Chapter Twenty-Five
Isla
Thief,” I snap, gripping his arm as he lays on the ground. “Rhylen,” I shout louder. Whispers of the trees scream in my head. They sound loud and distracting.
Panic claws up my throat as Irric rushes at us. He rips Rhylen’s tunic away, revealing blood. So much blood. Nausea overcomes me. Flashes of my papa’s head rolling on the ground. The blood. Why is there always so much blood?
Wyll seizes me, gripping my face with his hands. “Isla!” he shouts. “Focus.”
My hands shake as I nod. He gently pushes me towards Irric. “We need to move him. We can lay him in the carriage. Wyll and I will drive it. Tie Fia up to the back. Isla, I need you to put pressure on it. Just hold this on it. Don’t stop.”
Rhylen’s torn up tunic is balled up and bloody. I press my hands against his wound. My breath catches. The wind picks up, carrying the panicked whispers of the trees. They tell me to hurry. To go as fast as I can. It’s crippling, almost bringing me to my knees. They sound louder than normal.
“No,” I tell them. “That’ll take too long. The carriage will be too slow. I’ll ride Fia. We get to the Halstead’s. You save him. Got it?”
Irric nods. I hurry to Fia, grabbing her from the concealed brush she stood in and hurry to mount her.
Irric and Wyll shove Rhylen on top of her.
I kick my heels into her flank. She lunges into a gallop.
Please, please, please, I beg the fates.
We ride hard towards the estate. I grip Rhylen as tightly as I can.
The longest twenty minutes of my life drift by until finally, the gates are in the distance. “Come on, Fia,” I plead.
Halstead guards ahead recognize Rhylen’s dappled mare, opening them for us.
“Help,” I shout. “Please help us!”
Guards come rushing at us. They pull Rhylen off the horse, laying him on the cobblestone courtyard floor. I swing my leg around, jumping onto the ground. Baelur comes running through the courtyard with a panicked expression. Villagers start to gather, curious about the spectacle before them.
“Isla,” he gasps. “What is happening? What happened to him? Where are the others?”
There’s a barrage of questions. Duke Amos rushes towards us with his wife. “They’re coming. He was stabbed by Sheriff Coley. I need rags. I need my salves.”
Lady Emilie grabs my arm. “Let the guards take him inside. Come. Just tell me what to do.”
I nod, the words failing me. We hurry inside, following the men carrying Rhylen to our room. I instantly get to work, ripping his tunic away from his body. Dark crimson blood floods the sheets. Lady Emilie follows behind my every move, handing me linens.
It’s not long before loud arguing and footsteps are heard down the hall. Irric and Ewan rush through the door, Wyll trailing shortly behind. They bring more linens, clean water, and Irric’s medicinal bag.
Irric gives me a small, re-assuring smile and we get to work, cleaning and stitching him up. I pray to the Fates that they don’t take him away. My mind spins with worry after the last stitch is done.
He lathers on the thick salve I’ve made just days before. It worked efficiently for Baelur, surely it would work for him. Irric sighs, squeezes my arms, and gets up to leave. He’s bundled dirty linens in his arms.
“Get some rest, Isla. He’ll wake soon and be as ornery as ever.”
I simply nod, running my hand over his chest. There’s a wild mix of feelings in my chest I’m not ready to come to terms with just yet. Irric hands me a warm mug, pushing it into my hands. He gives me a small smile and walks towards the door, leaving me to my thoughts.
Setting the mug down on the table next to me, I stand up and push the tall, cushioned chair from the fireplace to the side of the bed, swapping out the small chair I was sitting on, to something more comfortable.
There’s nothing else to do but wait. I grab the mug and practically collapse in the chair.
Taking a deep sip of the tea, subtle notes of chamomile hit my tongue.
Damn Irric and the sleeping tonic he’s slipped into this drink.
I lean my head back and close my eyes, succumbing to the sleep that tries to reel me in.
My ears prick at the sound of low voices talking. I try to open my eyes, but they feel so heavy, as if they were sealed shut through the night. A soft hand squeezes mine. After a moment, my lashes lift.
Wyll and Irric stand in the corner of the room bickering amongst themselves. I look over at the bed to my favorite color of brown staring back at me. He’s pale; exhaustion wears thick on his face.
I give him a small smile, “hello, thief.”
Rhylen tries to sit up, but winces at the pain. “Don’t,” I tell him. “You’ll tear your stitches.”
He opens his mouth to say something, but the door opens with a bang, startling us both. Raia, Lady Emilie, and Maisie file in. They carry a basket of new linens, a tray of food, and a bowl.
Lady Emile wears a flustered look while her youngest son follows shortly after the trio. Before long, the room is busting at the seams.
Rhylen gives me an exasperated look as he eases up slower. I chuckle at the annoyance. Lady Emilie bounds up to the bed. “You’re awake! Oh good, good. Isla, be a dear and help us, please.”
The round woman hands me a plate of food. Irric walks up to the bed, an amused look on his face. “We’ll need to look at your stitches and change the bandage.”
Irric looks to me, expectantly. I nod perfunctorily and hand Rhylen the plate of food Lady Emilie handed me. She bustles about the room, opening the drapes, and huffing about.
“Ma,” Ewan chastises.
She waves her son off with a dismissive hand and goes about the room. Raia and Maisie walk up to me. They hold out the linens and the bowl filled with water. Irric walks over. “Ready?”
Rhylen huffs and rolls his eyes. He reminds me of a petulant child being scolded.
“If you must,” he gripes as he hands the plate to Maisie and eases back down. We change his bandages swiftly with minimal complaints from the broody man. He lays there quietly, letting Irric look over the stitches now that it was cleared of the poultice we laid last night.
Duke Amos walks in, making the room a bit tighter. He looks disgruntled and weary, as if the night’s events have taken a few years off his life. Rhylen gives him an exaggerated, annoyed look.
“We need to discuss this plan,” Amos greets the room. Confusion lights up the room. I want to blow out a breath of relief; thankful I’m not the only one confused in the room. No one had discussed a plan.
“Amos,” Rhylen begrudges. “Not this again.”
The Duke puffs out his chest in defiance. “Of course, this again. We need to find the true heir. We find him, we turn this war around. We turn the fate of the kingdom around.”
“And just, pray tell, how do you propose we do that?” Wyll asks. He sits with one leg folded in his chair.
“He wants to reach out to the seer,” Baelur announces. He walks in the door, Argus following shortly behind. Maisie and Lady Emilie excuse themselves. The room too crowded for another soul.
“A seer?” I blurt. It’s hard to imagine more people out there with affinities, but those who are so known? That practice out in the open? They still exist? I have a million questions, but Rhylen squeezes my hand.
“Don’t you know what a seer is?” Wyll asks.
I shoot him an annoyed look. “Of course, I know what they are. I wasn’t aware they’re still around.”
“Sure, they are,” he leans back into his chair. “Argus has seen one.”
Everyone turns to look at the man who’s shooting daggers at his friend.
“A bunch of tricky tales,” he scoffs. “Besides, I’m not the only one who has.”
I want to ask more. There’s more behind the dour look he’s giving the entire room.
A secret, perhaps, that he’s unwilling to share.
Wyll breaks the silence first, muttering about his tight muscles, too much drama from the night, and how a certain thief needed to rest. He begins ushering his friends out the door, stopping just short of exiting, and winks at me before disappearing out of the room.
A very full room, emptied out in mere minutes. What was once so loud and overbearing, now quiet and somber. Rhylen leans against the bed, his eyes shut.
“I’m not staying in bed all day, love,” he finally breaks the silence. It’s not what I was expecting him to say. It plucks a laugh from my chest.
“Of course you aren’t,” I tell him.
“You, on the other hand, need rest. Did you stay in that chair all night?”
My cheeks heat at his assessment. “I couldn’t leave,” I whisper.
“Isla,” Rhylen’s gravelly voice sends a shiver up my spine. My heart races. How could I tell him that seeing him fall will haunt my nightmares for days to come? How could I tell him that every time I closed my eyes, I was watching the life bleed out of him over and over?
I shake my head, words unable to form. I can’t stay sitting any longer. I jump out of the chair and walk towards the window. The people below perform their mundane tasks; tasks that I once did feel like a century ago.
I can hear the rustle of sheets, feel the heat against my back. I know Rhylen stands behind me, but he lets me watch the window, searching for the words.
“I was so scared,” I whisper. It doesn’t make sense. This man is supposed to be my enemy, but at every turn, he’s proved me wrong. He’s shown me with my very eyes, letting me see the horrors.
He hasn’t hidden anything, filled me with tales of adventure so I could admire him. He’s nothing like him, nothing like the captain that has done nothing, but lie.
I didn’t want to admit to him that I needed him. That he did, in fact, own me. That I was his, body and soul. Rhylen turns me around, seeing the turmoil of my thoughts. How did we get here? When did hatred and adoration bleed into each other?
The lines crossed so thickly, I couldn’t tell where I was, what I was feeling. This man is supposed to be my enemy, isn’t that what the crown says? I look at him and feel nothing but longing. My soul longs for his.