by Wren Handman
“Darren?” she asked, completely exasperated, and stepped aside to let the three men inside. A sailor by trade, Darren often came to see her with little to no warning that he was back in town—still, he usually made at least a semblance of romance. Once, he had gone as far as to scale her back wall and climb in her window, strewing rose petals all around her bedroom and then waiting for her with crossed legs and a smug look on his face, sure of the reception he would get. He may not have been in love with her, and she expected no commitment from him, but he knew how to be a good lover. It wasn’t like him not to write for a full month and then be dragged dead drunk to her door by a couple of friends at an hour so late she would normally have long been in bed. “Asses on horses, how much has he had?”
The taller man frowned, shaking his head. “He’s not been drinking, ma’am; he has been shot. The arrow is still in his shoulder, and we need to remove it. Quickly.”
For a moment she could only stare at him, shocked into silence. As soon as he said it she could smell it—the blood in the air. She looked down to see a pool of crimson growing on the floor beneath their feet. The two men exchanged a look, and she felt her back go stiff. She had seen the look before, had no doubt given it herself, to those helpless and useless women who could do nothing but shriek and faint. She had never been in their number. So she hadn’t jumped to action at the first sign of danger—she dared challenge any man to say he would have done differently. She was surprised, and rightly so. Darren was no soldier—it was a merchant vessel that he worked on, plying port cities up and down the coast. The worst injury he had ever had was a sprained shoulder—and they came to her door proclaiming he had an arrow in his shoulder and expected no shock? Well, I’ll show them, she thought savagely, and snapped quickly to action, her voice ringing with command.
“There’s a spare bedroom up the stairs. It’s the first door on your right. There should be wood beside the fireplace, and flint and tinder will be on the mantel in my bedroom, right across the hall. Build up the fire; I’ll fetch the doctor.”
“No,” the little man said, too sharply, and the larger man silenced him with a look.
“No time,” the large man clarified.
Taya nodded. “Do you know what you’re about?” she asked, voice quiet and dangerous, and the men both nodded. She eyed them both, but there was no time to deliberate about a decision—Darren was still bleeding. She nodded. “I’ll bring water and a knife, then. Go.” They went.
As they disappeared up the steps, she hurried into the kitchen, desperately trying to remember all the things that they would need to tend a wound. An arrow wound, for Ashua’s sake! She had no idea how to treat an arrow wound. Think, woman! He’ll die if you don’t. That thought sobered her quickly, and she formed a list in her mind. Cloth, of course, as well as the knife. A kettle full of water, and some asper leaf to stop the bleeding; she had a paste she smeared on her fingers for needle marks. She gathered them quickly and ran from the room, taking the stairs two at a time. They protested loudly at the pounding they received, a security measure she’d always felt protected her from prowlers. Darren said she was just too cheap to have them fixed. Darren, Darren, what have you done?
The two men had laid Darren on the bed, and while one carefully removed his bloody shirt and cloak, the other stoked the fire, bringing it to roaring life. She handed the kettle to the stocky man by the fire, who nodded a silent thanks, and then moved over to hand the knife to Darren’s other companion. He barely acknowledged her, taking the knife with hardly a backward glance and cutting away the last of the shirt. The arrow was sunk into Darren’s shoulder past the head, blood running thick and fast from the gaping wound. The arrowhead itself was not in view, and she prayed silently that it was not barbed. It could still be slid out, if it wasn’t. If it was, she had a sickening feeling it would take half his shoulder with it when it was forced out.
Still silent, the small man handed the knife back to her and motioned toward the fire. She took it and handed it to the large man, who put it in the kettle that was already hanging over the fire, adding the herbs to the water. No one spoke, the atmosphere heavy with concentration, and the two men acted with a grimness and purpose that implied they had been in this situation before. The thought scared her—she had no idea who these men were, and no way to protect herself if they were not friends. They were seeing to Darren, it was true, but that did not mean they would feel the same courtesy toward her. If Darren trusted them, she would too, but she had no way of knowing if they were friends of his, or merely shipmates.
Darren moaned and she spun back to look at him, thoughts of her own safety flying away in tatters as fear for him took the place of other concerns. The large man took the knife out, still dripping, and handed it to his smaller companion, who once again took it with hardly a glance. He clutched the handle between his teeth, picking up some of the cloth Taya had brought and placing it between Darren’s teeth. The larger man, gentle for all his great bulk, placed his hands against Darren’s shoulders, preparing to hold him down. He looked up at Taya, who stood in the middle of the room with a stricken look on her face, agonizing over what was soon to be and knowing it was the only way.
“It must come out, my lady, and swiftly. Do not worry—we know what we are about. A doctor will not be necessary. The wound will need a compress, however, and he would do well with a fusion against fever if you have the knowledge to make it.”
She nodded curtly, letting none of her relief show on her face. Had they ordered her from the room her pride would have bid her stay, and perhaps the man had seen something of that determination in the way she held herself, because his words gave her the a way to flee the room without shame. She feared if she stayed she would lose her dinner to the sickly-sweet smell of pain and blood, and the agony of watching without being able to help. She went swiftly, leaving emblazoned on the back of her lids the image of her love, sweat sparkling on his chest in the dim firelight, a knife glinting as it moved toward the vicious hole in his shoulder.
Back down the steps she moved, the ancient wood’s protestations sounding too much like a crying soul, and then into the kitchen, clattering knives and pots as loudly as she could as she worked, in a futile attempt to disguise the shrieks of pain that filtered through the floorboards above her. She was no healer, but she knew a few simple recipes against fever and pain, and she made one as slowly as she could—and still the men above her worked. Unable to sit still, driving herself mad with anxiety, she began to slice cheese and bread, wondering at how long the task seemed to be taking. Finally silence descended, but the quiet, broken only by the sounds of the storm outside, wore on her nerves worse than the noises had. She listened anxiously for sounds on the stairs as she moved on to chopping vegetables, but the stillness was unbroken. Would they come to fetch her? Should she go up?
A shadow moved off to her side and she spun, startled. Somehow, the two men had descended the ancient stairs without a single creak to betray their presence. They were standing in the doorway, keeping a respectful distance between themselves and her. Something in how they looked reinforced in her mind the notion that this was not the first time they had met such circumstances. If pressed, she could not have said what it was that she saw—perhaps it was the way they stood, clearly exhausted but still very much on guard, wary and watching. Perhaps it was something in the smile the burly man gave her, tired to be sure, and wary, yes, but somehow casual. Perhaps it was the way the thin man bowed to her so civilly, with long hair a mess around his face and shirt soaked in blood; had she not been so terrified, she might have found the image ironic enough to be amusing. Instead, it took every vestige of will she had in order to keep her voice steady as she asked, “How does he fare?”
“He has lost much blood, but the floor has gratefully accepted it all.” Still the only one to have spoken, the bear of a man spoke genially, and then, as if in deference to the serious situation, he added, “So long as a fever does not take, he will recover well.
The infusion?” he asked, trailing off slightly.
Taya nodded and indicated the kettle, which was just beginning to boil, but she stepped forward just as he did, cutting him off as he moved to take it from the fireplace. She kept the knife in her hand, but down at her side, unthreatening.
“Now that the danger has passed, you will do me the courtesy of explaining the situation,” she told him firmly, her chin raised defiantly. Though there was no sign of it in her posture, a kernel of fear took root in her heart. If her fears were justified, and these men were not to be trusted, it would be now that she found it out. The two men hesitated and exchanged looks, and yet again it was the large man who spoke for the pair.
“I believe—perhaps that is something that you should ask…Darren,” he said, faltering slightly at the name. “It is his story, ma’am. He would not be pleased with us if we did the telling for him.”
An uncomfortable silence descended as she watched him, her eyes narrowed visibly as she debated whether or not that was satisfactory. After a pause slightly longer than was polite, she gave a curt nod.
“So you wish to give him the chance to decide whether he shall lie to me or tell the truth; fair enough. Do you need his permission to tell me your names, as well?” she asked in a tone that implied it had been highly rude of them not to have found the time for proper introductions in the midst of the turmoil of moments ago. And somehow, despite how ludicrous the idea was, the hardened looking man had the good grace to look ashamed.
“Please, ma’am, forgive us our rudeness. My name is David, and my companion is Ryan. We are shipmates of Darren’s.”
She touched palms with each of them, steeling her features against the rush of fear that threatened to overbalance her. It was a blatant lie, and she knew it, but she wondered if they knew how obvious it was. She had spent a good deal of her time around Darren, and she knew he had a quick wit and a sharp intelligence. Even he, however, spoke like the basest trash to be found on the docks—these men spoke as if they had just walked out the giant bronze doors of Kraza University. Or, more truly, this one man, since his companion had yet to speak. She could see no gain, however, in calling them on their bluff, and gave a quick prayer to Ashua that it would be the least of their sins tonight.
“Have you rooms reserved at one of the local inns?”
“No, ma’am. We were on our way to do so when—the incident occurred.” Again, it was David who spoke, couching his words so carefully. What kind of an idiot did he believe her, to think him a sailor?
“Well, the inns will be closed for the night by now. If you have nowhere else to stay I suppose you can spend the night here, at least until the inns open on the morrow. There are blankets upstairs, and plenty of floor in my workroom. I’ve cut some bread and cheese and vegetables, which you may help yourself to. Please don’t touch the rest. If you have need of anything else, I’ll be tending to Darren.” She slid the bottle of salve into her pocket and picked up a cup and the kettle, glancing over at the men with raised eyebrows in case they had a question. The two men moved into the kitchen and out of the doorway to let her pass, being as respectful as they had been all evening. It helped to alleviate her worries slightly. But she would still be sleeping with a knife beside her, just in case.
“One thing, ma’am,” David interrupted politely. “I do not mean to pry, but I was wondering if you would mind telling me how you and Darren know each other?” She glanced over at him and smiled, half through the doorway.
“I believe—perhaps that is something you should ask Darren. It is his story, after all,” she responded, miming his words back to him with all semblance of courtesy, and then she turned and left the room, not waiting to see what response her words engendered.
She walked up the stairs, marveling at how David and Ryan could ever have gotten down them in silence. After being unable to go without making a horrid noise on even a single stair, she decided she must only not have heard the noises they made—the silence must have been so loud it had simply overwhelmed her. She didn’t believe the flimsy explanation, but she didn’t want to entertain ideas of who else these men could be, to be so silent.
She shut the door to Darren’s room firmly behind her, knowing that that, at least, she would hear open.
Chapter Two
SHE STAYED BY HIS SIDE all night, drowsing occasionally but never sleeping. She changed his bandages, administered the salve, and coaxed the mostly unconscious man to drink three cups of her infusion in tiny sips throughout the long night. She had been hard at work all day, and an entire night without rest was almost too much for her, but she did not begrudge him the attention. She would have cared for him a hundred nights in the same way had he asked her to, although she knew he never would. At one time she had been the same as he—so fiercely independent she would have given up anything to care for herself, at the risk of body and health and, according to her mother, eternal damnation. It was the way that they had been, the both of them. To put oneself under the care of another was to put oneself under the control of another, they had theorized on many a late night, despite what scripture said. She had believed it, with all her heart. Had fought with everything she had to get what she wanted, what she needed so desperately: her freedom. Yet somehow, while her face was turned away, her definition of freedom had altered. The idea of committing to one person was no longer parallel to Oblivion—in fact, if that person could be Darren, it seemed more in line with Ashua’s Arms.
She sighed, reaching over to brush her fingers lightly down the side of his face. His cheek was slightly rough beneath her touch, covered with a fine layer of beard. If only…It would never be, though. Darren was unchanged from how she had left him, from the man she had approached those many years ago. He would never give up his ways, never give up the sea that was his only and constant mistress.
The sun was just starting to brush pink along the edges of the sky when Darren’s eyes finally opened, and she saw recognition in their gray depths.
“Tay?” he breathed quietly, confusion crossing his handsome features as he blearily took in the room, his bandages, and finally the haggard face in front of him.
She gave a helpless laugh. “Oh, you would have been in trouble if that had been some other name on your lips, Darren Mannima,” she told him, shaking her head. “I might have had to go find that arrow and stick it back in you.”
He laughed quietly, wincing at the pain the movement caused in his shoulder. “’Tis good to see yer face, Taya, I must say. It’s only…why it is…I’m seeing it is something of a blur—”
She smiled in response to his words, feeling giddy just to have him in front of her and know that he was alive, and her eyes and tone were gentle even if her words were not.
“Your whole life is a blur. You should have listened when your mother warned you of the dangers of alcohol. In this specific instance, of course, it was probably the obscene amounts of pain leading to your memory loss, and not obscene amounts of ale.”
He smiled, acknowledging the jest with good grace and not interrupting as she told the real story.
“Two men brought you—David and Ryan. They claim they’re shipmates of yours. And they would not explain to me what happened, so don’t bother making up some stupid story about robbery because I know it was more than that if they bother to keep it a secret. You’d best tell me the truth,” she told him in a warning tone, raising a fist to shake at him.
Darren raised an eyebrow, deftly avoiding the question he didn’t want to answer in favor of a question he did want answered. “Why’d you say they claim to be my mates? I can tell you they were on board that ship with me, working side-by-side just like every other man.”
“Yes, well, then they must be brand new to the trade—even you have a thicker sailor’s drawl than they do, and you’ve been around me and my good-grammar influence for years. And if you think that was enough to throw me off, it has been far too long since your last visit. Stop avoiding the question,” she demanded, refusing
to be distracted even by something she was as puzzled by and curious about as who his mysterious friends really were.
He sighed, recognizing that stubborn look in her eyes. She was well known for it, and had been all her life. “I ain’t avoiding it, Tay, honest. It’s just—well, it’s complicated. See, there’re lots of…of…stuff, and—things—and I need to find the right words—just—it’s tough—y’see—” As he paused again, struggling for a way to say what he was trying to spit out again, she gave him an exasperated look.
“For Ashua’s sake, Darren Mannima. Stop dithering about and just tell me!” she exclaimed, her eyes blazing. Though they had started as casual lovers, they had fast become friends. In the past five years they had kept no secrets, whether it was the embarrassing things Taya’s mother spouted, or all the foreign women Darren met in port. She had no inclination to change that now.
He looked at her for a long moment, apparently debating, and then he shrugged. Though he was prone to complicated jokes and witty remarks, he tended to be more blunt than was sometimes good for him—or for the people around him—and now was no exception.
“I’m the real king of Sephria, and the…that guy, that took the throne, he wants to kill me so I can’t take it back,” he told her, no sign of humor in his expression.
She glared, too tired to find the joke amusing. After a moment, however, when he was still looking at her with a slightly worried, mostly expectant look, it began to dawn on her that he might actually be serious. Her eyes widened slightly and she blanched, wondering how many surprises a woman was expected to endure over the course of one night. When she finally spoke, her voice sounded shaky even to her own ears.
“You are joking…Aren’t you?”
He gave her an apologetic look, struggling to pull himself upright. Quickly she reached over to help him, a frown already starting to replace her expression, and before she could move the pillow he caught her hand instead, looking firmly into her eyes.
