“I find it amusing you believe you are any threat to me. Even with a blade in your hand.”
“If you want my assistance, I suggest you stop insulting me.”
Wordlessly, he extends the dagger in my direction, hilt first. I take it from him without comment and, after a beat of hesitation, bend to examine his wound. It is the closest I’ve ever been to him. His every exhale stirs the fine hair at my temples.
My mouth goes dry as a dizzying mix of apprehension and adrenaline sizzles through my veins. It’s the same sensation Iexperienced last autumn, when I came across a juvenile lynx tangled in one of my snares. I’d worked to set him free, all the while excruciatingly aware that the moment I succeeded, he might turn and rip out my throat in thanks.
In the end, the lynx had simply limped away to lick his wounds.
Scythe is far less predictable.
Though I focus all my attention on the blood-soaked arrowhead, it takes effort to ignore the details in my peripherals. Dark stubble growing along a sharp jawline. Serpentine silver over the bridge of a nose. The smell of sweat and horse and spice—the same heady scent I breathed from his tunic at the reflective pool three days past.
Was that only three days past?
It seems an eternity.
“You’ll have to saw through the shaft,” Scythe says, the low timbre of his voice vibrating in the air around me. “Keep your hands steady. Go slow. And try not to pass out. There will be blood—enough that you’ll need to apply pressure.”
“With what?”
“Your hand will do fine.”
“My hand willnotdo fine,” I say crossly. “Not unless you’d like to bleed out in the snow.”
“I should think that would make you happy.”
My eyes roll skyward. “Despite what you think of me, I’m not a fool. I know I would not last long alone in these mountains with avalanches and enemy soldiers and gods only know what else.”
I have not forgotten his earlier comment about the ice giants. Nor can I overlook the fact that, even if I do find my way south, I have no home to return to, no allies awaiting me. My life, for all intents and purposes, burned to ashes along with the Starlight Wood. There is no choice but to help Scythe now, in the hope that another opportunity to escape will arise later.
I clear my throat. “With the bridge down, I have no earthly idea how to get back to the Midlands. So, it appears I’m stuck here. Stuck with you.”
“No need to sound so overjoyed about it.”
The retort dies on my tongue as my eyes flicker up to meet his. They are startlingly close. For the first time, I notice their true color—a deep bronze, almost metallic shade, like embers of a dying fire. At the edges of each iris, lighter striations of reddish gold make a stark contrast. Strangest of all, his pupils are not perfectly round, but slightly elongated in a way that is…not entirely human.
Those eyes belong in the skull of a wolf, not a man, I think, dropping my gaze from his. Even focusing on the ground, I can feel the weight of his stare on my face. It burns like a hot brand—a feverish contrast to the pervasive chill that pulses from the center of my chest.
Gods, will my birthmark ever stop aching?
“Do you have a spare cloth?” I ask, my voice oddly thick. “Anything I can use to stanch the wound?”
“Check the saddlebags. There should be something.”
I stalk toward the stallion without another word, suddenly very eager for some breathing room. He dances a bit as I begin rooting through the leather compartments. Sparsely packed as they are, it does not take me long to inventory the contents: a store of wrinkled apples, two bars of coarse soap, a hatchet, a length of coiled rope. Nothing useful until, finally, I locate a large cotton handkerchief wrapped around some stale bannocks. It’s not exactly clean, but it’ll do in a pinch.
As I pull it free, my eye catches on something silver at the very bottom of the bag—a thin flask with a cork stopper. I sniff its contents, nose scrunching as the strong fumes of alcohol invade my senses. A potent brew. Recorking it, I carry the flask back toScythe along with the handkerchief, the dagger, and the jar of salve I’ve been using on my wrists. It is nearly empty now.
His mouth tugs up at one side as he spots the spirits. “In need of a bit of liquid courage?”
“Not quite.” I tear a strip off the kerchief and douse it with a generous pour. Before he can question me further, I press the saturated fabric to the edge of his wound, where the arrow shaft protrudes from his skin.
“Gods!” A hiss of pain escapes his lips. “You might’ve warned me.”
“It may sting, but it will prevent infection.”
There is a marked pause. His voice, when he speaks next, holds a hint of surprise. “You know something of healing, then?”