murmured as he lightly ran his fingers over other bruises and wounds. “The brute who did this returned to punish him for aiding me earlier.”
“Gardon did this?” the Deir exclaimed. His eyes flashed with anger. “Where is he?
I’ll slit his throat!”
Reijir smiled grimly. “Rest assured, he won’t bother anyone again.” He straightened and took off his cloak. “I must bring him to a physician. I fear his injuries are beyond a backstreet healer’s skills.” He quickly wrapped the youth in his mantle. “What’s his name?”
“Naeth Orosse, Dyhar . From Losshen.”
“So far from home,” Reijir commented. He gently gathered Naeth in his arms. “I trust you’ll take care of informing his family of this.”
The Deir shook his head. “He has no family left, Dyhar . They all died in a fire. It’s why he came here. He had nowhere to go and no one to turn to other than myself.”
Reijir stared at him then down at Naeth. A welling of pity and compassion rose inside him. His mouth tightened. He was not used to feeling thusly for strangers, much less strangers he had only just met. He turned and strode toward the door.
“I’ll send word of his condition soonest,” he called over his shoulder just before he swept out of the tavern.
Chapter Three
Deliverance
Naeth had never known such pain before. The broken wrist he suffered when he fell from a neighbor’s cranapple tree could not compare to the agony of his current injuries.
He had only just passed his fourteenth summer then, and his adda had been furious with him. Whether it was for risking such a tumble for a piece of fruit or for filching from someone else’s property, Naeth had never really figured out. Maybe it was both , he now speculated as past and present collided in his disjointed thoughts.
He guessed he was riding a trotting steed. Or rather he was in the arms of someone who was. He was tucked close against a firm, unyielding chest, his nose half lost in a fold of some rich material. It certainly smelled rich. Nay, it was not the material that exuded the scent of wealth, he realized. He forced his eyes to open just enough to espy an expanse of fine dark grey wool adorned down the middle with pewter-hued buttons.
Quite an expensive-looking tunic , he thought.
From the corner of his eye, he noted the close-fitting right sleeve was decoratively cut just above the elbow to reveal a tight shirtsleeve that covered the arm to the wrist. He wondered if the left sleeve was wrist-length in contrast but just as artistically edged, a style worn primarily by True Bloods. Half Bloods liked their tunic sleeves plain and loose and of equal length. He briefly speculated who the wearer was, why he was in his arms, and where he was taking him. But all too soon he forgot to even think as excruciating pain surged through his body anew.
Every muscle and joint in his body screamed in protest with every movement
however slight. He could not help a moan when he and the Deir who held him made a sharp turn. At once, the arm that encircled him tightened to steady him further. He sighed and slipped back into that in-between plane of partial wakefulness.
Next he knew he was no longer in constant motion but was being borne somewhere.
Up some stairs it seemed. Just a few steps followed by the faint chime of a bell. Again he forced a peek and glimpsed the upper jamb of a door. A residence? He heard his benefactor—or maybe captor—mutter a curse under his breath as the minutes seemed to crawl by. And then there was the sound of a door opening and a surprised exclamation followed by apologies and many a “ Dyhar ” and “Your Grace” and an occasional
“Merciful Veres!”
It was sheer bliss when he was laid down at length on a cool sheet atop a soft mattress. There was talking somewhere in the room, too fast and far away for him to understand. A quick bleary look around revealed a high ceiling and stark white walls and shelves of books and glass-enclosed
“Gardon did this?” the Deir exclaimed. His eyes flashed with anger. “Where is he?
I’ll slit his throat!”
Reijir smiled grimly. “Rest assured, he won’t bother anyone again.” He straightened and took off his cloak. “I must bring him to a physician. I fear his injuries are beyond a backstreet healer’s skills.” He quickly wrapped the youth in his mantle. “What’s his name?”
“Naeth Orosse, Dyhar . From Losshen.”
“So far from home,” Reijir commented. He gently gathered Naeth in his arms. “I trust you’ll take care of informing his family of this.”
The Deir shook his head. “He has no family left, Dyhar . They all died in a fire. It’s why he came here. He had nowhere to go and no one to turn to other than myself.”
Reijir stared at him then down at Naeth. A welling of pity and compassion rose inside him. His mouth tightened. He was not used to feeling thusly for strangers, much less strangers he had only just met. He turned and strode toward the door.
“I’ll send word of his condition soonest,” he called over his shoulder just before he swept out of the tavern.
Chapter Three
Deliverance
Naeth had never known such pain before. The broken wrist he suffered when he fell from a neighbor’s cranapple tree could not compare to the agony of his current injuries.
He had only just passed his fourteenth summer then, and his adda had been furious with him. Whether it was for risking such a tumble for a piece of fruit or for filching from someone else’s property, Naeth had never really figured out. Maybe it was both , he now speculated as past and present collided in his disjointed thoughts.
He guessed he was riding a trotting steed. Or rather he was in the arms of someone who was. He was tucked close against a firm, unyielding chest, his nose half lost in a fold of some rich material. It certainly smelled rich. Nay, it was not the material that exuded the scent of wealth, he realized. He forced his eyes to open just enough to espy an expanse of fine dark grey wool adorned down the middle with pewter-hued buttons.
Quite an expensive-looking tunic , he thought.
From the corner of his eye, he noted the close-fitting right sleeve was decoratively cut just above the elbow to reveal a tight shirtsleeve that covered the arm to the wrist. He wondered if the left sleeve was wrist-length in contrast but just as artistically edged, a style worn primarily by True Bloods. Half Bloods liked their tunic sleeves plain and loose and of equal length. He briefly speculated who the wearer was, why he was in his arms, and where he was taking him. But all too soon he forgot to even think as excruciating pain surged through his body anew.
Every muscle and joint in his body screamed in protest with every movement
however slight. He could not help a moan when he and the Deir who held him made a sharp turn. At once, the arm that encircled him tightened to steady him further. He sighed and slipped back into that in-between plane of partial wakefulness.
Next he knew he was no longer in constant motion but was being borne somewhere.
Up some stairs it seemed. Just a few steps followed by the faint chime of a bell. Again he forced a peek and glimpsed the upper jamb of a door. A residence? He heard his benefactor—or maybe captor—mutter a curse under his breath as the minutes seemed to crawl by. And then there was the sound of a door opening and a surprised exclamation followed by apologies and many a “ Dyhar ” and “Your Grace” and an occasional
“Merciful Veres!”
It was sheer bliss when he was laid down at length on a cool sheet atop a soft mattress. There was talking somewhere in the room, too fast and far away for him to understand. A quick bleary look around revealed a high ceiling and stark white walls and shelves of books and glass-enclosed
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