Chapter 8 #2
“Creativity is a waste of time,” he replied. Of course, he’d rather spend his energy throwing daggers and brooding. “It’s more than an anniversary, though. It’s a necessary display of power and unity.”
As in, a political show. If it was anything like Ellan’s party, I would hate it.
I chased a carrot around the bowl. “How much do you know about First?”
“Enough to understand what we’re getting into.”
I thought back to the looter boy’s haunting words. “The Horrads. Have you heard of them?”
“More than heard,” he said grimly. “I’ve met them.”
I glanced at him as I chewed a piece of meat. “You’ve been to First?” Even sitting, his elbows braced on his knees, he made me feel small. Would he ever not?
“No. A few years ago, some of the Horrad clans left First, trying to make their claim on other Territories. They failed, but I had a series of run-ins with one particular group.” He shook his head slightly. “It acquainted me with some of their ways.”
“Like?”
Harthon didn’t mince words. “Like some of our own villagers, they hunt for food. But they don’t speak, they refuse to expose any skin, and they take great joy in slaughtering those who cross their path.”
They sounded more like the spirits Merelda had told stories about than humans. “Where did they come from?”
“They were once just regular people in First, most of them villagers. Then the Domus appeared, they formed their own community, and they slowly transformed into what they are today.”
I took a deep breath and drank the remaining broth. “They sound like a welcoming bunch.”
He gave a small smile and stood. “If I could, I would ensure you never went near them.” He took the empty bowl and set it on the table, then extended a hand to me. “Now, let’s go see Stefano.”
I ignored his outstretched hand and gingerly swung my legs out of the bed. The gash along my thigh protested, and my side clenched as I slowly moved. The healer, an old man with a scraggly beard in desperate need of a trim, had said it’d take at least another week to be moving without any pain.
The joys of getting stabbed.
I scanned the floor for my boots, but Harthon was one step ahead, already bringing them over. He took a knee before me.
“I can put on my own boots,” I protested.
He reached for one of my feet anyway, warm fingers curling around my ankle. “I don’t want to wait here for hours while you do.”
“It wouldn’t be hours. It’d be minutes.”
“And I’ll only take seconds.” He snaked my foot into the boot, then propped it up on his muscular thigh. His head dipped as he fastened the laces with a soldier’s efficiency. Seconds later, he placed my foot back down and reached for the other one.
As he finished with the laces, he said, “Outside of a handful of people, no one knows about the attack or your injuries. We need it to stay that way.”
Because if I was the actual magvis, I’d never have been so gravely wounded.
“If you can’t handle the walk, we’ll try again tomorrow.”
He placed my foot down and extended a hand again, this time to help me stand. Again, I ignored it, and again, movement hurt.
But I would suck it up because I was handling this walk.
I schooled my features against the discomfort, trying to hide a limp as I trailed behind him into the hallway. North surprisingly didn’t scowl when we passed him, just silently nodded when Harthon told him to go.
Falling into step beside me, Harthon set a leisurely pace that was nearly too fast for me.
When we came to the stairs, he didn’t stop or slow down, probably because of the three guards ascending in front of us.
Head held high, I didn’t hesitate to descend, resisting the urge to brace a hand against the wall.
My wounds burned, but I made it to the bottom without ceremony.
The next hallway was busier, workers bustling by, dipping their heads to us in respect. I slapped a mechanical smile on my face, and when we reached another staircase, I charged down the steps.
You’re fine. No healing stab wounds here.
Two soldiers passed, and I nodded at them.
I was too focused on not grimacing to realize there was one more step to this staircase than I thought.
The heel of my injured leg slipped from the edge of that last step, and hit the ground with a hard jolt.
Harthon whipped a hand around my arm, steadying me.
I landed on my feet and no one seemed to notice, but the moment didn’t go unpunished.
A hiss escaped my lips as fire lanced through my thigh.
I kept walking, ignoring Harthon’s look. I wasn’t waiting until tomorrow to see Stefano.
Three hallways later, we were met with another staircase. This time, Harthon did stop. Did he mean to turn us back around, thinking I couldn’t handle it?
I opened my mouth to tell him I was fine when he lifted me into his chest in one smooth motion.
“What are you doing?” I hissed, roping my arms around his shoulders.
“This hallway and staircase are empty,” he said, easily carrying me as he jogged down the stairs.
They were. And while I didn’t enjoy accepting the help, I’d been seriously dreading another descent after my slip-up. Skies, how would I make it back upstairs later?
We hit the landing, and he didn’t set me back on my feet until voices drifted toward us, warning of people. Thankfully, no more stairs were required to reach the wooden door where we stopped.
The potent scent of herbs swallowed me as we entered. It was an aroma I’d grown familiar with the past few days, every time Felda or the healer slathered a thick, brown ointment over the stitches. I never wanted to smell it again.
But I quickly forgot it when I took in the scene before me. Stefano lay propped in a bed, one eye swollen and purple. But it was the sight of the looter boy sleeping on a bench beside him that struck me silly.
Stefano raised a finger to his lips, which formed a tired smile when he saw us. The sheet fell from his arm as he did so, revealing bandages running from wrist to shoulder. Hopefully, that was the worst of it. In reality, it probably wasn’t.
Forgetting my own pain, I was at his bedside in a heartbeat. I probably should have started with a hello, or maybe a thank you for helping me stay alive. Instead, I whispered, “I gave you explicit instructions not to give your life for me. And what do you do? Face armed mercenaries head-on.”
He made a point of looking at himself. “I’m still alive,” he said slowly.
“Barely.” He was bedridden, covered in bandages and bruises.
He snorted. “Give me a little credit, will you?”
Why wasn’t he taking this seriously? He almost died for me. “Your loyalty is going to get you killed.”
“Loyalty is a dumb reason to give your life.”
“Then why did you stay and fight? We should both be dead. The odds were stacked against us.”
“I didn’t want you to die.”
My brows crashed together. “Well, I didn’t want me to die either, but that’s no reason to put my life above yours.”
Blotches of red bloomed on his round cheeks, and he scratched his head. The movement caused the blankets to lower, revealing the top edge of another damn bandage. Clearing his throat, he said, “I believe you’re going to help us change this world. Your life may be the most important one here.”
His statement shouldn’t have hit me as hard as it did.
I was fully aware that I was going to bring Harthon into the Domus. Callen, Ana, and North knew it, too. But to hear someone outside our small circle speak like—like I was some sort of savior…
It didn’t sit right.
I was no savior. Someone else had given me this knowledge, and now I was just doing what needed to be done, and trying not to die or mess up too badly in the process. And there was no guarantee we would actually succeed in entering the Domus’ walls.
“While I appreciate your faith, you should lower your expectations,” I told him.
“And you should give yourself more credit.”
Brushing his comment aside, I said, “Well, I think your life is very important, and if you ever actually die for me, I’ll kill you. Again.”
Stefano frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
Suddenly, the boy beside him woke up, sitting upright and ready to bolt.
His wide eyes settled on me, then grew even wider when they found Harthon. Instead of running, he tried to melt into the wall. Probably because he’d have to get closer to Harthon in order to exit the room.
I stared at this boy who’d held a dagger to my belly in fear not so long ago. Instead of fleeing that garden or staying hidden, he’d attacked the man pursuing me. “You saved my life in that garden,” I told him.
His gaze jumped back to me. When he spoke, his voice was so small, I almost didn’t hear him. “They would have killed me.”
“They were distracted by me and Stefano. If you ran, you would have made it. Instead, you helped.” I wasn’t exaggerating. These were the facts.
He hitched up a small shoulder, acting like his bootlaces were the most interesting thing in the world.
Harthon took a small step forward. “Now is not the time to look away or be humble.” At his bass, the boy’s legs halted, tensing.
Harthon’s tone remained firm when he continued, “You were a warrior in that garden. More than that, you were a hero, and we honor our heroes. You will not be a nameless face here. Choose a name for us to honor.”
It was several breaths before the boy’s legs started kicking again, then a few more until he lifted his head and looked at Stefano. His mouth moved around a string of words, the sound imperceptible.
Stefano must have heard it, because he grinned and nodded. “That’s a warrior’s name. Now say it louder. Proud like a warrior.”
The boy only chewed on his lip, nerves strewn across his face. He glanced at me and Harthon before landing on his boots again.
Harthon stepped right up beside me and announced, “My name is Harthon.”
The boy released his lip but still didn’t speak.
I was pretty sure everyone alive—and a good number of those buried beneath the ground—knew Harthon’s name, the looter boy included, but I understood his tactic.
“I’m Etarla,” I said, with more zest and pride than I probably ever had.
Stefano announced his name next, then silence fell as we waited for that small voice to speak out. When it did, it was lined with something fierce. It also shocked the skies out of me.
Lifting his face, which was now scrunched in determination, he said, “My name is Southen. Or South.”
It took a surge of effort to not see if Harthon was as stupefied as me.
He’d named himself after North.
The bald, bearded, mean goliath of a man who’d been in charge of him ever since he came here. The one who snarled and scowled like it was his daily duty.
This shy, timid boy had named himself after him.
If Harthon was surprised, he hid it well. One side of his lips lifted, and he declared, “That is a warrior’s name. And I know of a certain warrior who’ll be pleased to hear it.”