Chaos (9 page)

David bobbed his head, not bothering to otherwise respond. He beckoned Adam inside to stay warm by the fire while David hastily dressed.

On the bed, Killian groaned and sat up. "What's going on?" he asked.

"Nothing," David said. "Maja needs me. I'll be back shortly, just stay in bed."

Killian grunted and obeyed, never in a hurry to leave a warm bed in the winter. He would not be happy when David had to order him out of it when he returned with the sorcerer, but Killian may as well stay warm and cozy until then.

Stomping his boots to settle them, David followed Adam to the far south corner of the village where Maja's house was located. Even in the cold, he could smell the herbs of her healing trade.

"In the shed," Adam said, and he led the way around the house to the drying shed where Maja prepared most of her herbs. Maja was there, kneeling on the ground beside a man with sickly white skin and a series of nasty cuts that had been left by Sentinel claws across his side and stomach. It was only by the blessing of Teufel that the man had survived.

By the size of the claw marks, he'd only encountered a small Sentinel—a child, something a little smaller than a horse. That was more than enough to kill an ordinary man, but sorcerers were different.

Maja finished stitching the wounds closed and began mixing a thin paste in her bowl. When it was ready she gently worked it over the wounds, singing a soft hymn as she did so to encourage Lord Teufel to speed the healing. When that was done, she had Adam help her to bandage the wounds. "Thank you," she said when they were done. "If you'll go fetch the stretcher, I will give David herbs and instructions."

David obediently sat beside her as Adam slipped out, but he had helped Maja often enough in the past they both knew he did not need instructions. Instead, he took in the troubled wrinkles on her brow, the tight set to her mouth, and asked, "What's wrong, Maja?"

"You must not speak of this to anyone," Maja said. "People are scared enough right now and whispers could turn into angry shouts in the flicker of a flame."

"Speak of wha …" David's words trailed off, forgotten, when Maja pulled the man's shirt completely apart and revealed the mark on his chest. A spider web spanned his chest from collar bone to halfway down his ribs, spreading out to not quite vanish around his sides.  In the dim light, it looked black, but David suspected it would be more purple in good light. "What is that?"

Maja shook her head and replaced the shirt, smoothing the man's long hair from his face. "A curse, but I don't know what kind. It is not the kind of magic taught to a lowly healer. It may be causing him pains we don't know about—might cause problems we won't expect. You need to keep a close watch on him, alert me to anything strange he might say or do. Understand?"

"I understand," David said quietly. "Who would curse a sorcerer?"

"A good question, but to be honest, lad, I don't want to know the answer."

David nodded in agreement. Before he could say or ask anything else, Adam came back in and grunted at him to help. They got the stretcher laid out and gently hefted the sorcerer into it. David settled the packets of herbs into the folds of the sorcerer's clothes and covered them so they wouldn't come to harm on the short trip, then hefted the stretcher with Adam and slowly trekked back toward his house.

Killian was gone when he arrived, making David sigh. The additional assistance would have been nice, but no doubt Killian's parents needed him. Ah, well, maybe he would return later.

He and Adam quickly moved the sorcerer from the stretcher to the bed. Adam nodded tersely at him, then vanished, leaving David to get the man settled alone. He built up the fire first and set water to boil for the tea and medicine. Returning to the bed, he stripped off the wet, torn, bloody clothes and threw them in a pile by the door to dispose of later.

Part of him flinched to treat the deep violet tunic of the sorcerers so callously, but the clothes were too damaged to salvage. Hopefully when he woke, the sorcerer would understand. He gently shifted and tugged until he got the man under the blankets, then brushed back his long, messy hair … and wound up just staring. David had always had a healthy fear of sorcerers, and the whipping that had left his back an ugly mess of scars had made it that much worse. The best thing to do when encountering a sorcerer was to keep heads down and feet moving. David had never really looked at one; he could not even remember the face of the one who had beat him.

Whatever he'd expected, it was not for a sorcerer to be so beautiful. His skin was so strangely pale, but that might have been something to do with the Sentinel; David had heard their venom could do funny things when it didn't kill. His hair was a sooty black, the same as the diamond on his forehead. His features were smooth, almost delicate, reminding David of the rich folk he occasionally saw in Two Mill.

He reached to trace the line of one fine cheekbone, then snatched his hand back at the last minute, face going hot, heart thudding with panic. Bustling away, he busied himself making tea, carefully mixing together herbs to make a tonic. When it had properly steeped, he carried the cup—Reimund's favorite, part of a set of dishes made for him and his wife when they'd married and made all the more precious after she'd died—over to the bed. Setting it on the little wash table close to the bed, he gently shook the sorcerer.

"My lord, wake up," he said softly. "You must drink your medicine so that you'll heal proper."

The man grunted and groaned, but at David's continued urging, finally opened his eyes. David recoiled, startled, heart leaping into his throat, but when he looked again, everything was normal, and the man only blinked at him, his sleepy, confused,
violet
eyes dark with pain. Had he imagined them looking gold? He must have because people didn't have gold eyes.

David shook himself, called himself an idiot, and fetched the cup. Sliding an arm around the sorcerer's shoulders, all the while apologizing for his impertinence, he slowly got the sorcerer to drink the bitter tonic sip by sip. "I know it tastes awful," he said. "I am sorry, my lord. But I know you would prefer to be strong again as quickly as possible. There, you've only a few sips left now. And all done. Close your eyes and get some rest, my lord. I'll rouse you again when it's time for more."

The sorcerer said something in reply, but the words came out strange, not quite right. But gibberish wasn't unusual when a man was in so much pain. No doubt in a day or so the man would be much more lucid—and probably unpleasant and furious about being stuck in a tiny peasant village, demanding that his own come to fetch him immediately.

A pity that someone so beautiful was probably so much like the man who had lashed him. David returned the cup to the table and mixed up several more doses of the herbs so the tonic could be made more quickly later.

He was just beginning to start porridge cooking when a knock came at the door. Opening it, he oofed when Adam thrust a large bundle of things into his arm. "The sorcerer's belongings. See you take care of them."

"Of cours—" But Adam was gone, already a shadow in the snow that had begun to fall heavily. David closed the door and carried the items to the table. He hung the saddlebags—where was the horse? Probably the village stable, unless the Sentinel had eaten it—over a chair, then looked over the two remaining objects:  a sword and whip. His hand trembled when he saw the whip, and he could not quite bring himself to touch it.

He rifled through the saddlebags after a nervous glance at the bed, but found only a spare change of clothes, travel food, a map, and compass. Well, at least there were clothes for the sorcerer to wear, though they would need to be washed, if the smell was anything by which to judge.

Finally he looked at the sword. He had never seen a sword up close, not really. Swords were weapons of the sorcerers and guards; they were not for mere peasants. Like the sorcerer, it was unexpectedly beautiful. The hilt was wrapped in leather stamped with an image he could not quite make out, but it fit his hand well when he cautiously gripped it.

It was the stone set in the end of the sword that was most beautiful, however. It was a deep gold color, something that fell just shy of being orange. The stone reminded him of that moment when the sorcerer had opened his eyes and they had seemed gold for a moment. His heart started beating a furious pace again, and he looked helplessly toward the bed, wondering why a sorcerer's eyes would have looked yellow.

It must have been a trick of the light. David hung the sword from its belt next to the saddlebags on his chair. He finished setting the porridge to cook, then did some quiet tidying up. He picked up the teacup he'd used for the sorcerer's medicine and like a fist, memories of Reimund struck. Hot tears trickled down his face, but David wiped them away. He couldn't cry when there was someone to take care of. There was also the bartering to handle in a few days. Reimund always said the work had to come first, because people were counting on it and that mattered more than anything else.

Rinsing the cup out and putting it aside,  David fetched the broom and went back to cleaning.

Sasha's stomach felt as if someone had raked it open with hot knives and then shoved hot coals inside it. There was also a general ache and a nauseous feeling, but he had the sense that it all could have been much worse. He tried to sit up, but then immediately regretted the action and fell back on the bed with a loud groan.

Bed?

He opened his eyes and took in his surroundings. He was in a small, dimly lit little house. It reminded him of country houses back home, especially with the stove in the middle of the room. The room smelled like winter, potatoes, and a faint hint of tea.

Where was he? Had he been figured out? Captured? But no, if someone had figured out his artifice he would not have been lying in a bed, and he certainly would not have been in someone's home.

Movement caught his eye as a shadow by the fireplace turned toward him, then stood up. Sasha's eyes widened as the light fell across a face that left him breathless. The boy was handsome, the sort of flame that drew moths and convinced them they were happy to die just for a chance to touch. Something in his chest twisted, ached, left him longing for … something … and then the shadowy memory slipped away from him once more.

"You're awake," the boy said, the word spoken in a thick, ragged accent that took Sasha a moment to catch up to. Why had he thought the accent strange? But like so many other questions, it remained unanswered. Sasha watched as the boy went to the stove and picked up the kettle to pour hot water into a little, handle-less teacup. The smell of tea and herbs sharpened, and then the boy walked over to him. "How are you feeling, my lord?"

"Like I angered a fireplace poker and my stomach suffered for it," Sasha said hoarsely.

The boy froze, laughed for a moment, but then immediately stopped as fear overtook his levity. "Uh. I am sorry, my lord. Here, are you up to drinking the tea yourself? It will help ease your pain. I just changed your bandages a short time ago. The wounds are healing well."

Sasha nodded in answer to the query about tea and accepted the cup when the boy held it out. He cupped one hand around it, braced the bottom of the cup with the other, and drank the tea slowly, cautiously. All the while, he could not take his eyes away from the boy. He had rough-cut dark hair that fell to just past his ears, as though it were in need of a trim that there had been no time to give.  He had eyes the color of an iris in full bloom with spring sunshine pouring down upon it. The color was all the more vibrant against his dark bronze skin.

He must have been on the mend if his body could muster the barest stirrings of lust. Sasha ignored them and focused on finishing his tea. "Thank you," he said, handing back the empty cup. "How did you find me?"

The boy's dusky cheeks darkened. "Um. You're welcome. It was the others that found you, just beyond the village barrier, while they were out checking traps. Is there anything else I can get or do for you, my lord? Um. Would you like some soup? It's still warm."

"Why do you call me 'my lord'?" Sasha asked and realized by the look on the boy's face that he'd made some error.

"M-my lord is a sorcerer," the boy said, pretty eyes popping open wide. The direction of his gaze shifted slightly, and Sasha realized the boy was staring at his forehead. He reached up to touch it, and only then remembered the diamond upon it and that he was impersonating the look of the men he had killed high up in the mountains.

"Ah," he said, wondering how to recover from the gross error he had unwittingly made.

But then the boy said, "Is the curse affecting my lord's recollections?"

"Curse?" Sasha asked, before he remembered the spider web on his chest. He reached up with a stiff, heavy arm to awkwardly push away the blankets and touch the mark. It ached, but not unbearably—likely because his stomach was already in more than enough pain to process it, as well. "Yes, I think it has messed with my mind a bit."

"Yes, my lord," the boy said deferentially. "I promise we will get you to those who can help you."

Sasha nodded faintly. Hopefully they would do no such thing—a real sorcerer would all but kill him on sight. Hopefully by the time that problem arose, he would be sufficiently healed. Scorch that Sentinel for taking him by surprise. "Would you help me sit up?"

"Of course, my lord," the boy said, and he set the teacup aside on a small table beside a wash basin before stepping forward to help him. He had a gentle touch, a healer's touch, Sasha noted fleetingly. After a couple of minutes of careful shifting, Sasha was propped up against the pillows, his stomach aching, but it was for the moment a bearable ache. He looked at the boy and said, "Thank you. What is your name?"

"Um … David, my lord."

Shaking his head, Sasha said, "You need not call me that. My name is Sasha; that will suffice."

David frowned, clearly puzzled. "Sasha. Yes, my—Yes, Sasha. As you wish. Do you think you are up to trying the soup?"