“He was the best of us,” was all Yhkon said. He picked up his belt and sword from where he’d deposited it on the floor and strapped it around his waist. “Bac, did someone already tell his family?”
“No, we weren’t sure if you would want to.”
How could he want to? But he owed it to Ahjul. “Yes, Tarol and I will. And I think we’d better go now.” He noted Ann’s sad, anxious eyes. “But I’ll…maybe I could join you for supper, later.”
She brightened some, taking his hand again. “You know we would love that, if you have time. And take it easy, please. You need to heal.”
What was the point in his recovery, if his ward didn’t make it? The chamber she’d been taken to was his first stop. He found Talea motionless in the bed, skin almost as white as the sheets, a grimace creasing her brow even in sleep. In that moment, she looked so much like Tessa that his breath caught in his throat.
The Stitch keeping an eye on her assured him that she was receiving the best possible care, and that her condition had at least not worsened. Beyond that, the man didn’t say anything, but he wasn’t as pessimistic about her chances as Yhkon would have expected. He should have ignored it. He should have been fine with some optimism.
He wasn’t. “You do realize that it’s a fatal injury?”
The Stitch made eye contact, and held it—something most strangers weren’t willing to do with the reputedly temperamental Silquije Eun. “Four years ago I learned that if Narone willed, this exact injury could in fact be survived.”
Yhkon inwardly cursed. So the man was one of the medics that had witnessed his own “miraculous” recovery from the same injury. Which meant he was also likely one of the few people that knew the events leading up to and following that injury. He would rather no one knew. If that wasn’t an option, he would rather not interact with those that did, with only a few exceptions, including Grrake. “I see. Do you suspect she might wake anytime soon?”
“Impossible to tell, but I don’t think so.”
“Then excuse me, I have other matters to attend. Please notify me if anything changes.” He started for the door, but the Stitch spoke again.
“If I may, Silquije, I think you might do yourself a favor by having a little faith in the possibility of her recovery…and in other things.”
Yhkon turned back to stare at the man. It wasn’t every day a stranger—well, mostly a stranger—had the audacity to speak to him in that manner. That was usually something only Grrake did. Unfortunately for this man, Grrake wasn’t around to restrain him with soft reprimands and disappointed looks. “You may not, actually. My faith or lack thereof is certainly not your concern.” He walked out without waiting for a reply.
Still irritated when he reached Tarol’s quarters, he didn’t think to knock. His entrance interrupted Tarol and two Stitches all laughing. At what, he didn’t know. And didn’t care. They looked up at him, first surprised, quickly becoming nervous.
“I’m sorry,” he glared at Tarol, “am I interrupting? Perhaps I should come back later to ask if you’d accompany me to the Rye’Shans’ home, to tell them that their son and brother was killed last week?”
There wasn’t the flash of indignation he had expected. Tarol lowered his head. “No, um, no, I’m coming.” He started to get out of bed, but one of the Stitches stopped him.
“I’m sorry, Silquije, but you shouldn’t be moving around so soon. Your leg—”
“Will survive a short trip. Grab me those crutches.”
They reluctantly complied, watching silently as Tarol situated himself on the crutches and limped out of the room with Yhkon. They were almost out of the palace before he spoke, voice more remorseful than usual. Actually, more remorseful than ever. “Look, Yhkon, I was just—”
“Save it.” Yhkon opened the door but didn’t hold it, leaving Tarol to awkwardly prop it open with one crutch and hobble through on his own.
Tarol caught up to him, brown eyes hot with resentment. That was more characteristic. “Fine. Judge away, like you always do. But believe it or not some of us prefer not to mope about in a constant state of misery and drag others there with us.”
Yhkon stopped and grabbed his arm, barely resisting the temptation to kick one of the crutches and let the impudent fool fall on his face. “Or maybe some of us have some respect, or even just the decency to show some solemnity, when a fellow warrior and friend has just died!”
Tarol shoved his hand off despite the crutches. “Would you shut up, for once?! As if I’m not mourning Ahjul. As if he weren’t more my friend than yours—he would have been my brother-in-law! All you ever did was glare and snap at him, but oh, now he’s dead so now he’s your pal and you’re heartbroken.” Tarol kept walking, not so much as glancing over his shoulder. “Grrake may have you convinced that you’re Calcaria’s shining son, that you’re a hero or a leader, or anything other than a fraud and a tyrant. But the rest of us know better. You’re lucky Ahjul didn’t.”
Yhkon remained where he was. Unable to follow or respond even if he’d wanted to.
He eventually turned away. Let Tarol tell his fiance, Ahjul’s sister, and her parents. Maybe he was obligated to be there too, maybe it was his duty as Ahjul’s leader and even one of his trainers, but…he couldn’t make himself go after Tarol.
His whole body felt overheated and weak. Annyve had said he had a fever. He made his way to the nearby Elikwai stable and sat down, leaning against the outside of the back wall, hoping it would be safe from spectators. Sitting down hardly relieved the exhaustion, and it certainly didn’t offer any distraction from his nagging thoughts. From Tarol’s words echoing in his mind.
“I didn’t know you actually sat. I’m pretty sure I’ve only ever seen you standing.”
The unexpected female voice would have made him jump to his feet, if he hadn’t been so tired. Instead all he did was turn his head that direction, only to then clamber upright upon seeing who it was, distaste already making him set his feet away from her, ready to leave at the earliest opportunity.
She advanced and stuck out a hand for him to shake. “Jaylee Rhondel, maybe you remember, we—”
“I know.” Of course he remembered—there were about five hundred Elikwai, but there was only one woman among them. He didn’t take her hand. Grrake would give him a horrified look if he were there. “What do you want?”
If she was offended or intimidated by his bluntness, she didn’t show it. In fact, her smile only grew. “The council sent me to talk to you. They didn’t know you were going with Tarol to visit the Rye’Shans…” Finally her smile faded. “I was so sorry to hear about Ahjul. We were friends, and I always liked him. Of course, who didn’t? He was a great guy.”
Friends. Yes, that he knew too—Ahjul had courted this woman, for a brief time. Then again, almost every unmarried Elikwai under the age of thirty had. Yhkon crossed his arms. There was sincere sorrow in her face, at least. Still, it was Jaylee Rhondel. Some sadness over Ahjul’s death couldn’t make up for that. If her reputation as a flirt wasn’t enough, she was also the stepdaughter of none other than Enisham. And she shouldn’t be referring to the Wardens by their first names. “Silquije Quoye is telling the Rye’Shans by himself; what is it you need to speak to me about?”