He held his breath.
Zarrek saw it all. He looked unfazed, but Resh recognized the tilt of his mouth.
The floor spun beneath him.
Void save us.
No one can know.
He rushed to wipe the blood on his tunic then looked to his brother in arms.
“Not a word of this,” Resh breathed. “Not a Voids-damned word, Zar.”
The warrior shifted his weight between his legs. Sighed.
“Yeah, I get it. First they pray to her then they want to bottle her blood for potions.” He let out a long breath. “This goes past my purpose, Resh. I’m bred for war, not intrigue. Could never remember a single fucking Devotion. All I can tell you is, you’re in deep water. So, choose. You going to swim with her or put her on a raft and let her float to shore?”
He scratched his head and paused. For effect, maybe.
“Gotta hope no one else wants to drown her, but then again, seems like the Lioness can take care of her just fine.”
Resh hardly heard that last part. He raked his hand through his hair then ran his palm down the front of his face. Hishealedpalm.
Healed—with the blood of a girl with silver veins he found in some Void-forsaken temple lost to time.
Most magic couldn’t heal. Even the most advanced of casters couldn’t stitch together skin. Set bones, perhaps. Encourage mending. Staunch heavy blood flow. Experienced mages could try, but the mana toll was devastating. The cost was too high unless the need was dire.
Yet here was Auryn—her skin healing in hours from cuts and scrapes. Her magic able to perform miracles. Her blood a raw elixir for closing wounds, and Void knew what else.
“How far to Stonewake?” he asked.
“Two weeks, maybe. Four at most. One of the horses was ripped apart in the fight. We’ll have to push the wagon part of the way through the swamps.”
Resh brooded in silence.
“I know that look. What are you thinking?”
“Arrange for a message to Maradryn. Tonight. Use one of the falcons, I don’t care. By the time we get to Stonewake, I want a wagon and supplies ready to take her to the capital.”
“Not your brother, then?” Zarrek pressed. “You sure? This is just the kind of treasure he’d love to—”
“She’s aperson, Zar. She’s not a relic or some treasure. She’s not—” he choked on his word, “mine.”
Zarrek waited, and when Resh didn’t go on, he said, “She could be. If you want. You’re the Resh’Agar. You can take her as your Sokâr.”
“I’ve already named her that.”
“Named, not taken. A temporary patch to a leak that needs fixing.”
Resh sent him a dangerous glare, and Zarrek raised his palms in surrender.
“Just saying it as it is. If you bring her to the city as Auryn, she’ll be ripped apart. But if you bring your consort to them with fanfare and a bit of flair, she’s untouchable.”
With that, Zarrek stepped closer.
“Don’t pretend you don’t want to.” The warrior reached out and parted Resh’s hair at the nape of his neck, revealing a small braid with a thinribbon tied into it. “You’ve never been able to hide your pain from me, Resh. And now, your love.”
Resh stared at him. Angry. Furious.
