Poisonwell
Page 78
She noticed that he refused to meet her gaze. It wasn’t the companionable silence that she was used to with him. He was brooding. It amazed her that she could interpret his mood, that she could almost see the feelings whirling inside him.
He soaked the cloth, wrung it out, and then began dabbing at her forehead. She flinched with pain, but he continued to wipe away the blood on her face. Memories flashed in her mind, of a meadow in Stonehollow, where he had chased her down and then tended to her as well. Was he even the same man? Back then, his look was dark and violent, mercurial between savage instinct and compassion. While she still saw a remnant of the killer, what struck her more was his humanity, his reluctance to cause her pain yet desire to restore her again.
“There’s blood on your neck,” he said next. “Those winged beasts clawed at your scalp too. Let me part your hair.”
She nodded mutely, feeling her throat swelling with gratitude for how tender he was being. The Dryad in the tree had warned her about him. Was he truly a man who murdered Dryads? She didn’t think so. The Arch-Rike used doubt as his deadliest weapon. Shion was not random in his violence or mean-spirited. He was ruthless, but not savage. She felt his fingers delicately part her leaf-strewn, clotted hair and wished there was a pond or a stream. But there was none. His touch was featherlight as he pressed the sopping rag against the forming scabs on her head. He picked away some of the leaf debris and scattered the fragments.
She could not see his hands, but she could feel the heat coming from his body, and it made her shiver. His shirt was in tatters again, his cloak clawed through. But he was unharmed.
Meticulously, he bathed her wounds with water and patted them dry. Hettie finished mixing an herbal concoction and brought some of the salve for Shion to apply. It was pasty and smelled fragrant. He dipped his fingers into the mixture and gently applied it to her many cuts.
“It smells nice,” she murmured.
Shion nodded, saying nothing.
When he came back to tend her wounded arm, he slit some of the sleeve to open wider and applied generous dabs of the salve. It caused a little warm tingle on her skin, but no pain. After smearing the wound over, he cut another long strip from his cloak with his dagger and bound her arm several times to protect it.
As he worked, she stared at the claw marks on his face. Someone had tended those wounds—had stitched them closed and applied salve. How long ago had it been? Were they tokens of violence he received from the Scourgelands? It seemed so. The dreadful place conjured many possibilities.
With precise hands, he dabbed salve on the crown of her head, parting her tresses to reveal the skin of her scalp once more. She felt his breath on her neck and blinked, trying to subdue the conflicting emotions churning inside of her.
He finished the ministrations, brushing his hands together briskly to remove the doughy salve.
“Thank you,” she told him.
He shrugged, sitting down across from her, clasping his wrist over his knees. He would not look at her.
The painful mix of feelings prodded at her. She could not pretend she did not know. More importantly, she felt she needed to understand what they implied.
“Shion,” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder. Hettie was still deeply involved in tending Annon’s wounds, stitching the cuts on his face. His hands were coated with the salve. Tyrus sat farther away, eyes closed as if in a trance. Prince Aran was farther still, wandering the edge of the grove.
Shion’s eyebrows lifted in curiosity.
“You’ve been quiet,” she said timidly, trying to find the courage to broach a tender subject. “More than usual,” she clarified. “What’s troubling you?”
He shook his head, his expression darkening with discomfort. She swallowed, trying to overcome her hesitation, and then reached out and touched his hand.
“You need to understand,” she said, keeping her voice very low, “that while my spirit was trapped in the stone, I could hear . . . I could hear and sense everything around me.” She bit her lip. “I heard you, Shion.”
She felt a small quivering in his wrist. His gaze lifted, his deep blue eyes finding hers. She was a little startled by the depth of emotion pooling there.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered breathlessly. “I didn’t know that.”
She shook her head. “You have nothing to feel sorry for.” She swallowed again. “This is difficult to say. I don’t know how you came to feel those things for me, but it is soon . . . my heart is . . . conflicted.”
A self-mocking frown tugged at his mouth. “Don’t . . .” He seemed at a loss. He shook his head. “I don’t, for even a moment, expect you to reciprocate my . . . my sentiments in any degree.” He looked at her, his eyes burning with a surge of emotions. “I know what I am. I harbor no illusions. I expect nothing from you. I admire your courage in coming to this place. If I can protect you, in any way, I will. If you bid me take you back to Stonehollow, I will.” His lower lip trembled. “It pains me to see you hurt.”
He soaked the cloth, wrung it out, and then began dabbing at her forehead. She flinched with pain, but he continued to wipe away the blood on her face. Memories flashed in her mind, of a meadow in Stonehollow, where he had chased her down and then tended to her as well. Was he even the same man? Back then, his look was dark and violent, mercurial between savage instinct and compassion. While she still saw a remnant of the killer, what struck her more was his humanity, his reluctance to cause her pain yet desire to restore her again.
“There’s blood on your neck,” he said next. “Those winged beasts clawed at your scalp too. Let me part your hair.”
She nodded mutely, feeling her throat swelling with gratitude for how tender he was being. The Dryad in the tree had warned her about him. Was he truly a man who murdered Dryads? She didn’t think so. The Arch-Rike used doubt as his deadliest weapon. Shion was not random in his violence or mean-spirited. He was ruthless, but not savage. She felt his fingers delicately part her leaf-strewn, clotted hair and wished there was a pond or a stream. But there was none. His touch was featherlight as he pressed the sopping rag against the forming scabs on her head. He picked away some of the leaf debris and scattered the fragments.
She could not see his hands, but she could feel the heat coming from his body, and it made her shiver. His shirt was in tatters again, his cloak clawed through. But he was unharmed.
Meticulously, he bathed her wounds with water and patted them dry. Hettie finished mixing an herbal concoction and brought some of the salve for Shion to apply. It was pasty and smelled fragrant. He dipped his fingers into the mixture and gently applied it to her many cuts.
“It smells nice,” she murmured.
Shion nodded, saying nothing.
When he came back to tend her wounded arm, he slit some of the sleeve to open wider and applied generous dabs of the salve. It caused a little warm tingle on her skin, but no pain. After smearing the wound over, he cut another long strip from his cloak with his dagger and bound her arm several times to protect it.
As he worked, she stared at the claw marks on his face. Someone had tended those wounds—had stitched them closed and applied salve. How long ago had it been? Were they tokens of violence he received from the Scourgelands? It seemed so. The dreadful place conjured many possibilities.
With precise hands, he dabbed salve on the crown of her head, parting her tresses to reveal the skin of her scalp once more. She felt his breath on her neck and blinked, trying to subdue the conflicting emotions churning inside of her.
He finished the ministrations, brushing his hands together briskly to remove the doughy salve.
“Thank you,” she told him.
He shrugged, sitting down across from her, clasping his wrist over his knees. He would not look at her.
The painful mix of feelings prodded at her. She could not pretend she did not know. More importantly, she felt she needed to understand what they implied.
“Shion,” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder. Hettie was still deeply involved in tending Annon’s wounds, stitching the cuts on his face. His hands were coated with the salve. Tyrus sat farther away, eyes closed as if in a trance. Prince Aran was farther still, wandering the edge of the grove.
Shion’s eyebrows lifted in curiosity.
“You’ve been quiet,” she said timidly, trying to find the courage to broach a tender subject. “More than usual,” she clarified. “What’s troubling you?”
He shook his head, his expression darkening with discomfort. She swallowed, trying to overcome her hesitation, and then reached out and touched his hand.
“You need to understand,” she said, keeping her voice very low, “that while my spirit was trapped in the stone, I could hear . . . I could hear and sense everything around me.” She bit her lip. “I heard you, Shion.”
She felt a small quivering in his wrist. His gaze lifted, his deep blue eyes finding hers. She was a little startled by the depth of emotion pooling there.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered breathlessly. “I didn’t know that.”
She shook her head. “You have nothing to feel sorry for.” She swallowed again. “This is difficult to say. I don’t know how you came to feel those things for me, but it is soon . . . my heart is . . . conflicted.”
A self-mocking frown tugged at his mouth. “Don’t . . .” He seemed at a loss. He shook his head. “I don’t, for even a moment, expect you to reciprocate my . . . my sentiments in any degree.” He looked at her, his eyes burning with a surge of emotions. “I know what I am. I harbor no illusions. I expect nothing from you. I admire your courage in coming to this place. If I can protect you, in any way, I will. If you bid me take you back to Stonehollow, I will.” His lower lip trembled. “It pains me to see you hurt.”
