Hands of Fire: Chapter Twelve
Kaith wakes to a voice, humming softly. The air is sickly sweet with smoke and herbs and incense, and his back is on fire, his skin sticky with sweat. Cool fingers brush back his hair, smooth over his furrowed brow, trace his jaw. The world is rocking gently, and as he becomes more aware of his body, he realizes his head is resting on something soft. He pries his eyes open, blinking away the grit, and sees a blurry, heart-shaped face leaning over him.
Rhyssa.
His vision swims in and out, but he has enough clarity to spot the dark bruise on her cheek, to feel a spark of rage that someone had dared hurt her, that he hadn’t been able to protect her.
His hand is trembling when he lifts it, brushing his index finger against the mark.
And he thinks maybe he’s dreaming, because he feels her lean into his touch.
He drops his hand.
She stares at his face, tears lining her eyes with silver, and something tight in his chest loosens as he holds her gaze. If this is death, then he decides this is how he prefers to go, resting in the arms of the woman who might have been his friend, who might have been more, if they’d had time.
Her face lifts, turning to look at something behind his head.
No, he thinks, come back. Just look at me.
Her lips move, speaking to someone, but there’s a roar building in his ears like he’s submerging in water and he can’t make out the words. He can see her jaw clench, the flush creeping into her cheeks, and her hand settles over his chest almost protectively.
Why are you angry? he tries to ask, but the sounds won’t leave his throat.
But then her shoulders slump, her chin drooping toward her chest, and he thinks that whatever argument she just lost, it was important.
One of her tears drops onto his forehead. She lifts her head and strokes his cheek one more time. She’s speaking to him now, and he can’t hear the words but he tries to read her lips, thinks she might be telling him that he’s going to be okay.
Then rough hands are lifting him and agony is white hot in his veins, and the blackness creeping into the edges of his vision overtakes him.
The second time Kaith wakes, he’s lying on his stomach, arms folded beneath his head. His back feels numb and swollen, and when he tentatively tries to stretch an arm behind him, his fingers brush the edge of a cotton bandage.
“Easy.”
He looks to his left and finds Rhyssa beside him, leaning up against a tree. From what he can see, they’re in some kind of camp. A fire crackles merrily a few feet behind them. There are lines strung between the tree trunks, holding meat to dry. Their pack and his weapons are piled neatly with his shirt, and he’s suddenly acutely aware of his bare chest.
“Do you remember what happened?”
“I . . . Amara’s men,” he says slowly. “They found us. They shot me.”
Rhyssa nods. “Twice, actually.”
Bastards.
“We got them out and cleaned the wounds,” she continues. “You’ll be sore for a few days, but it should be safe for us to rest here for now.”
“Who’s ‘we?’” He struggles to push himself up, gritting his teeth to stifle a moan at the way it pulls his wounds.
“Careful!” Rhyssa kneels and slides her hands under his arms, and it’s all he can do not to focus on her hands on his skin. “Kaith, you’re going to hurt yourself.”
“Who’s we, Rhyssa? Where are we? Son of a—gods.” On his knees, one arm holding him up, he fights to stay upright against the pain.
“Kaith—”
“Help me sit up.”
“Lean on me, then,” she instructs, wrapping one arm around his waist below the bandages. With her supporting his weight, Kaith slowly brings his legs under his body and eases into a sitting position.
Leaning his elbows on his knees, head in his hands, he tries to slow his breathing. He thinks he might be sick. “Who. Is. We?”
“We is . . . well, he hasn’t told me his name.”
“You didn’t get his name?”
“I was a little busy helping him keep you alive!” she snaps, tugging on the edge of his bandage to make sure it’s still secure with a little more force than seems necessary. Then she pushes to her feet and starts pacing in front of the fire. The flames seem to flare brighter with her agitation. “He came out of the woods while you were unconscious. He summoned some massive undead creature that killed Amara’s men, but he didn’t seem threatening to us, so I asked him for help, and then he picked you up and carried you off into the Unclaimed Lands.”
Now he’s definitely going to be sick. “Rhyssa.”
“They gave me mage bane, so even if I wanted to, I couldn’t do anything to stop him. And I thought if we were trying to get here anyway, we might as well stay close to the man who’d saved our lives and see if he could help us. I’m an awful healer, Kaith, I really am, you would not have wanted me treating your shoulder—”
“Rhyssa.” Sparks from the fire leap into the air behind her. Whatever mage bane they gave her already wore off, and he has to calm her down before she sets the forest on fire around them.
“—and no, I don’t know who he is, or why he lives here, or what his magic is, but he helped you. He helped you when I couldn’t, and I didn’t know what else to—”
“Rhyssa!”
She stops, chest heaving, eyes wild. And then before he even understands what’s happening, tears start streaming down her face.
“Hey, don’t—Rhyssa, don’t cry.” He tries to make his tone soothing and knows he’s failing miserably. Shit.
Struggling to his feet, he staggers to her side and pulls her into his arms, then finds he has no idea what to do with his hands. He settles for placing them lightly on her upper back, and it must have been an okay choice, because she hides her face in his chest.
His very bare chest.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, her lips warm against his skin. “I don’t know why I’m crying. I thought you were going to die, that we were both going to die, and you were sleeping for so long I wasn’t sure you’d ever wake up.”
He rubs her back, slow, soothing circles between her shoulder blades. It feels like the right thing to do.
“I’m sorry,” she repeats.
“I was scared too,” he replies.
Pulling back to look at her face, Kaith can see what he missed before. He can see the slope of exhaustion in her shoulders and the dark circles underneath each eye. He can see the lack of color in her cheeks, making the bruise where she was struck all the more prominent. And in that moment he curses himself, because gods above the woman did the best she could.
“When did you last sleep?” he asks her.
Her mouth opens and closes a few times before sound comes out. “I think it’s been two days. It’s hard to tell the time in here.”
Kaith nods. “This man. You trust him?”
She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know. He saved our lives, and he’s been healing your shoulder. If he wants us dead, he’s not terribly good at killing us.”
“Hand me my shirt.”
The fabric smells clean, when she hands it to him, and the stains from blood and sweat and grime are gone.
“I washed it as best I could,” she tells him, “but I didn’t have needle or thread for the tears.”
Gingerly, Kaith slips it over his head and draws his good arm through the fabric. Then he grits his teeth and starts maneuvering the bad arm, but he can’t stop the hiss of pain. Rhyssa reaches for him, but he waves her off.
He’s panting when he finally gets it on, but he feels better, more stable.
“Can you grab my bow?” he asks.
Her brow furrows. “You shouldn’t be using it.”
“I know.”
She worries her bottom lip with her teeth before acquiescing. Their fingers brush when he takes the weapon from her hands, and he strokes the string the way a child would a toy.
“You should sleep,” he tells her, grunting as he sinks back to the ground to lean against the tree she vacated.
“I’m okay.”
“You’re not.” He pats the ground next to him. “I’m fine to keep watch for a couple hours while you rest.”
Her eyes flick to the ground, then back to his face. “You’re the one who needs the rest, Kaith.”
“Rest,” he says, stretching out his hand to her. “We’ll figure out our next steps when we’ve both had sleep. And when our . . . friend comes back.”
Slowly, Rhyssa lies down, turning onto her side and curling one arm beneath her head. She lies facing him, eyes fixed on his face, and he can’t stop himself from reaching over with his good arm and brushing the furrow between her brows with his thumb.
“Sleep,” he instructs. “We’ll figure it out.”
He starts to draw his hand away, but she catches it, lacing their fingers together.
“Can we stay like this?” she whispers. “Just for a little while?”
He squeezes her hand in response.
And he doesn’t let go, even after she’s asleep.
Kaith jerks his head up from where his chin had drooped onto his chest. Rhyssa still sleeps soundly at his side, their hands clasped tightly. He tilts his head, listening for whatever woke him.
Branches snap to his left, something walking through the trees that doesn’t care if it’s heard.
Gently disentangling their fingers, Kaith lifts his bow from his lap and readies an arrow. His shoulder screams in protest as he draws back the string.
Rhyssa stirs beside him but falls quiet when she sees his weapon.
“Arrows won’t do you much good, boy,” a gruff voice calls from somewhere beyond the fire’s light. “And you should be resting that shoulder. Haven’t managed to heal all the fractures yet.”
A bead of sweat drips into his eye, making it burn, but he doesn’t falter. “Who are you?”
Heavy footsteps stomp closer. “They used to call me Galos.” A hulking man steps into the light, animal meat from a kill he must have cleaned somewhere in the forest slung over his shoulder. His clothing is a piecemeal quilt of animal pelts and cloth. Kaith notes the sword strapped to his back and the knives at his sides.
“Are you going to kill us, Galos?” he asks.
Galos shrugs. “If you try to kill me, I suppose I will. Should probably finish healing that shoulder first, to make it fair. But that seems like a waste.”
“You’re a healer?”
“I’m a lot of things.” Galos starts stringing the strips of meat up to dry alongside the others. “I know the basic components of healing, but I never did have an affinity for it. Much better at reanimation.”
“You’re a mora mage,” Kaith says, muscles stiff. “Death magic.”
“Death magic,” Galos scoffs, eyes rolling beneath his bushy brow. “A crude term. And inaccurate. That kind of talk is what drove me out here in the first place.”
“How long have you been here?” Rhyssa asks, shifting closer to Kaith.
“Forty years. Since my village tried to kill me for what I was.”
Rhyssa frowns. “With magic like yours, I don’t see how that would be a threat to you.”
“It wasn’t,” Galos replies. “I just didn’t want to kill them all. Let’s have another look at the shoulder. Then we can decide if you want to die today.”