Darkthaw (22 page)

“He's tired.”

Isi clicks his tongue to get the beast walking again. Daniel puts one little hand on Lucky's neck. “Good girl,” he says, like the horse was obeying his command.

I watch his dark head bob along with the horse's gait. On top of the beast, he looks so small. Helpless. Isi's right; I shouldn't have left him. That was foolish.

He looks back at me and smiles, pleased. “I like riding Lucky,” he says. “Do you like riding Blue?”

He's already named the blue-black horse I stole.

I nod. He turns around, and I'm suddenly washed with relief so deep my throat gets tight. Foolish decision or not, we have the little boys back. And we have Lucky and Blue and we aren't so slow.

Mayhap things will be all right.

We reach a small grove by dusk and set up camp. The pack Isi stole from the Keep contains a few useful things: a pot, some dried meat and several hard cakes of some kind, rope, and a blanket. There's also a strange device that looks like two spyglasses joined together. Isi says he'll show me how it works in the morning.

I can tell his wound is bothering him. He moves slower than usual, kneels careful. I insist we eat the stolen provisions so he doesn't have to hunt for something for our dinner. Afterward, I tuck the boys together in my cloak and the blanket. They fall asleep straightaway. Nico stayed wide-eyed and silent when he woke this morning, but at least now his skittishness is directed at everything, not just me. He hasn't asked about his ma at all, and I can only assume it's because he saw what happened at that homestead and is trying not to think about it. Mayhap he's buried it deep.

I know how that feels.

Daniel is so pleased to have Nico back he hasn't mentioned their ma. He spent the day chattering on about Lucky and how he knows exactly what she's thinking at all times. Nico didn't respond, but Daniel didn't seem to mind.

I settle myself on the opposite side of the fire from Isi. The boys are asleep, and we can speak plain, but it takes me long moments to find words.

The firelight dances and casts fierce shadows on Isi's face, but as he meets my gaze, his face changes, becomes softer. He waits for me to speak, but this time it's without his usual air of impatience.

“I . . . have never felt anger like that,” I say finally. I don't clarify which moment I'm speaking on.

He studies me. “It bothers you,” he says.

I nod.

“But your anger was useful in that moment,” he says.

I look down. “Suppose.”

There's a pause.

“That man. Ceril,” I say. “Do you think he's . . . dead?”

“It does not matter,” Isi says, firm.

I nod, but I can't help but feel Isi's wrong. I feel like what we've done—what I've done—matters a great deal.

I clear my throat. “What happened when you went back to get Nico?” I ask. “I thought you were going to get in and out of that camp without being seen.”

“I needed a diversion.”

“That was dangerous,” I say.

He snorts. “But running away on that horse was not.”

“I was trying to help. I was . . . worried about you.”

I expect him to dismiss this, but instead he tilts his head and studies me.

“What?” I ask.

“I expected you to wither.” His eyes are curious as he looks me over.

“Wither?”

“Out here.” His eyebrows knit.

Course he did. He'd never assume I could keep up with him. Do anything useful.

I change the subject and ask something I know the answer to but want to hear him say it. “Nishwa. He wasn't among those prisoners?”

Isi's eyes darken. He shakes his head no.

“Were those First Peoples who attacked trying to free them?”

He nods.

“You think they succeeded?”

“No. I think your kind were taken by surprise, but in the end they fought them off.”

“They're not my kind,” I say.

Isi raises his eyebrows.

“They're not,” I insist, irritation washing me. “They are people from the east. They've joined together with people who have left
your
people.” I shake my head. “And I'm nothing like them.” But my cheeks heat because the words sound hollow even to my ears. That moment on the riverbank when I lost my senses . . .

Isi's face softens. “I chose the wrong word,” he says.

I hold his gaze and hope I don't sound desperate: “
You
are my kind. I am yours.”

He studies me a moment. He frowns. “No one would guess you are my kind with the way you ride a horse.”

I start to retort but see his eyes flash. He's teasing me.

He also didn't say no.

My lips twitch as I pull my gaze away, to the fire.

“Are we—are we going back to that homestead?” I ask. Haven't had the courage to ask Isi this all day. But something about his manner in this moment makes me bold. He's warmer somehow. Probably so relieved, knowing Nico is safe.

“No.” He shakes his head. “We are headed to the forest you dream about.”

I gape at him. “Truly?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He sighs. “Because I don't know what else to do with you. Because you believe your dream means something. Because it, at least, is out of this Leon's territory. Because I hope—” He catches himself short.

“You hope Matisa will be there,” I finish for him. If my dreams help find her, will he finally admit I belong with Matisa?

He says nothing, but the look he gives me—like he's hoping
I
might have some answers—somehow scares
and
pleases me. It's the first time he's looked on me as an equal since we set out from the settlement.

“Been thinking the same thing,” I say, trying to make my voice reassuring. I don't say what's truly in my heart: that the first dream about the grove gave me a hope I couldn't bear to speak, that it would be Kane waiting in those trees. Waiting for me.

And, for the first time in two days, I let myself think on him.

Let myself imagine finding Kane in that grove, burying my face in the warmth of his neck, his arms tight around me.
And then he'd tell me everything was all right. That he was with me; that he'd go anywhere with me—

Isi's eyebrows raise, and I realize I'm staring at him.

I clear my throat. “Thank you,” I say. “For getting Nico back.”

He shrugs and reaches forward to poke at the fire. His movement is quick, and he winces.

I hop to my feet. “Show me,” I instruct, crossing over to him.

Isi snorts, like he has no intention of doing what I ask.

I cross my arms and stand my ground.

He looks up at me.

“Show. Me.”

Reluctant, he turns his back to the coals and draws up his shirt. I kneel. The smooth of his skin glows in the fire, the jagged scar of stitches dancing a pattern from his waist to his shoulder blade. It looks strange in the firelight—beautiful, almost. Blackened blood cakes his side. When I touch the stitches, Isi shudders. I pull my fingers back into a fist. “They hurt?”

“A little.”

“All the time?”

“When touched.”

My hand unclenches. If the wound wasn't healing, it would feel hot and uncomfortable always—the damaged skin is still sensitive, no doubt. But it's been bleeding from somewhere.

“Wait,” I say. I get a kerchief and a small clay pot from my pack. I dip the kerchief into the pot on the fire—water we boiled to warm the boys before bed—and return to him.

Careful, I wash the caked blood away and find the open stitch. The clay pot contains the remainder of the sap paste I used to close the wound on Nishwa's leg. Gentle as I can, I pat it to the open skin, sealing it.

I sit back when I'm done, but my hand doesn't leave Isi's back. Instead, I trace the side of the wound with two fingers. His undamaged skin is smooth. I remember seeing a different man's scars in the light of flame. Seems a lifetime ago. Brother Stockham had taken me to the ceremonial hall and showed me his father's teachings, branded into his skin. My fingers still have that memory. Then, too, I wanted to touch—

I snatch my hand away and stand up.

Isi drops his shirt and turns around. “What is it?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say.

He tilts his head.

I turn to hide the heat creeping over my cheeks and cross back to the boys. Isi's bare skin shouldn't unsettle me; I don't feel that way about him. It's not that. It's . . . the scars look so violent, but the moment feels so gentle. Just like in the ceremonial hall that day. How would things be different now if I had stayed gentle, if I'd shown Stockham mercy instead of risking everything to uncover his secret?

I make a show of checking on the little boys, smoothing Daniel's hair and pulling at their blanket. When I brush back Nico's hair from his face, my hand touches fire.

He's burning up.

“Isi!” I hiss. He's at my side in a heartbeat. I take his hand and lay it on Nico's brow. Nico moans, soft.

The whites of Isi's eyes grow in the dark. “How long has he been like this?”

“I don't know. He hasn't talked all day.”

Isi's jaw works. He puts fingers to Nico's neck, checking his heartbeat—
checking his heartbeat?

No. This is a fever. Seen plenty of fevers. Soeur Manon taught me that when someone's body goes this hot on its own, you have to get it cooled other ways. “We need more water to cool him down. We should head back to that stream—”

“No!” Isi snaps, straightening. He hops up and begins to pace, muttering—sounds like swearing—in his language, under his breath. Now he's counting something on his hands.

“We'll just use it to bathe him,” I say. “He won't be drinking it.”

Isi doesn't answer, just keeps pacing.

I bite my lip in frustration. Can't carry Nico all the way on my own. But there are other ways to get him cool—willow tea. That's what we need. Soeur Manon taught me how to make the willow tea years ago. Probably fed me it when I was sick with the fever last fall. “I can make him a tea. I just need my satchel.”

Isi is still swearing, or counting, I'm not sure which.

“Isi! I can make a—”

“That will not help.” He paces back and forth.

“You didn't even let me explain!”

“Because it doesn't matter—”

“But when people took fever at the settlement—”

“Em!” he shouts. “It will not help!”

“Course it will!” My voice is hysterical. I know what he's worried about. He's worried Nico has the Bleed. But he can't. He can't.

He's pacing again, muttering, swearing. Paying me no mind.

I leap to my feet. “Tell me how to make the remedy!” I shout.

He stops and looks at me. “What?”

“The remedy. Tell me how. Tell me how she does it.” I don't know why I say it—course he doesn't know. But I'm so desperate.

His shoulders sag. “Em,” he says, his voice soft. “Even if I knew, it wouldn't matter. It cannot heal it.”

I stare at him. “Yes, it can,” I whisper, but as I say the words, I realize he's right. Matisa never told me she had the cure; she told me they had a remedy to keep the sickness away. Two very different things.

He shakes his head. “If this is what that man at the Keep died from, nothing will help.”

No. No. This isn't the same
.

The sadness in Isi's eyes makes me realize I've spoken the words aloud. He's sad for me. For Nico.

Dread creeps cold fingers along my chest. But—no. No. I have to fix this. Have to set it right.

“I'm making the willow tea.” My voice comes out a growl, a challenge. “Now help me move him away from the fire.”

Isi watches me as I struggle to get Nico into my arms. Finally he brushes me aside and picks him up without effort, moving him to the cool, exposed roots at the base of a giant elm.

“Get that blanket off and give him some water,” I instruct.

Isi stares at Nico's pale face, his shoulders tense, hands bunched into fists.

“Get to work!” I snap.

Isi bends and begins pulling the blanket from Nico, but his movement is too slow. Like it won't matter if he goes fast. I whirl away. Course this will work. Course . . .

I grab my satchel and dig through it, watching as Isi takes off Nico's moccasins and woolen socks, opens the collar of his tunic. I bend my head to my task, stripping the few sticks of willow I have, getting the water to a boil. I watch Isi dribble water onto a square of cloth and wash Nico's face with it.

It takes an excruciating long time for my tincture to boil.

As I set it beside Nico, he opens his eyes once and gives me a glassy stare. I spoon the tea into his mouth in small sips while Isi washes his face and arms with a cloth. When Nico's had a cup of the bitter brew, I lay his head back and cover his legs with the blanket.

And wait.

Long moments pass. Nico moans in his sleep once. Twice. And he's quiet.

My hands fly to his brow.

He's cooler.

Cooler
.

I sit back on my heels, feeling a relief so intense I'm dizzy. Isi steps forward and checks Nico. His chest heaves with a relieved sigh. He looks at me with a smile.

I don't return it.

I lean forward and fuss around with the blanket, straightening and restraightening. Finally Nico begins to breathe
easy; he's in a restful sleep. I touch his brow for the hundredth time. He's much cooler now, but I need to check—

Isi reaches out a hand and puts it on mine. “He will be fine,” he says. “With the sickness, fever rises. He was probably tired.”

I snatch my hand away and leap to my feet, pressing into my bad foot.

Isi frowns, and pulls himself to stand.

“What?” I demand.

“You were right,” he says.