I sorted through my thoughts, simple and complex alike.
Took stock of myself. When I rose, I felt refreshed. Aren’t you impressed, Ursa?
Piya had refilled the pitcher—bless her—so I stripped and washed.
Plaited the front of my hair around my crown and left the rest loose to dry.
I had no appointments with the other healers this early, so I headed to the kitchen, which already bustled with activity.
I helped build a stone stove in the bailey, one of many attempts to expand the kitchen to better accommodate the influx of soldiers.
Rove Castle would have managed the numbers well, but while Derren was formidable, it was not built to be roomy or comfortable by any means.
Younger soldiers came to help distribute breakfast, so I took to hauling water from that little culvert stream and washing dishes. My hands were pale and wrinkled, the midsummer sun above the castle wall, by the time a trumpet sounded.
I finished my load and dumped out the water. Beatty returned, thumbing the leather band of her wedding pendant, and I asked, “What’s the bugle for?”
“Next wave of them has returned.” She released the necklace and lifted the corner of her apron, dabbing perspiration from her face. “More mouths to feed. At this rate we’ll have to take care of only the officers and let the rest do what they can over cookfires.”
More soldiers at Derren. The barracks were flooded, and there was no way to allow the women one to themselves. Soldiers would have to camp tight and close, which also meant we healers needed to be on our toes, watching for disease.
“That’s no shortcoming of yours,” I offered. “Times of war, and all that.”
She nodded before hurrying to a bowl of rising bread dough.
Beatty was a busy and frantic woman, but she got things done.
Still, I wondered if there was a way to bring in more staff.
I’d just begun stacking porringers when Beatty jumped, dropping a spoon.
“Your Majesty!” She curtsied low enough to kiss the floor.
I turned around to see Renn entering the kitchen.
I thought he was glowing at first, but it was only the late-morning sunlight at his back.
I began to smile, then quickly schooled my features and bowed low.
It was a good thing, for once he stepped out of the sun, I noticed he had Princess Azra hooked on his arm.
Her presence didn’t carry the same sting as before, but I could not bring myself to like it.
He addressed our cook first. “You’ve done remarkably well for all we’ve thrown at you, Beatty. I wanted to thank you personally.”
Beatty flushed darkly and curtsied again. “Doing my duty, Your Majesty.”
To me, Renn crooked a finger. Confused, I set the porringers aside and followed him out into the bailey.
I bowed again to both him and the princess. “Your Majesty, Your Highness. Has something happened?” I asked, markedly putting a pace’s distance between us. I wasn’t sure if the burst of displeasure through the bond was from that or from my use of Your Majesty, but Princess Azra seemed pleased by it.
“I have a surprise for you.”
Entirely focused on Renn, Princess Azra said, “You are too charitable for your own good.”
He acknowledged the princess with a tight smile and curt nod before leading me toward the portcullis, located on the northern side of the castle, her ever at his side. His stride was so long and swift, Princess Azra struggled to keep up. To think only a year ago he’d been walking with a cane.
I eyed him, turning over in my mind the nature of this “surprise,” and what might be so important he wouldn’t send Sten or someone else to take care of it for him. Renn wasn’t really a woo-with-gifts kind of person.
Sir Arquan loitered near the portcullis; here, Renn gently pulled his elbow from Princess Azra’s grasp. “A war camp is no place for a noblewoman. I’ll need the healer’s abilities for a few grisly casualties. I will return swiftly. Sir Arquan?”
Princess Azra didn’t show any disdain for their separation and joined the emissary with nary a wrinkle to her nose or brow. “I’ll be waiting.”
This confused me even more. What was he up to? And did Princess Azra really buy that my surprise was gruesome injuries?
. . . Was it?
I determined then that I did not care for surprises.
“Nym.” Renn beckoned me to follow. I pointedly did not meet any Antsan eyes as I did.
I trailed him to the drawbridge. With no Sestan army awaiting me, I had no issue crossing the moat.
“It might sound better if you called me Tallowax,” I commented, trying to stay a step behind him, but Renn kept adjusting his pace so we walked side by side.
“I’d prefer to call you Noblewight,” he countered.
My face flushed hot. “Renn!”
He grinned, delighted with himself.
“And,” I pressed, “you lied to her. You should be careful.”
“I did not. There is surely an injured soldier among this lot”—he gestured to tents upon tents, group upon group of soldiers—“and I’ve no idea how grisly they might be.”
“Is that to be my ‘surprise,’ then? Someone with a kettle burn, or perhaps a broken leg? I haven’t seen a good, splintered femur in a while.”
His face twisted. “That’s rather macabre. But no, something I found just before we marched on Serravia. I think you’ll like it.”
Something he could not give me at the castle?
I tried not to worry what the appearance of us together in camp might incite, though in truth, walking out in the open with him, bantering with him, healed something in my soul. I could spend hours like this, enjoying his company. I craved it like a drug.
And yet his claim of a surprise niggled at me.
I couldn’t think of anything of Sestan make that could possibly gratify me.
There were hundreds of soldiers about, some setting up tents, others talking.
Any who spied Renn immediately turned and bowed or became awestruck in their expressions.
Renn pointedly looked forward, though he still waved or nodded when he made eye contact or was directly addressed.
His discomfort was enough that it whittled down our connection.
Even now, he did not like the stares or the attention, and especially not the worship.
I wondered how much of that was from a life in seclusion versus his natural personality. A little bit of both, perhaps.
He appeared to rub a headache from his temple, and since I couldn’t feel it through the bond, I knew it hailed from his lumis scars. He didn’t comment on it. He both looked and felt too excited, too pleased with himself, to linger on it.
He led me east, past a few tents. I asked, “Is it so overlarge that you couldn’t bring it with you?”
He smiled. “I thought you could do with a bodyguard.”
I slowed, but when he didn’t, I quickened my pace to keep up. Certainly not the sort of surprise I’d expected. “Is this about Tal?”
His step faltered. “Tal? Who’s Tal?”
“Nothing of import. A . . . misunderstanding. He’s no longer at Derren.
” I nearly told him I already had a bodyguard, since I knew Jonras watched me, playing eyes and ears to Azra.
But Jonras would never harm me, and I didn’t want to further stress Renn or .
. . however much I hated it, add discontent between him and the woman who might still be the mother of his future children.
If fate would bind him to Azra Vitsoph, the least I could grant him was as tolerable a marriage as possible.
She was so young. Quick as a fox, yet untried. I attempted to mask the all-too-familiar ache the thought of them produced.
“Sten will do,” I remarked.
“I agree. But he’ll need to take shifts with someone.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m a healer. Basic staff. I don’t need a—”
“Ah, here we go.” Renn touched the small of my back—the illicit contact sent shivers up my spine—and led me around a doused campfire.
A soldier seated on the ground rose and approached us.
His uniform was more dust than fabric; he was one of the newcomers returning from the Battle of Serravia.
A good three weeks’ worth of chestnut beard covered the lower half of his face.
He was taller and a little broader than Renn, though looked to be about the same age.
He removed his cap. More chestnut hair plastered to the top of his head with sweat, and his eyes—
Gray, just like mine.
Chills like snowfall on bare skin coursed head to toe.
I shrieked loud enough to draw the attention of nearby soldiers.
Sprinted across the space between us; the soldier grinned just before I launched at him, nearly knocking us both to the earth.
But he maintained his balance and spun me around, laughing.
Laughing while I sobbed, for I had not seen my brother in over a year. I had not even known if he’d lived.
But Brien was alive, he was healthy, and he was here, and that was all that mattered.
Renn had other matters to attend to—matters I did not wish to dwell on—so he left me and my brother to catch up.
I didn’t so much as let Brien take a bath before dragging him away from the other soldiers and sitting us in the shade of an overgrown dogwood, demanding his story from the moment he left Fount, for not a single letter had been exchanged between us.
Even when I had the ability to write, I had no address to which to send mail.
“I reported to Garton, then to Toke,” he explained. “The training . . . the training was hard. Commander Stonelay was merciless.”
“Stonelay? The same here?” The man had seemed rather . . . paternal, in my experience.