Blood Oath (Darkest Drae #1)(30)

He tilted his head to the side, waiting.

I knew what he wanted, and I gritted my teeth. “I’m not telling you anything.”

Time lost all meaning. I screamed until I had no voice. I was sure my skin was flayed. I was sure I was going to die. I wished I would.





13





I awoke in Jotun’s playroom, still strapped to the table. A hooded figure leaned over me, and my eyes widened in a silent scream. He shushed me, putting his fingers to his lips, and moved away. The person strode around the room with confident steps despite the dark. He was tall, just shorter than Lord Irrik, but his clothing didn’t fit nearly as well. He wore a black aketon, but his was sleeved, and he wore matching gloves. The fabric was plain cloth, much rougher than Lord Irrik’s clothing or even the guards’. This man’s aketon also had a hood, which was pulled up, covering most of his face and casting the rest in shadow. He wore black leggings and black suede boots that extended almost to the hem of his aketon.

He glided through the torture chamber, wiping down the tools Jotun had used on me. The hooded stranger was methodical, first the tools, then the table. It must be his job to clean the tools of torture between victims.

I’d seen him before, though I’d forgotten him from the first night.

He turned and I started when he began working on me. Shock held me immobile. His gloved hands were gentle, whatever material he used to cover them was supple, and he washed and then dressed my legs.

I whimpered, and he stopped. Shaking his head, he put his gloved hand to my mouth as if to tell me to be quiet. Either he wasn’t supposed to be here, or he wasn’t supposed to be helping me. I nodded my understanding and did my best to be silent.

He dipped a white cloth into a clear liquid that cooled the fire of my wounds on contact, returning the now stained cloth back into the ceramic pot again and again as he cleaned the wounds on my abdomen, arms, chest, face, and even my head.

By the time he finished, my senses had returned, and I recognized the smell of the salve he’d applied to my injuries. My mother had used a similar ointment on me, one she went to great lengths to procure. We had to travel to the far corner of Zone Twelve every month to get it, and the gray-haired woman who made it always glowered at Mum when we picked it up. I always thought the exchange was odd, even when I was a child. We didn’t pay in gold or even goods. Mother would hand her a small opaque bottle no bigger than a thimble.

Why would this hooded man waste this balm on me?

His silence and the relief of my pain lulled me in and out of consciousness. When done, he helped me sit and offered a simple shift to replace my shredded tunic. There were only pieces of bloodied fabric left. How was I even alive?

“What’s your name?” I croaked. Wary gratitude drove me to ask the question despite my raw throat. Was he friend or foe? I desperately wanted to know.

He glanced back from where he’d chucked my tunic and the evidence of my torture into a pail. The hooded man tapped his throat and shook his head.

My brows rose, and I winced as the motion pulled at a cut on my cheek. “You can’t talk?”

He nodded. Straightening, the hooded man strode to me and wrote three letters on my palm.

“Tyr,” I deciphered. “Your name is Tyr?”

A sad smile showed beneath the rim of his hood.

I swallowed, pushing back my fear, and tried to crack an answering smile.

He was at the castle, which could only mean he was employed by the king, right? So then, why was he here? Why was he helping?

“Do you work for him?” I whispered. I didn’t want to say his name aloud. Not ever again. I’d add it to my secret corner, along with my people.

The man shook his head. His lips moved in silent explanation, and I wanted so badly to know what he was saying. Without thinking through what I was doing, I reached out and touched his jaw with my hand.

—I want to tell you, but I can’t. His voice spoke as clear as day in my head. You wouldn’t understand.

I dropped my hand and stared at it. “I . . . I just heard you in my head.”

His lips parted.

Was this a first for him as well? “How can I hear you in my head?” I whispered. “What wouldn’t I understand?”

He shook his head, backing away.

I swallowed, glancing at my hand again. Was it me, or was it him? Or was the reason I could do that connected to the reason he bandaged me and cleaned me? Had he taken care of me after each beating? “Why are you helping me?”

His lips pulled down in a deep frown over his clean-shaven jaw as he curled his hand into a fist and raised it before him, squeezing tight.

What did that mean? Guessing, I rasped, “You’re strong?”

He shook his head and pointed at me.

“I’m strong?” I asked in disbelief.

He nodded and placed a hand over his heart, bowing slightly.

The hooded man thought I was . . . strong? His honor humbled me, and I mumbled, “I don’t feel strong.”

The rest of his face was covered. I ducked my head to try and see his eyes, and his lips curved into a wry smile. He lifted his head to show me. There was nothing. Just empty blackness.

I reached forward to touch him again, but he pulled back with a shake of his hooded head. He went to the door, opened it, and looked out, his head turning as he scouted the hall. He returned and offered me his hand, his gloved hand, to help me off the table.