The kishion ignored her and stood by the bedstead, arms folded.
“You must go,” said Derriko, grunting in pain as he shifted himself higher on the bed.
“And leave you vulnerable?” replied the kishion.
“It’s worth the risk. I know who tried to kill me now. Have you figured it out?”
The kishion chuckled darkly. “Everyone wants to kill you. Because they know you will become the next Hand of the Victus.”
“It was Shigionoth,” said Derriko. “It was his son who attacked last night. It was his servant within the Dochte Mandar who tried to murder me last night when they learned they’d failed. His war band wants to attack Comoros. I promised Chancellor Walraven that I’d buy him time to fulfill our aims in that kingdom. We’ve already poisoned the king’s marriage. And his daughter Maia is an outcast, a pariah. We’re close to achieving our aims. We cannot let Shigionoth’s ambition to rule Naess mar the larger picture.” His eyes narrowed with hate. “Find him. Kill him.”
The words were simple. Yet the task would be enormously difficult. Shigionoth led a powerful war band known for their cruelty and ruthlessness. That he’d attempted to murder Derriko last night proved he was bent on ruling the dark kingdom. This task would be difficult. But nothing the kishion couldn’t achieve.
“Very well,” he said. “Have you summoned more strength to defend you while you recover?”
“I have. There are twenty warriors guarding the manor even now. More will come later today. But if you don’t attack quickly, Shigionoth will have time to prepare for you. Go now.”
“I will,” the kishion said.
Derriko closed his eyes, wincing in pain, and grabbed a chalice of wine from the table at his bedside. He took a few heavy slurps of it and groaned again. The kishion felt no pity or compassion for his master. When one traded in deceit and death, such were the consequences.
The curtains had been drawn open in the halls, and he walked through. He saw two servants dragging a dead man wrapped in a rug away, straining against the burden. Others mopped bloodstains from the floor. He passed by them, uncaring, wondering if he’d catch another glimpse of Sorieul’s eyes, but she was gone. It was for the better. He didn’t like the way his chest pinched when he thought of her, like an echo of an old wound.
He went outside, hiking up the cowl and hood of his cloak to ward off the freezing air. He went to the barn where the horses were tethered and found the latch was already loosed. He squinted at it, suddenly suspicious. He noticed small details like that, always wary for an ambush or attack. He drew one of his curved knives, holding it in an underhand grip. He pulled open the barn door and walked in, as if nothing were amiss. His ears strained for sounds, hearing the snort of horses. Shadows filled the dark barn. The smell of hay and manure was strong, masking the smell of any human.
In the center of the barn was a heavy wooden sleigh with iron rails. He walked past it, keeping his dagger concealed beneath his cloak, and ran his gloved hand along the edge as he passed. He listened for any sound out of place. And heard one.
The small crunch of a foot on straw.
He turned suddenly, pulling back the blade to throw it, and then he saw her. Sorieul. Her eyes were earnest. Trusting.
He clenched his teeth and lowered the blade. “I almost killed you,” he said angrily.
“I knew you wouldn’t hurt me,” she said.
He cocked an eyebrow at her, aware of the gruesome scars on his face, his half-eaten ear. “Oh? I wouldn’t bet your life on that next time.”
“I wanted to talk to you before you left.”
He became even more distrusting of her intentions. He glared at her. “Why?”
She rushed up, closing the distance between them. If it had been any other woman, he would have driven his knife through her ribs. But he saw, even in the half-light, a look of anguish on her face, a pleading look. There was no deception in her eyes, no threat. She wrapped her arms around him, burying her face against his chest, stunning him with an embrace—an act of tenderness he didn’t deserve.
“How did they make you forget me?” she whispered, her voice choking. She looked up, a tear trickling down the curve of her cheek.
He flinched, flexing his arm and breaking her hold, and stepped away from her in confusion. The pain in his chest was like a burning coal.
“I don’t know you,” he said, shaking his head.
“I can see that,” she said, pressing her hand against her mouth. She shuddered, stepping back as well. “But how? How could they make you forget me? What power do they have over you?”
He frowned at her. “I am a kishion.”
“I know. It’s what you wanted to become. What they wanted for you. But there was a time . . . when I was healing you, that we . . . we meant something more to each other.”
He stared at her in disbelief. He’d fought many battles in the past. But the one raging inside himself was the worst kind. The ground felt as if an earthquake were shaking. His mind could not understand this. No one would ever want him. It just wasn’t possible.
“You were wounded so badly at Maere,” she said, looking at him in pity. “You were already half a corpse. But you fought to survive. I . . . I tended you, night and day, as they ordered.”
“But who are you?” he said angrily, stepping closer, using his wrath as a shield to protect his emotions. He hated that the Dochte Mandar could manipulate feelings. He knew what a kystrel felt like. And he was afraid of it. But this was much more powerful because her emotions were real. Her eyes weren’t glowing silver. He already knew she wasn’t a hetaera. And that made it worse. A hetaera he could understand. And he’d have no problem killing one. But this woman was innocent.
“I’m a wretched,” she said, shaking her head. “I have no family. I was abandoned at an abbey. Then a war band attacked, and I was made a slave here in Naess. I’m a good healer, and there are no shortage of the wounded, believe me. I became very good at keeping people alive. I . . . I have a lot of compassion. I feel the hurts of my charges deeply, and it helps me know how to heal them. I used to . . . I used to hold your hand when you were suffering. You never wanted medicine for the pain. Just holding your hand was enough.”
His mind felt like a rat scratching at a box trap, trying to get out. He could feel the scratching noises. But the claws were not sharp enough to penetrate the iron. He could only scratch at it endlessly.
“Do you know my name?” he asked her hoarsely, his insides flaming brightly now. It burned. It burned terribly. He wanted to remember her. Her words sounded familiar. But he couldn’t remember.
She nodded. “Your name was Krywult.”
“Krywult,” he said, shaking his head. Not even that brought back a spark of recollection. “It’s Naestor,” he said, feeling part of his soul flinch.
She looked eager, hoping against hope that he would remember. “It means war wood.” Her excitement began to drain. “But you don’t remember it, even now? Even after I’ve told you? You don’t remember your own name.”
He shook his head no.
He clenched his fist and shook his head again. Impotent rage flooded him. “I must go,” he said gruffly, turning around.
She caught his cloak, and he spun, gripping her wrist hard, forcing her to release him. He saw the look of pain in her eyes. He could snap her wrist so easily.
“Why do you obey these men?” she whispered, looking urgently into his eyes. “I’m a slave still. I cannot go back to Dahomey. But you . . . you have strength. You have power. Yet you obey them. Why?”