Warrior of the Wild(45)

“Doesn’t matter. I think it’s brilliant.”

“We’ll see how brilliant you find it after I’ve got you hammering for an hour.”

I can’t actually help with any of the hammering. Just gripping one of the tools has my stomach protesting. I had never realized how connected everything is to the abdomen. Breathing. Walking. Even holding things.

But I watch Iric work. I learn. Iric heats up metal until it is glowing red. He pounds it into shape. He pulls buckets of water from the nearby stream to the forge to cool the metal quickly.

It’s fascinating work to watch.

Honestly, I believe it is a shame that Restin is being deprived of such a talented smithy.





CHAPTER


13


Either Soren doesn’t do nearly as much work as Iric does around here, or he’s suddenly become much quicker at doing it, because he always seems to finish first and find time to come bother me.

Sorry, keep me company.

“Are you hungry?” he asks a few days later.

I look pointedly toward the bucket of berries next to me. “No.”

“Are you cold? I can get you another blanket.”

The sunshine from the window warms my cheeks, and a small fire in the hearth keeps the tree house a perfect temperature. “No.”

“How’s the pain? Do you need—”

“Soren!”

He sits up straight. “What?”

“Don’t you have work to do?”

“I’ve already finished. I’m at your disposal.”

I consider telling him I’m tired and wish for quiet, but while the second may be true, the first is a lie. So I settle for a brutal truth. “You’re hovering. It’s driving me mad.”

“It is?”

“Yes.”

He ponders that a moment. “When I was ill, I loved it when Pamadel fussed over me.” That must be Iric’s mother.

“She must do it better than you do.”

He gives me a wide grin.

I can’t even make him go away by insulting him. Apparently, I’m too funny about it.

“All right, then,” he says. “What am I doing wrong? How would your mother fuss over you?”

Suddenly my chest feels heavier. My face grows hotter. “She wouldn’t. If she could get away with it, she’d lock me in a room without food or water and let nature run its course.”

That, at least, shuts him up, but it only lasts about a minute.

“Did she have something to do with your banishment?”

I would have thought Iric would have told him what happened, but it would seem he hasn’t shared our conversation. I only told him about Torrin, but if Soren is asking what happened, he doesn’t know any of it.

“Yes, she had a hand in my banishment.”

There’s a hole somewhere under my skin, where Peruxolo’s blade opened me up, but thinking of my mother is a far worse pain. And having shared that pain with Soren? A discomfort so rich shoots up and down my body, making me want to squirm from it. Why did I tell him that? I’m not at my best, injured as I am. I must keep my thoughts to myself. I don’t want his pity or his sympathy or whatever else he’ll likely say.

Soren bends at the knees until he’s crouched in front of me, meeting my eyes. “When you kill Peruxolo, think of the look on her face.”

There’s something about the sincerity and fervor in his eyes that makes my stomach tingle. Something in my mind shifts, and suddenly I’m not in such a hurry to get rid of Soren anymore.

When, he’d said. Not if, but when. He believes in me. He’s still set on helping me.

We stay like that for a moment, each of us intently watching the other. It isn’t until the trapdoor opens with a bang and Iric climbs through that we look away.



* * *



I’M STUCK ON THE floor of that tree house for a week before I can finally rise on my own. In all that time, I don’t broach the topic with Iric regarding our mattugrs again. And I let up on Soren and his fussing over me.

Despite being able to sit up and lie down, I know that I can’t strain the injury. Running or swinging my ax could open me up again. The bruise on my abdomen has faded to yellow, and the bump has gone away, but the last thing I want is to start bleeding internally again.

So instead of leaving for my fort, I stay with the boys.

“I made you something,” Soren says when he arrives home after finishing his chores. He handles something bulky in front of him.

“What is it?” I ask. I hope the question isn’t rude. Am I supposed to know what that wad of hides is? Some sort of blanket? It looks far too coarse for that.

“I’ve sewed some hides together but left an opening right here.” He points to one corner of the fabric.

All right …

“It’s a mattress for you. I’ve started hunting the birds we’ll need in order to stuff it with down—only edible ones, of course, so nothing goes wasted. Whether you stay with us or move back to your shelter, I thought you’d want something of your own to sleep on.”

I can’t speak for a moment, I’m so touched by the gesture. “Soren—thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” he says, a broad grin stretching his cheeks.