He was too weak to argue.
It took all his strength just to look around. The room didn’t look like a hospital. Light flooded the space through the large, arched windows, and yellow curtains dipped every surface and corner in a warm glow. It really did smell of wood. The walls, the floor, even the ceiling and the furniture—everything looked handmade. The furniture and decorations were delicate, ornate with swirls and intricate designs carved into the wood. It didn’t look like any room he’d ever been. It looked like someone’s home, and that meant two things above all else: it wasn’t his home, and it wasn’t safe.
His home was on the road or wherever he decided to rest. It was in the small room he rented in Dìrlein, from where he could see the mountains and wyverns in the distance. There was no safety in soft cushions and freshly washed sheets, or in rooms that glowed with the warmth of the sun. Rooms like this one held unspoken secrets and withheld disdain, and it always came as a surprise to people when those thoughts were finally voiced.
There was no space for things like that in his home. There was no room for secrets.
He couldn’t stay.
Doran tried to sit up, but the subtle movement sent his body aflame. He sighed and sank back into the false comfort of the sheets. He wasn’t going anywhere.
An elderly elf entered the room. She wasn’t like most old women he’d met; not bent over, walking on a stick, or showing her age. Wrinkles marked her face and her hair was silver, but she stood upright and with confidence. Her eyes sparkled like diamonds—cold and hard with a hint of amusement. She defied her age in the most intimidating way, and right now her eyes were set on him. Doran wasn’t one to show weakness, but if the bed had been any deeper he’d have sunk into the sheets.
“My, I see you are awake!” She chuckled. “The poison ran deep within your blood. I didn’t expect you to open your eyes for another two days yet, but you’re stronger than I gave you credit for. Here,” she handed him a cup of foul-smelling liquid, “drink this.”
There was a stern look in her eyes that told him not to argue. He downed the drink in one gulp; he’d had worse, but he still fought a gag. His body screamed with the extended movement. The drink burned as much as his limbs.
“Can you talk?”
“I—” His voice turned into a hoarse croak.
The old elf smiled. “No rush. The poison I drained from you was powerful. You are lucky to be alive. Just nod or shake your head.” He nodded once. “Good. Now, the boy who is with you. Is he your brother?” Doran shook his head and tried to ignore the searing pain in his neck. “Ah, I didn’t think so. You two don’t look related but it’s no good to make assumptions. A friend then?” Again, Doran shook his head. “A stranger?” The pain of the nod almost felt good in comparison. “Do you know where he is from?”
Doran didn’t know why it mattered. He guessed the boy was from Hjeva originally since he had their common pale skin and red hair, but if that was the case he was a long way from home.
“I see. That explains rather a lot. Don’t worry, young man, he is safe with us while you rest. When you leave, you will take him with you. He has no place here with my family.”
Doran sighed. That had been the plan, hadn’t it? Perhaps they could get to a bigger city and then go their separate ways. If the Hjevan expected to travel with Doran forever, Doran could always lose him. He knew every Vaskan city well enough to make his escape if necessary, and he doubted the young man had seen the outside of that cult much. Losing him in a crowd wouldn’t be difficult. Perhaps Ash was still in Alt Võina; Doran could hide in his friend’s basement for a day or two.
“Rest. We can discuss who you are and how you can pay me when you’re better.”
He wanted to protest, but his eyelids fell shut, and his head nestled into the pillow.
I can’t tell if my mind is slowly falling to the corruption, or if it’s simply numb after too much rest. I thought I wanted justice, but I’m no longer sure. It’s difficult to think.
Perhaps everything will become clearer to me as I wake, but I’d prefer not to waste time.
Chapter 8
840
The knife they’d given him was old and the handle bore the marks of heavy use, but the blade itself was sharp. 840 couldn’t believe he was using it to peel potatoes.
In the village, cooking had been the servants’ job. He had never even been inside the kitchen, but he had an inkling that it looked very different to the kitchen he was inside now. This kitchen belonged to a home, and it was waking memories he shouldn’t want to remember. The last time he’d used a knife for something so mundane he was helping his Ma prepare dinner.
The woman who was healing the dying man insisted he pull his weight until his friend was fit to leave again.
Friend.
840 hadn’t heard that word in a long time.
She had asked him about his scars, but when he gave no answer she didn’t press him. His village seemed like a different world compared to the elf’s. Somehow, saying that his Elders had bled and cut him to improve his pain threshold felt like a guilty confession, as if he’d done something he shouldn’t have.
“How do you know him?” the elven woman asked. She looked at him; her eyes didn’t need to be focused on the knife and potatoes to peel them, unlike his. His fingers were covered in little cuts.
“I don’t.”
“Then why did Mihai find you together?”
He couldn’t tell her. Outsiders don’t understand us, 840.
“I ran into him. In the forest.”
The old elf raised her eyebrows. “You just so happened to run into this young man with your chest naked, did you?”
He blushed. “That’s not what—”
The woman cackled. No one ever laughed in the village; he hadn’t heard that sound in years. He felt warmer for having heard it.
“All right. It’s none of my business, I know, I know.”
“We haven’t… done that.” He needed her to know, to understand why it mattered, but he couldn’t tell her because she wouldn’t understand. Purity hadn’t been a necessity for him as it was for the girls, but since the only girls in the village were sacrifices-in-training intimacy hadn’t come up.
The elf smiled. “I know.”
He couldn’t tell if she really knew or if she was bluffing, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t want to talk about it.
“When your friend is well enough to travel, you’ll be going with him.”
840 had expected as much. “Where will we go?”
He barely remembered the outside world. He barely even remembered his own home. This whole country was foreign to him.
“I expect your friend has an idea,” she said. “Do you have any skills?”
He blushed again, his hands shaking as he peeled another potato. In the village, he’d been ashamed of it but here—maybe it didn’t matter here.
“I know how to use two daggers, and I know where to punch someone to hurt them.”
The truth was, he didn’t have much skill as a warrior at all. By the time the Elders had realised their mistake it was too late. His sacrifice had only been a few years away at that point; there wasn’t time to find a new child and train him instead. They had been stuck with him, but he was clumsy and had no talent with a sword or a bow. He had more skill with a dagger and with the kata routines, so they’d taught him those, hoping it would be enough.