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The individual aches and throbbing wounds were building to a chorus of agony, making it difficult to think, so Gabriel took his towel and went to assess his wounds and wash up. The throat bite felt bad enough, but the burning pain down his left shoulder and back indicated much worse wounds. Struggling with his shirt, he tried to move it enough to get a good look.
“Do you have a spare shirt?”
He looked over his shoulder at Veronica, who held the enchanted silver dagger. He blinked at it in sudden dull alarm. Careless to have left it on the ground, but he hadn’t wanted to sheathe it again with it so filthy. Then he forgot about it… Stupid. Veronica gestured at him with it, and he braced himself. Did she want free of him enough to attack him with it? And if she did, would he have the heart to stop her?
“Lord Phel,” she said, almost gently. It occurred to him that he might not be thinking clearly, and she was conscious of that. “Your shirt is soaked with blood and gore. Better to cut it off if you have a spare one. It’s so ripped up it’s not worth saving.”
“I do,” he said, “but don’t use that blade.” Gingerly, he took the silver dagger from her, sheathed it despite the gore, and fished out another for her to use.
She took the replacement blade and began slicing his sleeves from the tops of his shoulders down, discarding strips as she worked. “Enchanted, is it?”
He grunted an affirmative, wishing he’d thought to sit down. The pain was making him dizzy.
“Where did you acquire an enchanted blade that would kill House Ariel creations?”
“I did it myself,” he managed to say, his voice strained as she peeled the cloth away from his back, “with water and moon magic.”
“You can’t do that.”
“But I did,” he replied, aware he sounded defensive. He hadn’t attended Convocation Academy. That ship had sailed without him, and it wasn’t as if he’d go now and sit in class with adolescents. Sometimes not knowing what was supposedly impossible became an asset. “I read about the process in a book. As you can tell, it works just fine.”
“That’s not the point.” She sounded exasperated. “You made an enchanted blade—and you’re just using it, where anyone can see?”
“Yes—why?”
“Because only House El-Adrel can make enchanted artifacts. Their house has the exclusive license, and it’s against Convocation law for anyone else to do it. Didn’t anyone explain that to you?”
Huh. Guess he hadn’t known that. “Not that I recall.”
She made a sound of disgust, for his ignorance or for the wounds she’d revealed. Maybe both. “This is bad,” she said, her voice clinical. “It’s going to hurt like madness when I clean those wounds, and I’m going to have to put in some stitches to hold you until you can get to a healer. You’d better sit before you pass out.”
“All right.” Sitting sounded really good. He just needed to bend his knees and…
The world went black as he passed out.
~11~
Gabriel went overlike a felled tree, and Nic felt only a small stab of guilt as she nimbly stepped out of the way. It would have been a kindness to try to break his fall, but he would’ve crushed her. Besides, the grasses were soft enough, and she wasn’t feeling all that kind at the moment.
Yes, he’d saved her from the hunters—hooray—but being captured by him was barely a step better. Gabriel might treat her more gently than the hunters had, but captive was captive after all. And it was her own stupid fault.
She shouldn’t have lingered in Port Anatol. She should have taken advantage of Missus Ryma’s good nature, accepted the night of rest and breakfast, and left again as fast as possible without worrying about paying her back. She hadn’t needed to pay a coach; she could’ve walked. She’d been stupid and complacent—yes, and sentimental, as Maman had warned her against—and now she’d paid the price.
Nic knelt to adjust Gabriel’s big body, the chain attached to the cursed collar falling in the way. She ended up winding it around her neck, like an annoyingly heavy and unlovely necklace, before returning to the task of making him more comfortable. She rolled him more firmly onto his stomach and turned his face to the side so he could breathe, picking his loose silver hair out of the throat wound. He had more beard stubble than the night they met. Days’ worth. He must’ve been chasing after her without a pause for personal grooming. Probably he hadn’t shaved since Elal, and she doubted he possessed a grooming imp. Despite his unkempt appearance—or maybe because of it—he looked younger in his sleep, almost boyish without those hard edges and penetrating black eyes.
She should take advantage of this opportunity to run. His horse was injured, but not too badly. She could take Vale and some or all of Gabriel’s supplies—and simply leave him behind. With those deep gouges in his back and side, he would be in no shape to catch up with her, not without a horse. If he even managed to recover enough to travel at all. He wouldn’t die… probably. If she was being smart—and ruthlessly without sentiment—she’d do it.
Take Vale and go. Never look back.
But she didn’t have it in her. She couldn’t leave Gabriel here suffering wounds he’d acquired liberating her from those skin-crawling hunters—even if he’d only done it to recover his valuable property.
With an exasperated sigh for herself, Nic went to get the soap, water, and towels. “This is why you’ll never be free,” she muttered to herself. “You’re doomed to be a pet for the rest of your life because you don’t have the spine to look out for yourself.”Because you’re Fascinated by him, a cautionary voice in her head whispered.You don’twantto walk away.
Vale, happily grazing in the shade, lifted his head at her words, swiveling his ears to listen. “That’s right, Vale,” she said, giving him a pat, “you and me, fellow livestock in the service of Lord Phel.” The horse snorted in obvious agreement, and she trudged back into afternoon sun.
Gabriel could’ve passed out in that comfortable shade, but no, he had to drop his big lump of an unconscious body in the middle of the grasses. Nic set to cleaning the sluggishly bleeding wounds where the hunter had clawed him, working briskly to finish before he woke up. She wouldn’t wish that suffering on him, even if he was her greatest enemy. She’d have other problems, however, if he didn’t wake before dark. No way could she move his bulk to the shelter of the trees, much less onto Vale’s back.
If he didn’t wake, they’d be sitting out here in the middle of nothing when night fell, which would get pretty cold, she figured, hot as the sun felt now. It was already declining, a hint of chill creeping under the slanting rays. Nothing to be done for it. She’d cope once she had him cleaned up.
