Thankfully he didn’t speak as he settled beside her, as his painfully familiar hand nudged against her back. As he guided her swiftly through the corridors, back over toward the Bautul wing. As he briefly halted mid-step, wanting her to wait — and then disappeared and re-emerged, clearly from the Bautul trading-post, holding a flickering lamp.
It meant Gwyn had to see him again, his body tall and lean and agonizing before her, but at least he didn’t need to touch her anymore. And she tightened her arms around her chest as she followed behind him, his steps long and urgent, his gaze intently ahead.
And then, finally, he turned toward a door. One of many doors in this corridor, in what Gwyn knew was still the Bautul wing. But it was a room she’d never entered before, and she felt her breath catch as she stepped inside, and blinked around at the sight.
It was a bedroom, and it was —lovely. It was small, with the ever-present stone walls and floor — but here, the walls were covered with patchwork quilts, and the floor was scattered with soft furs and bright, homespun rugs. There was a little table in the corner with two chairs — one noticeably larger than the other — and in the middle of the table was a bunch of bright wildflowers, only starting to wilt in their chipped vase. And on the opposite side of the room was a large, cozy-looking bed, piled high with pillows and furs, and close beside that was a small, wooden rockingcradle.
Gwyn’s prickling eyes blinked at the cradle, which was entirely empty, but for a downy little fur lining the bottom. And while the sight shouldn’t have been unusual — not in her line of work, anyway — there was still something about it that seemed to hold her there, struck still and stunned, her hand clutched to her own waist…
But beside her, Joarr had lurched forward. Striding around to the end of the bed, which was just out of view behind the cradle. But suddenly Gwyn realized there was something moving down there, somethingalive—
“Srrrr,” it slurred, its voice gravelly and deep — because wait, wait, it wasSilfast. And his huge body was sprawled on the floor at the end of the bed, his legs sliding unnaturally against the floor, his head lolling slightly to the side. As though he were… drunk? Or…drugged?
Gwyn rushed forward to kneel beside him, feeling for the pulse in his neck, searching the dazed emptiness of his eyes. And then she leaned in toward his face, inhaling deep — and then flinched, and silently shouted a furious stream of curses.
Hereekedof henbane. Of precisely what Gwyn had threatened to shut him up with the day before, and what — she squeezed her eyes closed — Stella had been working on, when Silfast had arrived in the garden. And then Gwyn had left too, without finishing her work, clearly without noticing that the henbane had gone missing…
Damn.Damn.
“You,” Silfast growled, his unfocused eyes narrowing on Gwyn’s face. “Youdo this!”
His big clawed hand flailed up, swinging out wide toward her head — but before it could make impact, something kicked it away.Joarrkicked it away, before dropping to crouch beside Gwyn, and grabbing a strong handful of the front of Silfast’s tunic.
“Youno touch her,” he hissed at Silfast, as he gave him a hard shake. “She donaught. Now what you last eat. Or drink.”
Silfast’s mouth curled up, but his eyes had glanced, brief but telling, toward a chipped cup sitting on the table, in front of the larger chair. And before Gwyn had moved, Joarr was already over there sniffing at it, and then placing it back onto the table with a firm thunk.
“Stinkof henbane,” he said, clipped. “And your mate, fool. Now, where she go? You follow her scent?”
Silfast moaned and shook his head, rubbing at his nose — and Joarr’s expression was pure irritation, and contempt, and…unease. “I can no trace her scent amidst this,” he said, with a fluid wave of his hand — meaning, perhaps, this part of the mountain, which surely was already crowded with Stella’s scent. “No with speed. I go find Grisk to help. Baldr, mayhap.”
But Silfast was suddenly groaning again, and he swiped his huge hand toward Joarr, missing his leg by a large margin. “No,” he gasped. “No tell.Shame, if Bautul hear.Disgrace.”
Gwyn gaped down at him — surely this complete asshole was not rejecting help finding Stella, on account of it beingembarrassingfor him? — but Joarr actually seemed to be considering this as a valid point, his fingers pinching at his nose. Until his eyes blinked open, flicking toward Gwyn, almost as though he’d felt her frustration, her disbelief.
“He no mean shame for him,” Joarr said, quiet, his eyes dark. “He mean for Stella. Bautul no again welcome her here, if she scorn Bautul captain thus. Most of all if she carry Bautul son, and next… lose him.”
Lose him. Spoken with meaning, with a surreptitious glance toward Silfast — but despite his condition Silfast seemed to catch it, his eyes again fixing on Joarr’s face. “She lose son?” he demanded, his voice still slurred. “You see this?”
And Gwyn was again staring at Silfast, because that wasn’t anger in his eyes, or grief. It was… relief. It was…hope?
“You see this?” he repeated, his eyes wide, unblinking,hopefulon Joarr’s face. “She well again?Freeagain? Happy?”
Oh. Oh. He meant he… he wouldn’t grieve his son? He was thinking of Stella… being well again. Free.Happy.
But then something seemed to strike him, his seated body swaying, his head dropping into his hands. “Then mayhap,” his slurred voice said, “no follow. Keep her free. Keep happy. Only” — his shoulders sagged — “send coin. Food. Pie. She need pie.”
And as Gwyn stared at this huge, deadly orc, she realized he was…weeping. His sobs coming in harsh, dragging gulps, wracking through his massive body, shaking his big head in his hands. “Sought to keep strength,” he gasped. “Give help. She need this from me, ach? But I fail. Ifail.”
Something thick was choking in Gwyn’s throat, her own misery threatening to bubble up, to escape, toexplode— and it seemed to take immense effort to shove it down again, find focus amidst the mess. Think.Speak.
“Stella didn’t run away because you weren’t strong enough, you fool,” she heard herself snap, her voice hollow. “She likely ran because you were being a rigid, overbearing bastard, who thought you knew what was best, instead of actually listening to her, or beinghonestwith her!”
Silfast raised his head to blink toward Gwyn, his eyes wide, wet, wounded. “She wished this from me,” he said, thin, uncertain. “Always wished this, since our first night. I know this. Tasted this. Saw how shethrivedfrom this. How shebloomedfor me, like fairest flower ever I see.”
But Gwyn shook her head, swallowed down the lump blocking her throat. “But can’t you see,” she replied, her voice just as thin, “how pregnancy could change that. How months of constant illness could change that. How women could suffer from depression, from the severe changes in their bodies, from all the uncertainty around their future, thedanger. And how they might not even realize the extent of it themselves, especially if they haven’t been informed, or properly supported, or permitted to do healthy activities that they clearlyenjoyed!”
Her voice had nearly risen to a shout by the end, enough that Silfast actually shrank away from her — and gods, it felt like she’d just kicked a cowering puppy, like her own misery was reflected in his bright, desolate eyes.
