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Thea was too exhausted to protest her sister’s rudeness, or voice that she wanted him to stay.
Wren helped her inside and gently lowered her onto the bed. ‘Callahan has all the alchemists out looking for you. He told us what happened. Gods, Thea. Why didn’t you send for me? You know I would have —’ Her words came out in a terrified flurry and her voice broke at the end. ‘No matter what shit was happening between us,you’re my sister.’
‘I know,’ Thea managed. ‘I was coming to find you.’
‘Then where in the midrealms were you?’ Wren exclaimed, pulling back the heavy cloak to get a look at the bloodstained linen binding her midsection. Then she froze, noticing the dark wool between her fingers.
‘This is the Warsword’s cloak,’ she said.
Thea gave a nod of confirmation, and she watched her sister stiffen.
‘The Hand of Death himself gave you his cloak?’ Wren asked. When Thea didn’t bother confirming this, she weighed her words, chewing the inside of her cheek before meeting Thea’s questioning gaze. ‘I…’ she struggled. ‘I don’t like him.’
‘Since when do you have strong opinions about any Warsword?’ Her breath whistled between her teeth as Wren examined her injuries.
‘I have strong opinions about everyone, thank you very much.’ Wren sighed again. ‘Since one seems to trail my sister.’
Thea laughed and then gasped at the sharp pain that lanced through her. ‘He does not,’ she wheezed.
Wren perched on the edge of the bed, no amusement there. ‘Stay away from him, Thee… He’s the worst one. I know you think they’re noble —’
‘Some of them,’ Thea muttered, clutching her side.
‘But the stories I’ve heard about Wilder Hawthorne…’ Wren continued carefully. ‘They’d make even your stomach turn. He’s dangerous.’
‘Of course he’s dangerous. He’s called the Hand of Death, for fuck’s sake. They’re all dangerous, that’s sort of the point, isn’t it?’
Wren was shaking her head. ‘People talk, Thea. He’s a monster, more so than those he slays. He brings back the hearts of the creatures he kills… Trophies. That’s what the fortress staff say.’
‘Gossip,’ Thea retorted. ‘Bored, nosy —’
‘Listen to me for once,’ Wren hissed. ‘I’ve seen it. I’ve had to take… supplies to him. I saw those bleeding black hearts for myself.’
Thea’s own heart stuttered, a memory suddenly coming back to her. Hadn’t she seen Hawthorne enter Thezmarr on the night of his initial return, a sack dripping with blood in his hands?
But Thea shook her head. ‘He helped me. He stopped the bleeding. Gave me some leaf to chew.’
Wren looked up, alarmed. ‘What was it?’
‘Uhhh…’
‘Oh, for Furies’ sake, Thea. You did alchemy for over a decade, you don’t know what he gave you?’
‘It was a dried herb,’ Thea said defensively. ‘Tasted bitter. He told me it would stop me from losing consciousness.’
‘Oh,’ Wren sighed with relief. ‘That’s just iruseed.’
‘Why the concern?’
‘Warswords have all sorts of strange drugs on them. I thought for a moment he’d given you a particular stimulant they use.’
‘I was halfway to Enovius, Wren. It wouldn’t have mattered what he gave me.’
Her sister snorted, the tension dissipating. ‘Here I was thinking you couldn’t die… Lie back and stop fidgeting.’ Wren carefully removed the bloody linen strips and brewed some sort of terrible smelling tincture as she cleaned the wound thoroughly.
Thea grit her teeth through the pain. The open gash stung terribly through her sister’s ministrations. She grimaced. ‘Can you open the window? That stuff you’re brewing stinks.’
Wren did as she asked and then went to the small cauldron to stir whatever nightmare concoction she was making. Her brow furrowed as she worked, and Thea knew that to mean her mind was on something else entirely.
