Page 7 of The Iron Dagger
This man was clearly a rogue, willing to snatch people against their will for his own ends. But aside from that, he was cold and cutting and generally unpleasant. With every grimace and sharp remark he made toward her, she rather enjoyed the idea that her teaching had been used to make him suffer. Under normal circumstances, she believed in letting the natural order of the world settle its just rewards. But she could still revel in the rare times when justice was swift.
Hara wondered whether Alexandra had made it back to her husband in the village. She searched for her friend’s influence, and relief touched her when she saw that Alexandra had indeed returned home and was currently snowed in like many in the village. The relief was quickly dispelled by awkwardness when she saw glimpses of how they were passing their time trapped indoors, and she decided that was all the assurance she needed that Alexandra was well.
If Hara hadn’t guessed that Gideon was royalty or close to it by his jewelry and dyed hair, she would have guessed it fromhis haughty, sulking manner. He spent much of his time huddled in a ball facing away from the rest of the room—asleep or awake, she did not know. She wondered if even the sight of her humble cottage was too much for him to bear.
When he wasn’t eating, he seemed determined to forget where he was while he was trapped by snow and illness. Three times a day, she gave him bone broth and bread, which he took silently. His fever finally broke on the sixth day, but his heel was still badly bruised and half-healed.
“When can I walk?” he said as she examined him, making the question sound like a demand. His accent was aristocratic, but it carried a hint of northern sharpness. Hara wondered wryly to herself if this was the first time he’d ever been inconvenienced in his life.
“Perhaps in another week you may go without the walking stick. It will be painful, but the wounds will be closed. You will still have to wear a bandage.”
Gideon groaned and put his hands over his face.
“I can make it easier,” she said. “But you have to accept the magic.”
“Easier said than done,” he said. “Fine. Do what you must.”
“It won’t work as well if you’re being stubborn.”
“Why not?” he said.
“Because I cannot concentrate with you whingeing,” she said, closing her eyes.
She began whispering over his wound, circling the air surrounding his ankle with turns of her wrists. It was a tricky little spell that relieved pain, and even after years of practice, she still had to focus on timing each syllable with the right movement.
He started, and she thought he must have felt the numbness entering the wound. Then his muscles relaxed, andshe almost felt the relief shivering through his body as the pain melted away. She let out a deep, slow stream of breath, and opened her eyes.
Perhaps she was being unfair. Not for the first time, she wondered if his sourness and melancholy were actually caused by grief. Her own flesh seemed to burn with the memory of the wolf cutting him down in her vision, knowing that the others in his party had not been so lucky as one by one their voices fell silent in the surrounding woods.
No spell could numb that pain, but words might.
“What happened to your men?” she asked softly.
Gideon
He looked away from her, debating with himself whether to tell her to leave him be or to answer.
“What do you care?” He spat instead.
“Because you’re snapping at me when you’re upset about something else. I want you to tell me about it.” She said in her annoyingly composed voice.
She probably knew enough from her scrying anyway. He could not abide a sniveling do-gooder nosing into his affairs, but somehow, her air of indifference loosened the set of his shoulders. He had spent so much time retracing that night, and he was nearly mad with boredom; he may as well indulge in conversation.
“My men and I were weak. Exhausted, ill, poisoned. The wench set our horses free, so we were without provisions. We set off on foot and marched all day without food or water. We were denied even the comforts of a fire when night fell,” said Gideon.
He stared at the faded pattern on the quilt as he recounted the night of terror.
“We heard the wolves howling, but we thought they were far enough away that we could disperse and spread out the scent. But then they were on us, and my men . . . ”
His throat felt sharp and he swallowed. “Gone. Three men I’ve known since my training days.”
“Were they related to you?” she asked.
“Harris was my cousin. But the others were close men-at-arms.”
She studied him from the foot of the bed with an uncomfortably probing look.
“Come here,” she said suddenly, leaning forward and tugging him into her arms. His body was so stiff with shock that he didn’t think to push her away. She rubbed her hand along his tense back muscles and patted him there as though he were a small child.
