Phoenix Unbound
Page 62
Gilene left the brazier to join Saruke and Vua, the healer, at Azarion’s pallet. The healer was explaining that he would suffer fever from his injury and to dose him with both willow bark tea for the fever and bone broth for the blood loss.
She gingerly peeled back the compresses Saruke had used, careful not to dislodge anything newly scabbed. Azarion twitched but remained quiet. Gilene flinched for him.
Vua stared at the wound and frowned. “This is deep enough to need stitching,” she said, echoing Saruke’s earlier declaration. “I’ll return with supplies.” She replaced the compresses. “Keep a pot of water heated, and have more cloths ready.” She rose and departed, leaving Gilene, Saruke, and Tamura gathered around their silent patient.
Gilene touched Saruke’s arm. “What do you want us to do?”
Saruke ran her fingers through Azarion’s hair. “Watch over him while I brew the tea Vua wants.” She turned to Tamura. “See if you can find a family willing to part with some mutton bones. I used my last one two days ago for the soup we ate at supper. I need more to make that broth.”
All three women startled when Azarion suddenly spoke in a raspy voice. “Tamura.”
His sister bent down to him, the scowl on her face in contrast to the worry in her eyes. “Your years in Kraelag have rotted your brain,” she admonished him. “I can’t believe you were mad enough to roll under a galloping horse like that. I’d kill you myself for such idiocy if you hadn’t nearly completed the task on your own.” Her criticism lacked any sharpness.
Azarion’s pallor was still ashy, and his lips pale, but he managed a small smile. “Skin me later. Go see Arita. Make it known to all who will listen that I offer her my protection before word is sent to her clan of Karsas’s death.”
She clasped his wrist in an affectionate squeeze. “Thank you, Brother,” she said, before leaving with assurances to Saruke that she’d return with the mutton bones.
Saruke took her place at the brazier, sorting through a number of satchels in her lap and pouring some of their contents into the pot resting on the grate.
Gilene sat down cross-legged beside Azarion. “I won’t ask you if you’re in pain. It’s a foolish question, considering.” She waved a hand at his back. “Instead, I will ask, how can I ease your pain?”
His lips curved in a thin smile. “Distract me.” His fingers brushed hers, and she captured them, bringing them to her lips for a brief kiss. “You didn’t pray, but you brought me the luck I needed, as I knew you would.”
“I wouldn’t call that luck.” She gestured to his back a second time.
“I won, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did.”
She had watched the entire fight with her heart in her throat. That fluttering organ still slammed against her ribs with relief and terror, the first because he had indeed survived and defeated Karsas, the second because he lay on a pallet, his back split open. It might not be Karsas’s sword that would kill him but Karsas’s horse.
“I keep my promises, Gilene,” he said.
Gilene blinked at him. What promise? It took her a moment to recall his vow to return her to Beroe once he became ataman. She squeezed his fingers. “Hush. We’ll speak of it later.”
His eyes closed. His fingers were dark against hers, browned by days in the sun. Hers were paler, with bony knuckles and broken nails.
They were an odd pair, the Savatar Pit gladiator and the Beroe fire witch.
Pair. The word sent a sharp pain through her chest.
They weren’t a pair and never would be. His place was here, the new ataman of Clan Kestrel. Hers was to the west in a village full of secrets, cowards, and her vulnerable family.
“It’s good to dream, though,” she said aloud, her hands threading the same path through Azarion’s hair that his mother’s had taken.
“What did you say?” Saruke knelt beside her, a steaming cup in her hand.
Gilene blushed. “Nothing important.” A tendril of steam uncoiled from the cup to tease her nose with the bitter scent of willow bark.
Saruke set the cup down. “Too hot for him to drink now. We’ll let him sleep. The healer will return later and give the yarrow root a chance to work and his body a chance to rest.” Her hand passed over his back, just above the compresses. “He wears the marks of the Empire carved into his skin.”
The Empire carved into the soul as well as the flesh. Gilene held her tongue, sensitive to the sorrow in Saruke’s tone. Azarion was luckier than most.
Kraelian slaves tended to lead short, miserable lives, and Pit gladiators’ were even shorter and more miserable than most. That Azarion had not only survived the Pit for ten years but also gained fame in its savage arena was a remarkable achievement by anyone’s measure. That he also escaped its cage to return home and reclaim his inheritance was a testament to his personal triumph over the forces that had sought to break him.
“He’s fierce, Saruke,” she said, hoping to reassure the older woman. “Clever and strong. Those scars are nothing to such a man. He’s risen above them.”
A thoughtful expression passed through Saruke’s eyes. “You’ve grown to admire him.”
Gilene looked away, unable to meet Saruke’s gaze. Her emotions were in turmoil. Her feelings were stronger than admiration, and they made her want to weep.
While Azarion rested and allowed the yarrow root to work its power on the wound, Gilene stood guard at the qara’s entrance, turning away well-wishers and a steady parade of disgruntled subchiefs already lined up to jockey for positions of influence with the new ataman.
Tamura had returned from her foray through camp with a sack of mutton bones for Saruke to boil. She and Gilene helped Azarion sit long enough to drink the now cold tea Saruke had brewed earlier.
His face was still pale except for the pink flags of color on his cheekbones, and his eyes were glassy as he watched Gilene over the rim of his cup.
“You have fever now,” she said. “I’m sorry you’re in pain.”
He shrugged, and his fingers went white around the cup. “I’ve dealt with worse.”
The succinct reply made her sigh. She took his empty cup and brought back a refill for him when Vua returned, carrying a bag bulging with all manner of things.
She set the bag down and fished out the contents: more cloths, a carved box that held three needles and several lengths of catgut, prayer stones carved with mysterious runes that Gilene could only guess were blessings and beseechings, and a full flask of equally mysterious liquid.
Tamura frowned at the sight of it all. “Does he really need stitching?”
Vua sniffed. “Last I checked, Tamura, you were the warrior and I the healer.” Satisfied with Tamura’s thin-lipped silence after her chastisement, Vua faced Azarion. “Have you been stitched before?”
“Twice,” he said, and Gilene wondered at his calm. She eyed the needles, remembering her brother’s agonized shrieks.
“Then you know what to expect. I need you to kneel and keep your back as straight as possible so I can sew the wound proper and have the flesh knit right.”
Azarion did as instructed and knelt, his spine straight, shoulders back, while Saruke set the bloodied compresses aside and settled behind him next to Vua. He took the short stick the healer handed him without comment before grasping one of Gilene’s hands. “Don’t fret, Agacin,” he said. “Distract me instead.”
She gingerly peeled back the compresses Saruke had used, careful not to dislodge anything newly scabbed. Azarion twitched but remained quiet. Gilene flinched for him.
Vua stared at the wound and frowned. “This is deep enough to need stitching,” she said, echoing Saruke’s earlier declaration. “I’ll return with supplies.” She replaced the compresses. “Keep a pot of water heated, and have more cloths ready.” She rose and departed, leaving Gilene, Saruke, and Tamura gathered around their silent patient.
Gilene touched Saruke’s arm. “What do you want us to do?”
Saruke ran her fingers through Azarion’s hair. “Watch over him while I brew the tea Vua wants.” She turned to Tamura. “See if you can find a family willing to part with some mutton bones. I used my last one two days ago for the soup we ate at supper. I need more to make that broth.”
All three women startled when Azarion suddenly spoke in a raspy voice. “Tamura.”
His sister bent down to him, the scowl on her face in contrast to the worry in her eyes. “Your years in Kraelag have rotted your brain,” she admonished him. “I can’t believe you were mad enough to roll under a galloping horse like that. I’d kill you myself for such idiocy if you hadn’t nearly completed the task on your own.” Her criticism lacked any sharpness.
Azarion’s pallor was still ashy, and his lips pale, but he managed a small smile. “Skin me later. Go see Arita. Make it known to all who will listen that I offer her my protection before word is sent to her clan of Karsas’s death.”
She clasped his wrist in an affectionate squeeze. “Thank you, Brother,” she said, before leaving with assurances to Saruke that she’d return with the mutton bones.
Saruke took her place at the brazier, sorting through a number of satchels in her lap and pouring some of their contents into the pot resting on the grate.
Gilene sat down cross-legged beside Azarion. “I won’t ask you if you’re in pain. It’s a foolish question, considering.” She waved a hand at his back. “Instead, I will ask, how can I ease your pain?”
His lips curved in a thin smile. “Distract me.” His fingers brushed hers, and she captured them, bringing them to her lips for a brief kiss. “You didn’t pray, but you brought me the luck I needed, as I knew you would.”
“I wouldn’t call that luck.” She gestured to his back a second time.
“I won, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did.”
She had watched the entire fight with her heart in her throat. That fluttering organ still slammed against her ribs with relief and terror, the first because he had indeed survived and defeated Karsas, the second because he lay on a pallet, his back split open. It might not be Karsas’s sword that would kill him but Karsas’s horse.
“I keep my promises, Gilene,” he said.
Gilene blinked at him. What promise? It took her a moment to recall his vow to return her to Beroe once he became ataman. She squeezed his fingers. “Hush. We’ll speak of it later.”
His eyes closed. His fingers were dark against hers, browned by days in the sun. Hers were paler, with bony knuckles and broken nails.
They were an odd pair, the Savatar Pit gladiator and the Beroe fire witch.
Pair. The word sent a sharp pain through her chest.
They weren’t a pair and never would be. His place was here, the new ataman of Clan Kestrel. Hers was to the west in a village full of secrets, cowards, and her vulnerable family.
“It’s good to dream, though,” she said aloud, her hands threading the same path through Azarion’s hair that his mother’s had taken.
“What did you say?” Saruke knelt beside her, a steaming cup in her hand.
Gilene blushed. “Nothing important.” A tendril of steam uncoiled from the cup to tease her nose with the bitter scent of willow bark.
Saruke set the cup down. “Too hot for him to drink now. We’ll let him sleep. The healer will return later and give the yarrow root a chance to work and his body a chance to rest.” Her hand passed over his back, just above the compresses. “He wears the marks of the Empire carved into his skin.”
The Empire carved into the soul as well as the flesh. Gilene held her tongue, sensitive to the sorrow in Saruke’s tone. Azarion was luckier than most.
Kraelian slaves tended to lead short, miserable lives, and Pit gladiators’ were even shorter and more miserable than most. That Azarion had not only survived the Pit for ten years but also gained fame in its savage arena was a remarkable achievement by anyone’s measure. That he also escaped its cage to return home and reclaim his inheritance was a testament to his personal triumph over the forces that had sought to break him.
“He’s fierce, Saruke,” she said, hoping to reassure the older woman. “Clever and strong. Those scars are nothing to such a man. He’s risen above them.”
A thoughtful expression passed through Saruke’s eyes. “You’ve grown to admire him.”
Gilene looked away, unable to meet Saruke’s gaze. Her emotions were in turmoil. Her feelings were stronger than admiration, and they made her want to weep.
While Azarion rested and allowed the yarrow root to work its power on the wound, Gilene stood guard at the qara’s entrance, turning away well-wishers and a steady parade of disgruntled subchiefs already lined up to jockey for positions of influence with the new ataman.
Tamura had returned from her foray through camp with a sack of mutton bones for Saruke to boil. She and Gilene helped Azarion sit long enough to drink the now cold tea Saruke had brewed earlier.
His face was still pale except for the pink flags of color on his cheekbones, and his eyes were glassy as he watched Gilene over the rim of his cup.
“You have fever now,” she said. “I’m sorry you’re in pain.”
He shrugged, and his fingers went white around the cup. “I’ve dealt with worse.”
The succinct reply made her sigh. She took his empty cup and brought back a refill for him when Vua returned, carrying a bag bulging with all manner of things.
She set the bag down and fished out the contents: more cloths, a carved box that held three needles and several lengths of catgut, prayer stones carved with mysterious runes that Gilene could only guess were blessings and beseechings, and a full flask of equally mysterious liquid.
Tamura frowned at the sight of it all. “Does he really need stitching?”
Vua sniffed. “Last I checked, Tamura, you were the warrior and I the healer.” Satisfied with Tamura’s thin-lipped silence after her chastisement, Vua faced Azarion. “Have you been stitched before?”
“Twice,” he said, and Gilene wondered at his calm. She eyed the needles, remembering her brother’s agonized shrieks.
“Then you know what to expect. I need you to kneel and keep your back as straight as possible so I can sew the wound proper and have the flesh knit right.”
Azarion did as instructed and knelt, his spine straight, shoulders back, while Saruke set the bloodied compresses aside and settled behind him next to Vua. He took the short stick the healer handed him without comment before grasping one of Gilene’s hands. “Don’t fret, Agacin,” he said. “Distract me instead.”
