I awaken alone.
My eyelids fight me as I peel them open, heavy with exhaustion. I am in a cave of some sort, propped against a mossy boulder wall. The earth under me is hard-packed gravel. The sky overhead is blocked completely by a ceiling of stone, excepting a narrow crevice where a weak shaft of sunlight slants in.
I have no recollection of this place.
The night comes back in fragments. Moments of clarity amid the delirium. The gleam of a metal helmet in moonlight. A large hand pressed to my forehead, checking my temperature. A flash of rock against flint, sparking a fire. Bottomless eyes, peering into mine. And a voice, an imploring rasp in the swimming dark.
Stay with me.
My captor is not in the cave, but there are traces of him all around. A thick black cloak has been spread beneath me. A few paces away, a fire burns low and smokeless, casting a faint glow in the musty space. Something is baking in the embers—a rabbit, I think, though it smells so good I would eat it even if it were a river rat. My stomach protests loudly with hunger.
As I press a hand against my midsection to quell its rumbles, the freedom of the gesture catches me off guard. Sometime in thenight, my shackles were removed. I’ve been wearing them for so many days, my arms feel oddly light in their absence. Gone is the steady undercurrent of pain from the poisonous iron, though the traces of it on my skin will never fully heal. Staring at the raw, weeping flesh of my wrists, I try not to think about the scars I will bear for the rest of my life. Vanity is a useless pursuit, pale in comparison to more pressing concerns. The infection has gone nearly to the bone; I’ll be lucky if I regain enough function to ever again draw a bow or stitch up a wound.
Some unseen vermin skitters in the corner, and I bolt to my feet. The sudden movement makes me sway off-balance. The fever has fled, but a hollow ache lingers inside my skull. I push aside the pain and focus on my next steps.
Water.
To drink, firstly, but also to bathe. If I was filthy before I was captured, from bog slime and horse shit and weeks on the run without a bath, I’m abominable now. The scent of sweat and blood and bodily fluids is a noxious perfume in the enclosed space, assaulting my nostrils.
Following the light, I move through the cave until I find its mouth, one hand on the lichen-laced wall to guide my way. When I step out, I’m startled to find the sun already high in the afternoon sky.
A few paces bring me out into a rocky clearing. The cave, tucked cleverly in a craggy hillside of mammoth boulders, makes for a perfect hideout. A handful more steps and I’ll no longer be able to see the entrance at all amid the thorny bushes.
“You’re still alive, then,” a detached voice remarks from behind me.
I flinch but do not turn to face him. I can’t bear to.
“Since it seems you will live…there’s a freshwater pool just through the brush. Clean yourself up.” Scythe does not soundparticularly invested in my well-being now, in the light of day, but I have not forgotten the look in his eyes last night when I was in the throes of fever. Nor have I forgotten his admission.
You’re no good to me dead.
He needs me alive. If he didn’t, he would’ve killed me already—or else simply let the fever run its deadly course. Still, that does not mean I can trust him.
“Get moving,” he orders gruffly. “Wolves hunt in these hills at night, and the stench on you is strong enough to make every pack in the area come calling.”
Embarrassment cuts through me, sharp as a blade. I’m happy he cannot see my face, for my cheeks are aflame beneath the grime. I manage a few halting steps before he speaks again.
“And don’t try to run.” He heaves a tired sigh. “I’ll only have to hunt you down, which will put me in a foul mood.”
Frankly, if this is him in a good mood, I am not altogether eager to experience what he deems a foul one. Without another moment’s hesitation, I bolt from the clearing as fast as my wobbly legs can carry me. I follow the sound of running water until I find the bathing pool, fed by a gentle fall. The sun-dappled surface is so clear, I can see straight to the bottom, where tiny fish dart between the reeds. Round stones press upward against my heels, smoother than silk. A simple bar of soap sits on a flat rock by the bank, atop a thin pile of white cloth. Upon closer inspection, I find it’s a woolen tunic. A man’s, judging by the sheer size of it—on my short frame, it will serve more as a gown than a shirt—as well as the scent, a heady, masculine mix of sweat and smoke and spice.
It is an oddly considerate gesture from my fearsome captor, but I do not allow myself to dwell on that overmuch as I strip off my gown and underthings. The fabric is shockingly soiled, its original hue—a pretty, pale green—turned brown with mud, blood, and all manner of unmentionables.
I toss my clothes into the shallows and, grabbing the soap, wade in after them. It is frigid. Goose bumps break out across my arms as I submerge myself, but I don’t care. It feels good to sate my thirst, even better to rinse off the thick coat of grime on my body. Spatters of dried blood—both mine and the slaughtered soldiers’—stain my skin. Mud pours from my hair in rivulets. It takes three separate lathers to reveal its platinum luster beneath the filth. I scrub my skin until it is red, soaping more thoroughly than I’ve ever done in my life.
After, I set to work on my clothing. First my shift and smallclothes, then the gown itself. By the time I’m done, the garment is nearly green again—though I know some of the worst stains will never lift out. Back home, I would’ve deemed the dress unsalvageable and tossed it into the fire, or perhaps turned it into scraps for cleaning. Here, stained or not, it will have to suffice.
Tempting as it is to stretch out on a sunny rock while my gown dries, I’m not certain how long my captor will allow before he comes looking for me. I certainly do not want to be caught in nothing but my skin if he does. I wring out my underthings the best I can before stepping into them. Despite my efforts, the cotton’s clammy chill sets off a series of bone-deep shivers. I hesitate before dressing in my gown and shift, eyeing the white woolen tunic on the rock for a long moment.
I have no desire to pull it on. The thought of Scythe’s shirt against my bare skin is too unpleasant to contemplate. Yet, the healer in me knows better than to turn my nose up at any source of warmth. I am woefully unprepared for survival in the wild. My own attire was made for sultry days in Seahaven, not these cold conditions.
I force myself to pull it on, trying not to breathe too deeply as I am enveloped by the musky scent of man. The tunic’s hem fallsnearly to my knees; the sleeves hang well beyond my wrists. But it is blessedly dry. Irritating as it may be to admit, I find myself glad for the additional layer of insulation as the damp weight of my gown and shift settle over it.
I glance back toward the cave, apprehension simmering in my veins. Notions of fleeing in the opposite direction taunt me, but I know better than to indulge them. If I run, Scythe will hunt me down as easily as he did the soldiers who imprisoned me. Escape is a fool’s errand. Especially in my condition—hungry and hurt. I’ll not make it far on these bloody feet.
Grimacing, I examine them. Now that they are clean of dirt and debris, the damage is far more apparent. Blisters cover the battered soles. Several deep gouges—a vestige of my flight through the forest—are painful to the touch. The skin around them pulses angrily, red with traces of infection.
That is not a good sign. If they are left untreated, I have no doubt my fever will return. I need medicine, badly. Or, at the very least, shoes to stave off additional injury. Unfortunately, I think my odds of stumbling across a cobbler’s shop rather slim out here in the wilderness. I tear a thin strip of cotton off the hem of my shift and wrap my feet as best I can, wincing as I pull the knots tight. Not a perfect solution, but better than nothing.