Asil, her counterpoint in both age and demeanor, returned, this time bearing a tray with a plate of food and a chalice filled with ale. Malachus nearly leapt off the step in a panic as the tray jostled in her grip when she caught sight of the fire witch.
“Gilene, you came to visit!”
“Have a care, Mama.” Halani deftly rescued the tray. “I’ll take that.”
Gilene laughed and embraced the excited Asil. “Just for a short time.”
Halani offered Malachus a sweetly evil smile as she set the tray just out of reach and handed him a newly filled cup of tepid willow-bark tea. “Drink and then eat.”
He accepted the tea with a sigh, downing it in two gulps. He shuddered. The motion twinged the wound in his side. “Satisfied, mistress?”
She gently pulled his hand away from where he pressed it to his side. “Try not to shake so. And resist touching your bandages. You’ll dirty them faster than needed.” She took the empty cup, gaze sweeping over him. “I’m surprised you’ve been able to sit this long on the step. Does your hip not pain you?”
“Not as much as my neglected stomach.” He gestured to the empty cup. “My end of the bargain is met.”
“So it is,” she said, her smile fully blooming. She brought the tray to him, perching on the lowest step with it in her lap and within easy reach for him. It wasn’t much in the way of real food, just a bowl of broth, a large hunk of bread, and a piece of fruit, but his mouth watered in anticipation.
Halani addressed her friend as she handed Malachus a spoon, then the bowl. “Is Uncle behaving himself as your guest? If not, don’t hesitate to tell us.”
Gilene’s amused chuff made Halani flinch a little. “Hamod is Hamod. I’ve left him with Azarion to tend. They’re getting along well enough, if you don’t count two arguments and a challenge to a fight to the death. I think Azarion enjoys his company.”
This time Halani groaned. “It will be we who owe you a debt of gratitude. If you don’t mind, we’ll rescue you from him tomorrow.”
Malachus silently ate his food. The women talked freely in front of him of mundane things, exchanging comments over a shared history in which he had no part. In the end, it didn’t matter. These were not his folk, though he was indebted to them for their care of him. A debt he’d repay before he left to continue his hunt for the mother-bond. He’d forget all their names soon enough.
Untrue, a voice inside him argued.
Untrue indeed. He’d remember Halani of the Lightning and her jovial, peculiar mother, Asil.
Gilene hugged Asil again before giving Halani a quick nod and Malachus a measuring look, her gaze settling a little longer than polite on the places where the bandages didn’t cover the scars left by the lightning. “We’ll see you tomorrow, then. Stay to eat and have tea.” Her expression saddened. “It will be long and long before we do so again, once we depart the Goban market.”
Asil accompanied Gilene to the edge of camp, leaving Halani the task of filling a small bowl with water from a larger bucket placed outside the wagon and fetching towels. She set them down in place of the food tray and returned that tray to her lap.
Despite his earlier hunger, Malachus ate slowly, taking his time so he wouldn’t sicken. He hadn’t eaten this well in a long time.
“I’m impressed,” Halani said. “I expected I’d have to warn you not to wolf it down.”
“That would be a waste if I retched it.” He finished the last spoonful of soup. “This is good. Did you make it?”
Halani gave a delicate snort. “Had I such a skill, I’d have monarchs worshipping at my feet. This is Marata’s doing. He cooks for the camp most of the time.”
“Ah, the big man with the hatchet.”
“You remember?”
The memory of a man the size of an ox storming toward him ready to butcher him like a pig was emblazoned on his mind’s eye. “Hard to forget.” He peered closer at his empty bowl. “Tell me I didn’t just dine on some other poor bastard who made your cook angry.”
Her eyes widened before she burst out laughing. “Marata will happily cook most anything, but I think he draws a line at people.”
He liked her laughter, admiring the way it rounded her cheeks and turned her pensive gaze blithe. “You should laugh more,” he said. “Laughter suits you.”
As quickly as her humor appeared, it disappeared behind a guarded look. A heavy silence fell between them, Malachus wondering why his remark had ended their fragile camaraderie.
Halani took his empty bowl and cup, stacked them onto the tray, and set it aside before grabbing one of the towels she’d brought earlier and dunking it into the water.
“Your feet are filthy,” she proclaimed in a voice no longer lively. “You’ve already soiled a month’s worth of clean bedding. I’ll be in fear of my life if I let you lie down on the new blankets with mud caked up to your ankles.”
He didn’t argue, only watched the top of her head as she bent to wipe his feet clean. The darkness gathered around them, kept at bay by the flicker of small fires lit within the camp as families gathered near their wagons to eat or finish a final task for the day.
A larger fire crackled to life at the camp’s center. Malachus caught glimpses of it beyond the inner circle of wagons, a merry conflagration that invited folk to gather and socialize around its light.
He curled his toes when she ran the wet towel along his arch. “Why are you doing this?”
She scrubbed at his shin. “I just told you. No muddy feet in the wagon or . . .”
“No. Not the foot bath, though I appreciate it.” Malachus touched each of the spots where he’d been shot with arrows. “These. All of this. It’s no easy thing to save someone from dying and nurse them back to health. I’m a stranger with no ties to you and yours.”
And they were human. In his experience, humans didn’t help each other without expecting repayment.
Her hand rested against his ankle, slender fingers encircling it like a shackle. She resumed her task. “Life has little enough worth under the Empire’s rule. Maybe my worth lies in my ability to help someone else.” She spared him a quick glance. “I don’t want to become what the Empire would make of us. So this is more for me than for you. You just benefit from my rebellion.”
Liar, he wanted to say but didn’t. She could spin and weave her reasoning into a tapestry, but he’d never believe her. This woman possessed a compassionate streak as wide as a river. It made her admirable, beguiling. It also made her vulnerable to unscrupulous parasites who’d use that kindness to their advantage.
“You should be careful with your kindness,” he warned.
“I’m always careful,” she countered. “Though I’m not always kind.”
Once more silence fell between them as he pondered her reply and she finished rinsing his feet, declaring him clean enough to enter the wagon.
“I want to check your wounds and repack the poultice,” she said as she helped him inside. “Hopefully your wounds haven’t poisoned since I last looked. That you don’t have fever is a good sign.”
Malachus might not have fever, but he was bone weary, and he suspected there was something more in the tea Halani brewed than just the vile-tasting willow bark.
She propped him up with blankets and pillows, promising to return with the poultice and extra bandages. The scents of honey and herbs teased his nose once more when she set the bowl down and carefully unwound the bandage swaddling his chest.
She silently cleaned away the remnants of the herbal pack and examined the wound, leaning in for a closer look. Her fingertips were cool on his skin as she pressed around the sliced edges where her knife had widened the wound so she could reach the broadhead.
Malachus tucked his chin to his chest to better see what had caused her sudden intense scrutiny. “You look as if you’ve discovered a jewel buried in there.”
He enjoyed her touch, the way her hand glided lightly over the wound’s perimeter. His thoughts strayed to wondering what it might be like to know the touch of Halani the lover instead of Halani the healer.
“I might be less surprised had I spotted a pearl or ruby nestled in there,” she said. “You heal remarkably quick.”
Draga magic had done its work, though the risk had been high and life-threatening. His lie of suffering a curse would stand him in good stead should he battle again for control of his body while he convalesced among the traders. Until he left, he’d pretend ignorance of his extraordinary abilities.
“Your surgery skills are impressive.” The flicker of doubt in her eyes didn’t fade at his compliment. “And your poultices strong.” He remembered the earth’s hymn resonating in his head when Halani had knelt beside him in the mud. “Maybe you harvested earth magic along with your herbs.” A stillness descended on her like a prey animal waiting for a predator to pass. Her features shuttered, and for the remainder of her examination, she only spoke to order him to turn, lift, shift, and sit up as she changed bandages, cleaned his remaining two wounds, and repacked poultices.
It was probable she no longer wished to converse. The tea had taken hold of him in a grip that made his limbs heavy and his eyelids weightier than anvils. “What did you put in the brew?” he asked, his words slurred.
Halani helped him lie back and pulled the blankets up to his shoulders. “A touch of kratom to help you sleep through the pain.”
He wanted to tell her not to drug him again. He was already vulnerable, and the kratom’s narcotic power muted the draw of his mother’s artifact. The pull was still there but buried under a lethargy that sank him into the bedding like a stone.
“No more,” he murmured, fighting to keep his eyelids up so he could meet her eyes. Mourning-dove gray, compassionate but resolute, and full of secrets.
She stroked his brow, pushing back strands of his hair from his forehead. “No more unless you say more. I will ask next time.”