Chapter 26 #2
Though it was clear that Jakhov did not understand all the words that she used, he definitely understood that she had not, in fact, exposed his curiosity to the woman he had unwittingly bonded to.
He peeled his arm back long enough to look at her with a mixture of surprise and gratefulness before a growl ripped free from his throat as Revelie sank her hooked needle into his skin.
“No more fighting for you tonight,” Revelie said to him as she worked.
After the initial shock of the needle, Jakhov relaxed again, his leg still poised on Emillie’s shoulder so her friend could better access the wound on the back of his thigh. He grumbled. “I walk?”
Glancing up at him, Revelie shook her head. “Not tonight. You will rest.”
“I walk?” Jakhov repeated, moving his arm again as he tried to explain his meaning with his eyes. Something about the potential to not walk deeply bothered him.
Emillie nodded. “You will walk again, but tonight you need to rest.”
He glared at the tent ceiling, then asked, “I fight?”
This time, Revelie paused her stitches to pierce him with a stern look. “You will rest until I say so. Do not even think about getting up and going back to that battle tonight.”
It was like watching a spell being cast over the dhemon. His body seemed to relax into the cot as he took in her words and translated them in his own mind before the bond took hold to ensure he would do as she said. Still, he sucked on his sharp teeth before saying, “You stay?”
This was not directed to Emillie, and she suddenly had the feeling she was intruding upon something private between the two of them.
Since Algorath, they had spent more and more time together, though never alone.
Though Revelie had long since abandoned the Society and the expectations that came from once being a Golden Rose, not all of their unfounded rules had been wrung from her mind—including the doctrine that being alone with a man in the midst of a courting was forbidden.
Nonetheless, Revelie smiled at him. “I will be in the tent, but I have other patients to care for as well.”
Jakhov grappled with the new words. “Patients?”
Revelie gestured to the others in their cots. “Patients. You are a patient.” She prodded his leg, making him hiss again.
Finished with the back side of his thigh, Emillie eased his leg back to the cot so Revelie could have access to the front of the wound. She cleaned off the fresh blood again while her friend cleaned and prepared the needle again.
“I am Jakhov,” he said, the corners of his mouth curling from the obvious joke.
Emillie moved back to give Revelie room again as her friend said, “You are Jakhov, true.”
A pause as Emillie stood, no longer needed while Revelie began her stitching, then his eyes seemed to glow with a deep intensity. He asked, his voice lower and a little rougher than before, “Your Jakhov?”
She should not be eavesdropping like this, yet Emillie could not help it. She cleaned her hands in the basin nearby, waiting for Revelie’s reply. At first, when there was no response, she wondered whether her friend would just let the question go—ignore its existence and move on.
But Revelie replied in a whisper, “Yes. My Jakhov.”
Well…damn. Emillie had not anticipated that.
Biting her lip, she raised her brows at Revelie as the seamstress glanced up at her, cheeks flushing.
They did not exchange words on the matter, but the pure joy and relief that seeped from the dhemon was enough for Emillie to step away and leave them to their own conversation.
She only hoped that Revelie understood what she was doing.
A dhemon’s bond—particularly one that had yet to go through the ritual—was unstable.
If Azriel’s reaction in the tent earlier was any indication, if Revelie were to decide she did not want to pursue a relationship with Jakhov, it could turn sour very quickly.
The last thing any of them needed was yet another dhemon teetering on the brink of madness.
Sound returned to Ariadne first. The quiet movement of people around her, the thrum of her heartbeat in her ears, and the distant cries of a battle still raging.
Though she could not hear the clash of swords, the shriek of metal on metal echoed in her mind and tangled with the present in which whimpers of pain and the steady breathing only sleep could concoct.
Scents hit her next. Herbs and salves, and the rich, metallic scent of blood filled the air. The former were soothing and provided a comfort she did not know she needed. But it was the intoxicating draft of open wounds that had her fangs aching.
The urge to feed had Ariadne’s body waking the sense of feeling, and she regretted it the moment the pain hit.
It clawed its way out from her lower belly like nothing she had ever felt before, stretching through her middle and down her limbs.
She grit her teeth hard to stifle a whimper and froze as she tried to curl in on herself, the muscles of her abdomen screaming in protest at the movement.
Peeling her eyes open, Ariadne blinked against the light provided by the smokeless blue flames that stretched out from lanterns at every cot.
Her eyes burned, but she forced herself to keep them open.
A dhemon man lay to her right, sleeping with a bandage wrapped around half his face and another around his chest. To her left, a high fae woman sat in her cot, sipping from a steaming bowl what Ariadne could only assume to be broth.
Whatever injuries brought the woman into the medic tent appeared to be healed—or nearly so.
Before she could summon her voice, Phulan swept back between the rows of cots and crouched beside her.
Sweat dappled the mage’s face, and dark circles swept under her eyes from the constant physical and magical strain.
Still, the subtle wrinkles at the corners of her amethyst eyes crinkled as she smiled.
“I’m shocked it took you so long to wake up,” Phulan said. “We’ve been worried sick.”
“Where is Azriel?”
He had been there. He had seen her fall. How he managed to hold himself together long enough to get her back to Phulan, Ariadne had no idea.
“Oh, probably burning down Monsumbra by now,” Phulan said casually as though they were discussing the latest gossip over a fresh pot of tea rather than the absolute destruction of his mother’s home.
Ariadne moved to sit up, hissing through her teeth as her muscles reminded her yet again that she did not, in fact, have that ability at this time.
The lack of sulfur in the air told her that Razer had not given in to Azriel’s demand to set everything aflame, but she still did not like the notion that he was out there somewhere, unaware of her well-being.
“He knows you’re alive,” Almandine assured her. “And, no, they did not burn down the city.”
“I should go back out there.” Ariadne pushed to a seated position despite the pain.
Phulan, however, had other plans and forced her back down on the cot. “Absolutely not. You will rest and let him finish getting out all of his dramatic angst.”
That was certainly one way to put it. “Was he hurt?”
“Not physically, no.” Phulan pulled up Ariadne’s shirt and peeled back the bandage wrapping around her middle. “I’m sure he’ll be more than ready for the ritual once we’ve taken back the Keonis Tree.”
“Are we winning, then?”
“I heard that the Valenul army has called for a retreat.” Phulan inspected the scab, prodding through the injury with her magic. “You’re healing very well despite it all.”
Ariadne frowned. “Despite what?”
“Those bastards were coating their blades with salt.” Phulan pulled the bandage free and tossed it into a basket of dirty cloths and used wrappings. “I’ve been run ragged trying to drain all these wounds of it. Proves just how scared they were after we got through the Rusans yesterday.”
Yesterday. So it was past midnight at least. She must have been unconscious for quite some time, for she had not fought for long before that Caersan soldier skewered her. Which also meant that Azriel was out there fighting for hours, likely unaware of anything other than his raging bond
“How are others faring with the salt?” Ariadne wanted to know the answer and yet, at the same time, dreaded what it meant for the fae with healing so similar to vampires’.
Phulan shrugged. “If they get to me in time, I’m able to help them. Most couldn’t think straight long enough to realize they could’ve gotten the salt out on their own. I’ve only lost a couple because of it.”
That they lost anyone at all was more than enough for Ariadne. “Is Emillie here?”
“Of course.” Phulan hesitated. “Before I call her over, though, I need to inform you of something.”
Dread settled in Ariadne’s gut. Saying nothing, she merely searched the mage’s amethyst eyes for any sign of what she meant to discuss, only to find nothing.
“This wound of yours did not heal quite right, thanks to the salt.” Phulan glanced at her belly before sliding her gaze back up. “There is a chance you may never bear children.”
Ariadne stared at her for a long moment, the quiet din of the tent fading to nothingness as she considered her friend’s words.
There had been a time she never wanted children.
Her thoughts hardly strayed to the idea, except for those pinpricks of peace she experienced with Azriel.
But to have the option stripped from her by a single Caersan soldier?
Devastating.
“Oh.” The only response she could deem to summon. Ariadne nodded after a moment and gave Phulan a weak smile. “You saved me, and that is all that matters. Thank you, Phulan.”
Another moment of silence stretched between them, then Phulan lifted her head high, looked around, and gestured to be joined.
Mere breaths later, Emillie was on Ariadne’s other side, grabbing her hand and squeezing hard. “Gods, Ari, I…I was so scared.”
Wincing through the forced, light laughter, Ariadne squeezed back and reached across herself to touch her sister’s face. “I am fine, Em.”
“I prayed harder than I have ever prayed before,” Emillie said. “When you would not drink from Azriel, I thought…I remembered Madan and…”
Ariadne nodded, hand dropping back onto the cot, grateful for the sudden shift in topic and distraction. “Madan survived, too, remember?”
“He lost an arm!” Emillie looked up at Phulan, silently begging the mage to help her.
“There was a moment there,” Phulan admitted, “that I was concerned.”
She looked between them, mouth agape. “Truly?”
“You bled a lot,” Emillie said.
“And she is correct,” Phulan said a little quieter as though tiptoeing around the news she had just delivered. “You wouldn’t drink from him. I thought we’d lose you both.” At her visible confusion, the mage added, “If you actually died…I fear the Azriel we know and love would also be dead.”
A silence fell between them all for a long moment.
Ariadne did not know what else to ask—what else to say.
Phulan had obviously taken excellent care of her and brought her back from what could have been a rather horrible end to her reign as Dhemon Queen.
Even if it was at a cost for which she did not care.
Likewise, Emillie had not gone far, though she understood just how helpless her sister had been during that time.
“No matter.” Phulan patted Ariadne’s hand. “You’re alive. Azriel will be thrilled when he returns. I must see to the others.”
At that, the mage stood and walked away, stopping only when she reached another patient who needed her magic. It washed through the air, vibrant as Ariadne knew it to be in those moments of healing, and seeped into the itchy scab on her belly.
“Did I drink from anyone?” Ariadne asked her sister, remembering the strange ache she felt upon waking.
Emillie shook her head. “Azriel just sort of…bled into your mouth, but you never responded.”
“I am surprised he left at all.”
“He was not going to,” Emillie said and sighed. “Phulan had to force him out, and I think Razer took him from there.”
Ariadne tried to reach out to the great blue dragon, but was met with a solid wall. At the far end of her vinculum, Almandine bristled. “He does that a lot.”
“Well, I understand your frustration now.” Ariadne pursed her lips, then refocused on Emillie. Anything to keep her mind from wandering back to Phulan’s news. “How has it been for you…working here, I mean.”
Over the course of a few heartbeats, Emillie’s expression went through every emotional range possible.
The initial excitement shifted into confusion, then worry, hope, devastation, eagerness, and exhaustion.
She settled on a resigned smile when she said, “It is a lot of work. Losing them is the worst of it.”
After a moment of hesitation, Ariadne asked, “Have you lost many?”
“More than I care to admit.” Emillie looked at her hands. “Dahlia is dead. I tried to save her, but…I just was not fast enough.”
The pink-eyed lycan flashed through Ariadne’s memory, and her heart ached for Emillie.
She did not know Dahlia well, but her sister had traveled with her long enough to have built a friendship.
With Luce as her partner, her sister likely put a level of responsibility on herself to keep the lycans alive.
All too quickly, though, Dahlia’s sweet face faded and was replaced by Kall’s. Ariadne had not been fast enough to save him, either.
Before Emillie could pull back, Ariadne squeezed her hand again. “Dahlia would not blame you for doing your best.”
A silent tear slipped down Emillie’s cheek, but she nodded. “I know.”
“So do not blame yourself.”
Throat bobbing, Emillie looked up at Ariadne again. “That is easier to say than to follow.”
Ariadne grimaced. “I know that feeling all too well.”
Silence descended between them again. They sat together, hand in hand, for some time before Emillie looked around, sighed, and claimed she needed to return to her duties.
Ariadne let her go, chest tight at the way her sister moved with slow purpose to the nearest patient.
Though there was nothing to be done for Dahlia or Emillie’s feelings on the matter, she was grateful for one thing: that she had not passed on to the next life, leaving her family and husband behind in what would otherwise become a perpetual war.