Page 9 of Under a Northern Sky

I head up to the courtyard where Bron is still hanging around.

“Is she okay?” he asks urgently.

“For now. Bring some fresh water and a blanket to the baths.”

“Yes, Deve. Right away. And thank you.”

That stops me cold. “Thank you?” But he’s already gone in search of what I’ve asked for.What kind of a man thanks me for helping his brother’s killer?

It’s then that the smell hits me. Ugh. She’s pissed herself at some point. Wonderful.

The hot springs baths are less than a quarter mile away, bubbling up into a small system of rocky outcroppings and half-formed caves. The pools are empty of people right now but that doesn’t mean I won’t encounter any eventual prying eyes, so I haul her back to the furthest pool. Pulling her off my shoulder, I place her on the ground on her back.

In the growing light that filters down through the fissures in the ceiling, the twinge of disquiet I felt earlier, becomes a full-on pang. She looks like she’s been beaten to a pulp. And the circumference of the blood stain on the front of her dress is larger.

A slight shiver rolls through her and her head lolls to the side. “Rina,” I say loudly. I’d slap her to bring her around, but it would probably kill her.

Since she’s in no condition to consent, I go ahead and dip the fingers of both hands into the neckline of her filthy dress and yank. The flimsy material gives easily and once I’ve ripped the entire garment right down the center, it reveals . . . another dress. Not an underdress, but literally another dress, though this one is even more threadbare than the one on top.

“What in the . . ?”This is a princess of D’heilar?Suspicion doesn’t just whisper to me, it blares. Once I’ve got her arms out of the sleeves of the first dress, I tear the second and almost stumble back at the sight of her. Her torso is a painted canvas of purple, black, and yellow bruises. She’s not wearing any undergarments and I find the source of all the blood: a stab wound to her thigh.

Mother all mighty.

I hear boots on the path and whirl.

“What have they done to her?” Bron hisses.

Ignoring him, I turn back to work on freeing her arms from the second dress.

“Just leave the –” My words die in my throat. Under her left arm, along her ribs is a row of four marks. Burn marks. Made by the flat side of a heated blade if I’m not mistaken. They’re not fresh, but they’re ugly. And systematic. Meant only to inflict pain. A rush of compassion drowns my good sense for a moment, but I promptly pull myself together. Who knows what she did to deserve such treatment.

“What is it?” Bron asks, coming closer.

I block her from his view as best I can. It’s irrational since there’s nothing sexual about the situation. Plus, I know Bron has no interest in women. But somehow I don’t want him staring at her brutalized, naked body. “Nothing,” I snap. “Leave the things and make sure no one enters the pools.” When he hesitates, I raise my voice. “Go!”

Listening to his retreating footsteps, I take a better look at this girl who I may have to take to wife. With the swelling, it’s hard to discern her features, but her long hair is loose and creates a black-as-night frame around her face. There’s a sickly waxiness to her skin despite it being a rich tan color. And the dry, chapped state of her full lips reminds me that she needs water if she’s going to survive.

Uncorking the skin Bron brought, I support her neck and pour a small amount into her mouth. Most of it leaks back out, but when I try again, I see her throat work, weakly at first, then with more purpose. So she’s not fully unconscious, only weak and dazed. That’s a good sign I suppose.

While she drinks, I finally get a look at the rest of her. She’s mostly sharp angles and ruined or abused flesh. Her small breasts are tipped with dark nipples and the apex of her thighs is covered with jet-black curls. The stab wound to her thigh is deep but not gaping; however, it’s still oozing blood. I’ve seen thigh wounds kill a man within minutes on the battlefield. She’s lucky Zola didn’t want her dead.

When the water starts to become too much for her, I pull it away and turn my attention to the pool. I groan, realizing I’m going to have to get in with her. I strip myself and then lift her from what’s left of her clothing.

Holding her slight, much-too-cold body to my chest, I step into the shallow end of the pool. Knowing the temperature change will come as a shock, I mutter a warning of, “This is going to hurt,” as I move deeper to slowly lower us into the warm water.

It doesn’t take long for the heat to bring on a reaction. Soft whimpers start up, quickly becoming more and more distressed. Soon uncoordinated limbs join the protests and I’m forced to use some strength to hold on to her.

“Easy,” I admonish, lifting my shoulder to keep her head from flopping back. “After all this effort, I’m not keen on you drowning.”

She stills, but as soon as my voice fades, she’s back to struggling. “Hush now. No one’s going to harm you.” Again she calms, so I keep it up, feeling like a fool for conversing with a semi-conscious woman while gently rocking her in the water.

A croaked word interrupts me and I look down. Her eyes are open and they cause an unexpected, visceral tug in my gut. Though unfocused, they’re the most stunning amber color, made all the more striking against her tan skin and black hair.

“Water,” she rasps.

Tearing away from her mesmerizing eyes, I give her a terse, “In a minute.”

Her response is an irksome little mewl.

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