“Enough to set a bone, mix a salve, steep a fever-reducing tea…” I meet his gaze again. “And enough to remove this arrow if you’ll stop distracting me.”
His brows are so high, they have disappeared beneath the rim of his helm. I am not sure whether to be flattered or insulted by his astonishment in learning I am not entirely without skills. Not that it matters. I don’t care what he thinks of me.
The dagger is lightweight. It fits well in the palm of my hand, not so different from the one I used back home to tend the garden Eli and I planted beside our cottage many seasons ago. Since I was old enough to memorize their names, my mentor had taught me about the different plants and their wide array of healing properties. I can tell goldenrod from ragwort in a deep forest, discern feverfew from chamomile beneath a canopy of branches, pick out allheal from nettle in a field of wildflowers. I know which mushroom caps will make you see daemons, which ones will taste particularly savory in a stew, and which ones will stop your heart cold in your chest. It is one of the skills that kept me alive, all those weeks alone in the woods.
I wish I had access to some of those herbs now, but even a cursory glance at our environment reveals it to be a bleak, barren place. The only things that grow with any sort of regularity are the piles of snow and ice weighing down the tree boughs.
I sigh.
No herbs. No boiling water. No fresh bandages. No brew of oak to temper the pain. No calming advice from Eli. If he were here, he’d fix me with those steadfast eyes and speak words of wisdom into my ear.
Breathe, Rhya. You have the skills you require; do not allow your nerves to overcome them.
Sucking in a sharp breath, I brace one hand on Scythe’s shoulder to hold him steady. His muscles are hard as granite beneath my fingertips.
“This is going to hurt,” I warn pointlessly. I know without asking that this man has withstood worse than an arrow through the shoulder in his lifetime.
“Just get it over with,” he says, teeth clenched.
I saw through the shaft as quickly as I can, doing my best to keep it from shifting. Thankfully, the dagger is quite sharp; after only a few short strokes back and forth, the arrowhead falls into the dirt, leaving behind a blunted wooden edge protruding from his chest.
“Halfway there,” I murmur.
Moving behind Scythe, I grab the back end of the arrow by its fletching. The red and black feathers are ticklish against my palm. Bracing my other hand around the margin of the wound, I chew my bottom lip.
“Ready?” I ask.
He grunts.
Taking that as confirmation, I yank the arrow straight back in one clean tug. It must hurt, but Scythe barely even flinches.Except for a sharp intake of air, he does not react at all. Dropping the shaft into the dirt, I apply pressure to the wound with a fresh strip of kerchief. When it is soaked through with blood, I toss the rag aside and exchange it for a new one. The bleeding is considerable, but not so much that his life is in danger. I’m relieved when, after a few moments, it slows to a trickle.
Slathering the puncture with the last bit of healing salve in the jar, I then wrap his shoulder as best I can—weaving a strip of fabric below his collarbone, knotting it tightly so it will not shift when he moves. He is a model patient, holding himself perfectly still. I don’t even think he’s breathing as my fingers skate across his shoulder, smoothing the fabric flat. Then again, I seem to be breathing rapidly enough for the both of us.
I struggle to keep my mind clear, relying on muscle memory to complete my task.He is no one of consequence, I tell myself as I bend close, my nose nearly brushing his neck, my pulse roaring between my ears.Just another patient in need of tending. You’d do the same for any sickly villager in Seahaven who called upon Eli for healing.
“You won’t have full use of your arm for a few days,” I inform the back side of his helmet when I am finished. The metal is dull gray in the faint light.
“I heal quickly,” is all he says in response.
Stepping away, I kneel to clean my hands in the snow. The blood leaves a glaring stain of red against the white mound. When I rise back to full height, I find Scythe on his feet with his hand held out in my direction.
“The dagger.”
Damn.I’d thought he missed my slipping it into the pocket of my gown. My chin jerks stubbornly. “I’m keeping it.”
“No.”
“Yes,” I snap, knowing full well he can easily take it fromme—even with one arm incapacitated. “Consider it payment for my aid.”
He stares at me for a beat, then sighs and turns away, as though deciding it isn’t worth the energy to argue. “We should get moving. The sun doesn’t penetrate the mountain mist much beyond midday. It’ll be dark again in a few hours, and we have a lot of ground to cover.”
I follow him over to the horse. Despite my best efforts to conceal my surprise, I’m certain he sees the dumbfounded look on my face when instead of throwing me over the rump, his good arm hooks around my waist and he boosts me up onto the saddle. It is not designed for a gowned rider, but I plant myself as best I can with my legs draped over one side and my hands on the pommel.
Before I can question the sudden change in riding arrangements, Scythe swings up behind me. His chest presses flush against the planes of my back. His hands hang by my hips, effectively caging me in.
I suck in a sharp breath.
Perhaps being lashed to the back like cargo is preferable, after all.