Just not better for the weak. The law of nature is that the weak shall be crushed by the strong.
“Come on, boy, dinnertime.” Vork grinned at me through bloodied and broken teeth.
“Vork?” I asked. I’d thought he was dead. He’d died a long time ago, hadn’t he?
“You’ll never get strong if you don’t eat.” He held up my mangled arm, cheerfully taking a bite and chewing. Then offered it to me. “Want some?”
I took it, knowing he was right. I was weak and needed to be strong. I bit into my own arm, blood filling my mouth and hitting my aching stomach. It hurt and I wanted to vomit, but I took another bite, Vork grinning and nodding at me. In the distance, the prisoners roared and howled.
“Ash.” Ami stood there, gowned in Glorianna pink, roses woven in her long hair. She held out her hands. “Ash, my love.”
I tried to speak, but my mouth was full of blood and flesh. Vork grabbed her, kissing her and pulling up her skirts. Ami writhed in pleasure, wanton and sensual. Moaning with abandon, she was naked, and Vork was fucking her. I tried to throw my arm aside, but I couldn’t. I kept chewing, trying to swallow.
“Isn’t this what you always wanted to do?” Vork asked. He sprouted claws and raked them down Ami’s slim white body, parting the flesh so that black ichor poured out. She screamed in ecstasy. “Defile and corrupt.”
“Drink this,” Ami said. “Ash, you need to drink this.”
I spit the bloody flesh out of my mouth. “Please, Ami,” I begged her. “Don’t.”
“I’m right here. Drink this.”
“No!” I flung the bloodied, ruined arm away from me. “I won’t! I’d rather starve.”
“You don’t mean that.” Ami sounded so stern. Angry with me. What had I done? I’d left her, and the undead wolves came.
“Ami!” I yelled. “Oh no, the wolves…” I couldn’t yell loud enough, the words mush in my mouth.
Sharp pain cracked across my face, and I opened my eyes. Firelight. Roaring and howling resolved into a storm-tossed surf crashing outside, the wind howling through the turrets. Ami, her hair tied back, hollows in her lovely face, cradled one hand in the other. I blinked at her.
“Are you hurt?” I asked.
She made a sound, part laugh, part sob. “Who knew slapping you would mostly hurt my hand? And it wasn’t nearly as fun as all those times I imagined doing it.”
“I’m sorry.” I tried to sit up and she easily pressed me back. So weak. But I wasn’t fourteen and in the prison, easy meat for the bigger, stronger men. My arm throbbed and I lifted it so I could see. Covered in bandages. I tore at them, needing to look.
“Ash. Don’t, please don’t.” Ami threw herself over my arm, pinning it against my body with hers. “Leave the bandages alone. Your arm was wounded—remember?”
I stared at her, not remembering anything. Why was she here in the prison? The animal need to tear off the bandages snarled inside me and I tried to push her off. She clung, stubborn as a leech.
“Leave. It. Alone.” She said through gritted teeth.
I couldn’t fight her. I should be able to pick her up with one hand, to be the one pinning her to the bed. With my free hand, I found her ass, naked under her nightgown. “Ami,” I murmured, the animal need changing direction. “Give us a kiss.”
“Oh no, you don’t.” She wriggled free and fetched something from the floor. A mug, which she refilled from a water jug. “You’re lucid enough to drink this.” She sat beside me on the bed, holding the mug to my lips.
“I don’t want to drink more blood. Don’t make me.” I sounded so weak and whiny.
Ami’s face crumpled and she smoothed back my hair. “It’s just water, love. You have a fever and it’s confusing you. Just water. You need to drink it.”
“Don’t let the men get you,” I urged her. They roared outside. Howling to get in.
“They won’t. We’re safe. Drink some water.”
Because she poured it into my mouth, I swallowed. “They do terrible things,” I confided. “Don’t let them know how much you hate it. They like that. It only makes them want more when you scream. When they can make you cry and plead.”
“Oh, Ash,” she whispered, her face gleaming with tears.
“Don’t cry,” I cautioned her. “Where’s your knife?”
“It’s here.” She pointed to it on the table by the fire.
“Give it to me,” I urged her.
“No way, boy-o. I’m keeping it out of your reach for now.”
“They’re coming. I hear them. They’re right outside the door.”
“That’s the wind,” she soothed. She poured more water into my mouth. So cool. It washed the blood and flesh away. “We’re safe at Windroven.”
“The twins!” I suddenly remembered. “They’re under the blanket.”
“They’re in bed, asleep and safe. You saved them. You saved all of us, so you can sleep now.”
I reached up and touched her face. She leaned into my palm, then turned to kiss it.
“So bright,” I said. “My sun.”
“Sleep now, Ash. Sleep and heal.”
When I awoke again, I had no idea how much time had passed, if any. The firelight burned at the same low level. The wind still howled against the shutters, making them rattle against the hinges, and the surf roared against the cliffs below. Another, deeper rumble undercut them both. Not the rioting prisoners of my nightmares, but something else.
The thrice-cursed volcano. I started to rub a hand over my face and found I couldn’t move my arm. Either arm. Lifting my head from the pillow, I saw my wrists were tied with rope to the wooden sides of the bed.
And Ami slept in a chair next to me.
She’d dragged over a big armchair and curled up in it, her slight body dwarfed by the winged sides. A fur throw was draped over her lap, and her creamy nightgown sagged over one shoulder, baring skin a few shades lighter. Her rose-gold curls tumbled in wild disarray, bright against the deep velvet of the chair, her long lashes of the same color feathered against her cheeks. Slack and parted in sleep, her pink lips looked full and lush, a sexual counterpoint that belied the angelic picture she made.
Along with the soft snore that dragged out of her.
I smiled for it. She might be the image of Glorianna, but she was a flesh and blood woman, with all the foibles and flaws of one. Was that what she meant about needing me to see her?
I wished I could reach for her. But the minx had tied me down. My arm throbbed, and I surveyed the bandages. Blood had seeped through in places, but had long since dried. Probably good. Though the fever still raked at me, making me shiver despite the furs mounded on me. Weights pressing against my sides and legs must be heated stones. I moved restlessly, wanting to kick away the oppressive bulk. Ami stirred, snore halting in mid-snort, and she opened her eyes.
Wild blue, misty with sleep, her eyes found me. They cleared and sharpened. “You’re awake.”
“You tied me down.”
“You kept trying to pull off the bandages. I had to do something.” She had a funny defensive tone in her voice, and she didn’t move out of the chair. Instead she curled in on herself, hands still tucked between her thighs, as if wary of me.
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
She shook her head, mussed curls bouncing, smiling wryly. “It’s funny how that’s always the first thing you ask. Do you think I’m so fragile?”
Telling her that she seemed impossibly delicate to me, like some priceless work of art that could be forever damaged if I wasn’t careful, was probably the wrong thing to say, so I didn’t reply to that. “Can I be untied now?”
“Oh! Yes.” She flushed a little, chagrined, and uncurled with unconscious grace, fluttering her fingers over a pink-mouthed yawn. “My mind is muzzy from sleep.”
“How long since the attack?” I asked as she worked to unknot the ropes from my good arm.
She glanced up at me through a lace of bright lashes, the firelight fra
ming her hair like a halo. “Three days. Don’t get riled up or I won’t untie you.”
Three days? I let my head fall back, aghast at the loss of time.
“Here, drink this.” She pressed a mug of water into my freed hand and slipped behind me to help prop me up.
“What about my other arm?”
“Drink your water and this tea first. If you’re good, I’ll think about it.” She sounded prim, but she pressed a fleeting kiss to my temple. Chaste enough, but the contact—and her round breast pressed into my side—had my blood heating for her, as always. Such was her magic over even my fever-battered flesh.
I drank the water and traded the mug for one with lukewarm tea. It tasted bitter and I recognized the herb as one for reducing fever. At least I wasn’t delirious anymore. I vaguely remembered nightmares. Hopefully I hadn’t said too much in my ranting.
“How bad?” I asked her.
“The attack? We lost three men. The Tala nurses didn’t even come to Windroven—they took off for Annfwn, calling this a land of monsters.” She smiled when I coughed out a laugh. “I found that deliciously ironic, too, and have been waiting all this time to share it with you.”
“Injured?”
“Skunk took some bites, but is on his feet. You’re the worst.” Her gaze went to my bandaged arm, and I drained the mug, handing it back to her.
“I need to see it,” I told her, determined to undo the knots myself if she balked. I felt much stronger. She wouldn’t be able to wrestle me down again. I cocked a brow at her. “Did you really pin me down?”
She slipped off the bed, running fingers through her hair, trying to tame it. Looking around, she found a ribbon and tied it back again. “I had to,” she said. “You kept thrashing around, trying to get up.”
I got the knots undone and lifted my arm. Heavy, stiff and unresponsive. Had I been smart, I’d have thrust the other arm in the beast’s mouth. Stupid to use my sword arm.
“You should have gotten Graves or one of the other men to sit with me,” I told her, as I unwound the bandages. The padding stuck to the dried blood and pus. Infection from that toxic shit those creatures had for blood. Wonderful.
Ami brought over a basin of warm water and set it beside me, then soaked a cloth in it. “Might as well clean it up and change the bandages, since you’re determined to mess with it,” she explained.
It was bad. I made myself study the shredded flesh as I would with one of my patients. It helped that the damaged limb looked nothing like my own arm. It looked, in fact, uncannily like the one in the nightmares, and my stomach lurched at the now vivid memory, the tea roiling.
Ami thrust an empty basin at me just in time, holding it as I puked up the water and tea I’d drunk—and not much else but bitter bile. I lay back, drenched in cold sweat, taking the mug she handed me, watching her take the basin away and empty it. No fit duty for a queen.
“I’m sorry,” I managed. She sat beside me again, laying a cool cloth on my brow that felt like heaven.
“The acquired skills of motherhood,” she said. “I can see a puking coming from a league away. And stop apologizing. You took care of me when I was hurt.”
“I wasn’t kind to you, though.” I’d been cruel to her. Snarky and deliberately crude, so busy fighting my lust and longing that I hadn’t even tried to be gentle.
“True,” she replied, brows arched. “You were awful—and exactly what I needed, spoiled, bratty princess that I was.” She laid the cloth over my eyes. “Now lie still while I wrap this up again.”
“No.” I dragged the cloth off, struggling to sit up.
“Ash…”
“I need to look at it.”
“Oh, because that was such a great idea,” she snapped.
“Keep the puke basin handy.” I tried for a smile, the scar tissue on my face pulling. The fever had me stiff and sore all over, even the old wounds I’d thought long since forgotten.
“You can’t heal yourself, so what good does it do? You’re only tormenting yourself.”
I didn’t reply, forcing myself to study the rent muscle and torn ligaments, stitched together with black thread. I had to know how bad it was. Also, though I couldn’t heal myself the way I could others, the shapeshifter blood from my father did allow me to heal faster. Pus oozed out between the stitches, fresh blood, too, here and there, where removing the caked bandages had broken the scabs. The main forearm bone seemed solid, though the minor one had likely snapped in a few places.
“Who did the stitches?” I asked.
Ami lifted her chin, the set of it defiant. “I did.”
I’d figured. “Is Windroven empty of staff?”
She dipped her chin reluctantly. “Not entirely empty, but nearly so. You were right. I was a prideful fool in insisting on coming here.”
“You had your reasons, Ami. Don’t upset yourself.”
Her mouth dropped open. “How can you say that? I nearly got us all killed! You almost died, Ash, and it would have been all my fault.”
“No, it would have been the fault of those Deyrr creatures. Now hand me that knife.”
~ 8 ~
“When Danu grows pink roses!” she exclaimed, using the High Queen’s favorite curse, and making me laugh. “Don’t you laugh—you’ve been trying to get your hands on that knife for three days. I was sure you were going to try to kill yourself with it.” Her eyes welled with unshed tears and she looked away, swallowing hard.
“I need to release the stitches, to let the infection out,” I told her gently.
“Oh.” She sounded small and sad. Then got up and fetched the knife. “Maybe I should do it.”
I eyed her, but she looked steady enough. “All right. But do a tourniquet on my upper arm first, if you would.”
“The easy part,” she sighed, then followed my instructions, tying and tightening a piece of rope above my elbow.
She laid a cloth over her lap and eased my mangled arm onto it, then dragged the lantern closer. Picking at the stitches, she cut them, then dragged them painfully free. I lay back, glad she’d offered as I might not have gotten through it on my own.
“I tried to get it clean,” she said. “I did my best.”
“You did well,” I told her, staring at the ceiling and taming my churning gut. “The ichor in those creatures is toxic. I saw it back in Ordnung after we defeated Illyria. Even a trained healer—one without magic—couldn’t have done better. We just need to drain, clean and disinfect it. Did you set the bone?”
“I wasn’t sure how and I was afraid I’d do more damage by trying. Mostly I wanted you to stop bleeding.”
“I’m sorry, Ami.”
“Would you stop apologizing?” She rubbed away some tears with her forearm, and continued working. “I wanted to do it. It was the least I could do.”
“You don’t owe me anything.” I hissed as she pulled hard on one of the stitches.
“Serves you right, you ass,” she muttered. “There. Shall I help you wash it or are you determined to do that all yourself, too?”
“You could hand me the puke basin.”
She did, brow creasing when I laid my arm over it and moved the lot to put in my lap. The blood and pus—along with some thrice-cursed black ichor—flowed more freely, but not enough. We had no evidence the ichor could make undead without Deyrr rituals to power the transformation, but it did create infection and I needed it out of me. “Knife, please.”
“What are you doing?”
I set my teeth, wishing I had a stick to clench in them, but it might upset Ami too much if I asked for that. “I need to cut it open more.”
“Oh, Ash.” She looked a little green.
“Don’t look.”
“I don’t think I can.” She stayed where she was, steadfastly staring at the fire.
Fortunately—though I might not think so in the future—my arm was mangled enough that more pain didn’t make an appreciable difference. I cut some slices, letting the blood, pus, and ichor drain out,
feeling lightheaded, but thankfully I remained sharp enough to avoid cutting open any major blood vessels.
“I finally understand how you could have cut the brand off your face and set it on fire,” Ami remarked, sneaking occasional glances. “Though I don’t know where that kind of will comes from.”
“From the fires of hell,” I commented without thinking. It hurt considerably. At least some nerves were still alive, right? Then I caught Ami’s stricken expression and wished I could unsay it. “That was a joke.”
She regarded me steadily, gaze fixed on mine. “I know it wasn’t.”
I had said things then. I couldn’t face the pity in her eyes, focusing instead on the chewed mess of my arm. It said something, that facing it was easier. “I need to pour water over this.”
“I can do that.” She came around to get the wash basin. “Ash—you’re really pale.”
Sheathed in cold, stinking sweat, too. “Gotta get this done or I’ll lose the arm.” Or die. Still a distinct possibility, but I didn’t want Ami to worry.
“Lie back and let me wash it.”
I might have to let her do it. I was getting dizzy. I lay back on the mounded pillows. “Then pour alcohol on it,” I told her.
“What?”
“Do we have any—besides the Feast of Moranu wine the duchess sent?”
“Yes, but won’t that hurt?”
Oh yeah, speaking of the fires of hell. “A stick to clench in my teeth would be helpful,” I admitted. Better that than for her to hear me screaming. “Better yet, get Graves to do this. You go get some sleep.”
“I’m doing this.” She sounded terse, her face averted, but also dug in. I wouldn’t change her mind.
“The clearer and less flavored the alcohol, the better,” I said.
She nodded, pulled on a robe, and taking the lantern with her, went out the door.
I lay there, looking around the room. Her room, the one she’d shared with Hugh during their short marriage, and the one she’d given birth to the twins in, but not the same bed. That one had been a fancy of gold leaf, trailing ribbons, lace curtains, and pink roses. This one was plainer, though still high quality, carved from dark wood to look like the polished limbs of a tree. It made me wonder when she’d changed it.