“Show me your shoulder,” he told her gruffly, giving her a threatening look.
She didn’t cower. Instead, she undid a few of the buttons on her bodice, turned, and exposed her bare shoulder to him. Her left shoulder. The skin was smooth, soft, even, in the firelight. Unblemished by any brands. No, she had not taken the brand. A hetaera used the power of the kystrel to alter emotions. She could even make a kishion afraid. But this woman was not one.
“She doesn’t bear the mark,” he said, turning away, not liking the way her look made him feel. Her hair was dark and straight, her eyes almost accusatory. Yet they still nagged at him. Should he know her? Did she know him?
“Attend me,” Derriko ordered, grunting again. “I can’t feel my leg.”
The woman reset her clothing and then came to the table. She’d dropped a bag of supplies on the floor when the kishion had accosted her, and she gestured now for it. The kishion sheathed his blade, fetched the bag, and handed it to her.
“Would you like me to ease your pain?” the Dochte Mandar asked Derriko.
“Yes,” he grunted in reply. The man’s eyes began to turn silver, and a calming feeling swept through the room. The kishion hated the way the kystrels manipulated feelings. He was in pain, but he’d not ask to be relieved of it. Pain was a companion, a brother in arms. He didn’t fear it or shy from it as other men did.
While the woman worked on Derriko’s injuries, the kishion patrolled the manor. Many of the servants had been killed in the raid, and Derriko kept few of them anyway. He didn’t trust anyone and maintained a lean staff at the manor. That had made him vulnerable. The kishion found the broken window that they had entered through and shoved some furniture to block it. He then tested every latch, every window, and every door to make sure they were locked.
When he returned, he found Derriko’s boot had been cut off and his pant leg cut away. His foot was gray with frostbite. The healer had arranged her implements and ointments nearby, but it was clear from the look of it that he’d lose the foot. Possibly even the entire leg.
“Who attacked you?” the Dochte Mandar asked Derriko. “Why would someone attack the Victus of Naess?” The kishion didn’t like the sniveling sound of his voice. It grated on his ears.
“Because I am the Victus of Naess,” came the gruff answer. “You killed the lackey, but now I know who the traitor is, and they can be dealt with, harshly. If they had hoped to kill me tonight, they should have realized that the best kishion works for me.” His eyes widened with satisfaction as he stared at his pet, his servant, his killer.
“My lord,” said the woman. Even her voice sounded familiar to the kishion. “If we don’t remove the frostbite, you will die. I’ve tried everything I can do to save it. By tomorrow, it will begin to fester. The skin is dead. There’s nothing I can do.”
“Can we not wait until tomorrow?” asked Derriko dispassionately.
“If we wait, you will likely die. You were in the snow for too long. And at your age and girth, your body will not heal quickly. The shock of losing a limb may even kill you.”
Even with such a bleak pronouncement, the kystrel was working its magic. “Do it,” he said. Then he turned his eyes to the kishion. “But he handles the blade. Sorry, healer, but I still don’t trust you.”
Derriko was sleeping when the dawn came. The healer had prepared a draft of valerianum tea for him with some hyssop to dull the pain. He’d watched to make sure she didn’t try to poison him. The Dochte Mandar was sleeping, his neck crooked, on a stuffed chair, snoring lightly. The dark paneled wood on the walls seemed to make the room grow darker as the sunrise came. The kishion, still aching from his own injuries, stood gazing out the rear window at the pond, arms folded, seeing that the snow had completely covered his dead enemies.
“He’s sleeping finally,” said the woman, appearing at his side. Then the pitch of her voice changed. “You’re wounded.”
“It’s nothing,” he said gruffly.
“But they could also fester,” she said. “Let me help you. It’s why I’m here.”
He looked at her, at the hair that was soft, but dark as the wood. A feeling of uneasiness crept into his stomach. His instincts warned him constantly.
“Please,” she asked. Her eyes were gray. That was a rare color, even in the north.
He shrugged and acquiesced. She took him to the couch and had him sit down. Then she gathered her healing implements and brought them closer, kneeling on the floor by the couch. She touched his chin to turn his face, exposing his ear, his neck. Her touch caused a pulse of heat inside him.
“You don’t remember me,” she said softly.
“Should I?” he shot back, anger and confusion starting to churn.
She pressed her lips tightly. Then she looked down. “I was the one who healed you after the battle of Maere.” She traced the edge of his partly missing ear. “I remember this. And these.” Her fingers went down the claw marks on his cheek and face. He was a hideous man, full of scars and demons. He was grateful he didn’t remember getting them.
He jerked his head away, looking at her warily. “I don’t know you.”
She nodded. “I’ve heard that happens. You were the only survivor of the battle. Everyone else around you was dead. One of the Dochte Mandar said you’d make a good kishion if you survived. They told me to save you if I could.”
Her words awoke feelings inside him. They were dangerous feelings. Who was she? He couldn’t remember her. But there was something of intimacy between them. Had she cared for him? Nursed him back to health? The look in her eyes said she was not a stranger. Why had he forgotten?
“What’s your name?” he asked, his brows nettled with conflict.
“Sorieul,” she answered. She took a bottle of healing ointment and dabbed it on a rag and began wiping his face. It stung.
Sorieul. There was nothing. The memories were all gone. Perhaps it was for the best.
A look of sadness came over her face. Blinking away tears, she continued to minster to his wounds. “What have they done to you?” she whispered.
It was Sorieul’s eyes that bothered the kishion the most. He knew when someone was lying by the look in their eyes. He knew the look of desperation of a man who knew he was about to be killed and would try to bargain. He knew the eyes of a man dying from poison. He knew the look of grief, of despair, of shattering loss, just as he knew the looks of revenge, hatred, and cunning.
But the look Sorieul gave him was a look of trust. And he was not used to that.
One thing he had learned in his existence as a highly trained killer was that a kishion was not to be trusted. He felt no loyalty in his heart. How could he when he watched the rulers of Naess squabble and undermine each other in their vying for power and authority. He respected other kishion for their skills, but he was the best of them. He’d never met a man he felt he couldn’t kill. And while he had been ordered to do some unsavory deeds, he had done them without malice or spite because that was what he’d been made to do. His heart was like a piece of flint.
Until now.
Sorieul’s eyes whispered that there were memories he’d lost. That she had meant something to him long ago.
“Kishion,” croaked the haggard voice of Derriko.
He turned away from the window and approached the bedside of his master. Sorieul was finishing changing the dressing on the stump of his leg. She folded up the coils of soiled bandages and marched past him, her eyes flicking to his once more, her mouth turned down in a sad frown.