Page 63 of Tusks & Saddles
Miss Eaves shook her head, “Save your magic, Welborn. I can take care of this the old fashioned way if you can check up on the horses?”
He didn’t like the idea of Miss Eaves tending to her injury, but Welborn knew she was right. Miss Eaves was alwaysright.Shuffling to his feet, Welborn kept Miss Eaves in the corner of his vision as he approached the horses. She had reached for her own pack, which hopefully meant she was reaching for the tonic and bandages—
She’s the most prepared person in all of Ordia, of course she has a healer’s kit,Welborn thought.
Sandy was a bit wary, but she relaxed as Welborn ran his hands over her sides. Other than a small nick to her hind leg, she appeared fine. Miss Eaves horse, on the other hand…
Welborn pulled his hat down, placing it over his heart.
“I’m so sorry.”
Chapter Fourteen
Beatrix
They were down one horse.
It wasn’t ideal, but something Beatrix had expected was likely to happen on their journey. She just hadn’t expected it to happen so damn soon. Based on the mercenary guild’s account—and her own experience—most folk didn’t lose their travel animals until six or seven days in. By then, it was usually a lot rougher as the water grew more and more scarce.
Fucking killer tumbleweeds.
Welborn had taken first watch, giving Beatrix time to recover from her injury. A combination of Kay’s tonic and light sleep had already improved the wound on her thigh, but Beatrix knew the ride later that morning would be a bit rough. Healing always took time, no matter how much magic someone threw at the problem.
Beatrix gaze shifted from the low burning fire to Welborn’s sleeping form. He looked…young. Perhaps not in the physical sense—he was old enough to help build a sanctum to his god, for goodness sake. No, it was a lack of experience. There was still hope in his eyes, the same way there had been tears in the corner of his lashes when he regretfully informed her of the horse passing.
The animal was too heavy to move, even with the two of them. Welborn had covered the horse with a spare sheet he had in his pack. Beatrix would have argued against it—they really ought to bury or burn the body—as he would need that layer in the night. However, his face had stalled her complaint. For whatever reason, Beatrix felt as if Welborn needed the process of grief. He needed to mourn an animal that he knew for but a day.
Her mind wasn’t occupied with mourning so much as planning their next steps. Hunting for anyone in the wastelands was always risky, but Beatrix had done it enough to know where the missing High Cleric might have found refuge. Most folk didn’t travel too far from water and there were slim pickings in the desert. There was a small stream a day’s ride past the rock formations they were camping at. A man-made water tower that collected rain—a relic from early settlers who decided it was better to pitch their tents in Irongarde.
Worse case, we can manage some water from the Canna cactus—
Welborn groaned.
Beatrix golden eyes narrowed at his prone form. Welborn slept with his body curled tight, forehead furrowed even in his sleep. The fire separated them, but Beatrix could see the noise he had made was involuntary.
A nightmare?
It would be fitting for someone like him to have nightmares. Though, Beatrix was curious as to what counted as a nightmare when it came to the young cleric. He was far too good natured to have witnessed anything truly awful—at least, Beatrix thought as much. However, the old rule of looks being deceiving crept up Beatrix’s spine. Perhaps Welborn was simply that good of anactor—
“Miss Eaves…”
Never mind,Beatrix thought dryly.
Perhaps she had given him far too much credit. At the end of the day, Welborn was still a stranger and Beatrix wasn’t sure if she liked her name on his lips. Especially not while dreaming.
And yet…
There was something open about Welborn’s face—about his character. Beatrix spent most of her adult life shielding herself from the world around her and while the sleeping man was arguably as covered as she was, Welborn’s face was entirely open. Anyone with a lick of insight would be able to read him like a book, but was he a book worth reading? Beatrix had yet to figure that part out.
He did save my life,she thought.That’s always been worth something.
Her father was significantly younger than her mother. Human and elf relationships tended to work that way. Beatrix’s parents would never have forever, but they did have right now, and that was worth it’s weight in gold. Whatever feelings Beatrix may have had—have—with her mother, it had never been worth staying angry.
Elyassundra—Lady Tel’vera—would have never anticipated that she would give birth to a daemon child. While Balthazar had taken to Beatrix immediately, her mother had been a different story. There was pain in her eyes whenever she looked at her daughter. And Beatrix’s mother was unaware of her stare, as the young child had no visible pupils to speak of. It made eavesdropping very easy for Beatrix, as she simply had to pretend that she had been staring at something else.
Her mother wasn’t perfect, but Beatrix had seen her at leasttry.Mother hadn’t treated her any differently from her brothers, but the bond wasn’t the same as the one Beatrix had with her father. She knew it was because her mother had known the origins of Beatrix’s mysterious ancestry. There was simply no other explanation.
Welborn let out another muffled sound, body pressing deeper into his side as if he was trying to bury himself into the ground. Whatever nightmares plagued his mind, Beatrix hoped they would be over soon. She hoped he would find comfort in sleep, and she hoped he would awake well-rested.
