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“Only if we don’t try,” I say.
“Perhaps,” he says, laying his free hand over the top of mine. “Gweneth, do not betray me. I could not stand that.”
“I won’t,” I say, choking on the words as tears push forward. “I won’t.”
He nods then stands up and moves behind his brother.
“Would you prepare the bed?” he asks. “We will learn nothing more until he sleeps this off.”
I nod and run up the stairs. My nerves are calmer but not gone. He seems to believe me, which is good, but even so that’s only a beginning. I am certain it’s only a matter of time before the Maulavi come for me again. And between now and then we have to figure out a way to not only get information back to Rosalind, but connect with the resistance and hopefully figure out a way to overthrow the Shaman.
I pull the covers down and fluff the pillows. Dilacs carries his brother up the stairs cradling him in his arms. Watching Dilacs tuck Khiara into bed with care and concern both assuages and accents my worries and fear.
These are two good men. I am putting them in extreme danger and even more so now that they know my truth and are looking to work with the resistance. They’d be safer without me, or as safe as any Urr’ki can be, but I cannot succeed without them.
It makes my stomach hurt. There is only one way I can see out of this. One viable way, anyway. We have to stop the Shaman. With or without the resistance, or help from Rosalind, or the Zmaj. We must because I cannot let anything happen to these two men. They are mine. And I must protect them.
If I only knew how.
17
GWENETH
I’ve barely slept when I jerk awake. My neck pops loud and my head flashes with white light.
“Ow,” I groan, rubbing the back of my neck as I sit up.
“Are you okay?” Dilacs asks.
I shield my eyes from the ambient light that seems to be trying to sear my brain from raw to well-done and blink several times to clear my vision. The pain eases and as it does my sight returns to focus. Dilacs is sitting opposite me, leaning forward, his hand hovering over my knee.
Touch me. Please. Just that little bit. I need the reassurance.
But he doesn’t do that, instead he pulls his hand back, his eyes darting to the side. Then I hear a dish clatter and realize that’s what woke me up. Moving slowly to avoid a repeat cracking of the crick in my neck I turn enough to see Khiara in the kitchen, bustling and working as if nothing is wrong.
Still moving slow I rub the sore muscles of my shoulders and neck as I twist back to Dilacs. I arch a questioning eyebrow and he answers with a minute shake of his head. I roll my neck then my shoulders, progressively working out the stiffness.
“I’m, uhm, fine,” I answer at last. “Rough night.”
My eyes feel puffy and so do my cheeks. I don’t think I slept more than an hour at a stretch all night. Khiara gave me the couch while taking the chair opposite, but I couldn’t get comfortable no matter what I tried. Partly the physics of a piece of furniture made for someone significantly bigger and taller than me and in part worry.
And now my worries are here. Ready to be faced yet again. Will they hate me? Turn me over to my death? Heh, I can think that so lightly only because I truly don’t think they will. I have to believe that. Believe that they care as much about me as I do about them.
“You?” I ask, Dilacs.
He shrugs and grunts, which is about what I expected. A dissonant noise comes from behind and I jump to figure out what it is and more how to make it stop as it feels an awful lot like someone is shoving nails into my already aching head.
It’s Khiara. He’s humming, whistling, singing some kind of cacophony of the three things that sounds like horrible screeching. My mouth drops open in surprise and I look back to Dilacs who is chuckling.
“Not helping,” I whisper and he laughs harder, raising one hand with a finger up between us. I return my attention to the kitchen. “You, uhm, okay there Khiara?”
He turns around and I snort. I don’t mean to. It slips out before I can stop it. The entire scene is so incongruous after a night of not nearly enough sleep. I worried all night, playing out hundreds of possible scenarios but not in my wildest dreams did I ever come up with this one.
Khiara is wearing an apron. Well enough, but there are frills on the straps. He has what looks like flour splotches on his chest and cheek. One hand has a rolling pin looking tool and the other is holding a black pot. He is frowning and looks more than a little annoyed.
“What? Why do you make that noise?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say, pushing down as hard as I can on the laughter that is trying to break free. “Did you,” a snort slips, damn it, “need help?”
