“You should have let me bandage that right away,” Eona chided, tying their horses while he settled beside the stream.
He drew his belt knife and cut away the fabric to inspect the injury. It wasn’t as bad as he thought; not even a fingernail deep. Had it not been for the blade catching on his lamellar, his bad leg might have become his missing leg. “A little bleeding’s good for it. Cleans it out.”
“Well it’s going to have to be cleaned properly. You’re just fortunate my grandmother taught me a bit about tending wounds.” She gave a lofty sniff and scouted around a few trees before she stopped to pick something from the bark.
He eyed the gray-green fluff in her hand with a dubious frown. “Lichen?”
“An antiseptic,” she explained, kneeling beside him. She scooped water from the brook with her hands and poured it over his leg, rinsed the scrap of fabric he’d cut away and used it to scrub his skin clean.
He grunted and grimaced but she ignored it, making sure the wound was clean before she pressed the lichen to it.
“Feuds between islands of the Chains were common, even after being united. They broke out often enough for most young men to earn a few scars before they married, in any case.” She took his belt knife, sat back and cut strips of linen from the bottom of her underdress.
“I suppose that’s the same anywhere you go,” he said.
“I suppose. And I suppose the experience is good for them, as long as they survive. I don’t think I’ll ever understand the ways of battle.” She paused, meeting his eyes. “But I thank you for knowing it. You risked your life for me, bringing me on this adventure, knowing we might walk away empty-handed.”
Morghram held his gaze with hers for a long time, studying the dewy silver-blue of her eyes. She was still pretty, still ladylike, but it seemed she’d matured during their adventure. Or maybe his opinion had changed, seeing her stubborn determination as they traveled. She wasn’t a waif plucked from the sea; she was a strong woman who’d made a mistake, something of which nobody was innocent. At least she’d tried to set it right.
Realizing he was staring, he tore his eyes away and bowed his head with shame.
She grew still. “Why do you look away?”
He sighed. “I forgot my manners. Forgive me. I’ve no right to study you when I’m as old and ugly as I am.”
Eona scoffed. “I’ve known ugly people. Hideous people, in fact. I’d rather have you look at me. The worst part about ugly people is that they hide it all behind a mask of prettiness. You never even realize they’re ugly until you’re close enough to see what’s beneath it. And by then, it’s too late.” She leaned forward, gently cupping his cheek in her hand.
He lifted his eyes to hers again, finding comfort in her smile.
“There’s nothing ugly about you, Morghram,” she murmured. “Nothing at all.”
“We didn't come so close to the capital before,” Eona murmured as they rode toward the market south of the city.
“No,” Morghram agreed, “but we'll need to stop and sell one of the horses. I can't afford to feed both through the winter. We'll share a mount on the way back to the coast.”
Both of them were weary from days in the saddle, but the morning was still young, lending them at least a little strength. The market buzzed with life, just as festive as he remembered, filled with colorful striped tents and bright banners waving overhead. He nodded to the few merchants he knew, making his way to a wide stall at the far end of the market. There he dismounted and led his horse toward the grizzled blacksmith and his smooth-cheeked apprentice. “Looking to spend some coin today?” Morghram called.
The blacksmith waved a red-hot horseshoe in his tongs before dunking it in oil. “Depends on what you're selling, you old goat. Where'd you come by a horse?”
“It's an odd story. I'll tell you over an ale next time I'm in for an evening. But I'm selling more than the horse.” Morghram tapped the sword at his belt.
The blacksmith's eyebrows rose.
“Oh, you can't sell that!” Eona cried.
Morghram barked a laugh. “I can and I will. I think I've had enough adventures for one lifetime.”
“Well, I won't refuse.” The blacksmith put his tools aside and dusted his hands against his soot-stained trousers. “Slap a new hilt on it and I won't have to do a lick else to have it sold. Let's talk.”
They inched farther from the road, haggling back and forth with a few hearty laughs before they shook hands. The smith counted coins from the purse at his belt and then slapped Morghram's shoulder. “Next time we're at the Worn Prayer, then. Safe travels.”
“And fair trade to you,” Morghram replied as he strode back to where Eona waited with the horse they'd kept.
She dismounted, watching the blacksmith's apprentice lead the other horse away.
“It's not much,” he said, offering the handful of silver and few gold coins, “but it should be enough to get you back home to the Chains.”
Eona stared at the offering for a long time before she reached for it. Instead of taking the money from his hand, she curled his fingers closed around it. “Thank you. But I don't need it any longer.”
He stared at her hands against his rough fingers, his brow furrowing. “But I thought—”
“I've learned a lot during my travels, Morghram,” she said. “I can never say how much I appreciate all you've done. Don't think of our time together as a waste. We may not have found what we were looking for, but I believe I've found a greater treasure than what I lost.”
His eyes darted to her face.
She smiled.
“No,” Morghram agreed, “but we'll need to stop and sell one of the horses. I can't afford to feed both through the winter. We'll share a mount on the way back to the coast.”
Both of them were weary from days in the saddle, but the morning was still young, lending them at least a little strength. The market buzzed with life, just as festive as he remembered, filled with colorful striped tents and bright banners waving overhead. He nodded to the few merchants he knew, making his way to a wide stall at the far end of the market. There he dismounted and led his horse toward the grizzled blacksmith and his smooth-cheeked apprentice. “Looking to spend some coin today?” Morghram called.
The blacksmith waved a red-hot horseshoe in his tongs before dunking it in oil. “Depends on what you're selling, you old goat. Where'd you come by a horse?”
“It's an odd story. I'll tell you over an ale next time I'm in for an evening. But I'm selling more than the horse.” Morghram tapped the sword at his belt.
The blacksmith's eyebrows rose.
“Oh, you can't sell that!” Eona cried.
Morghram barked a laugh. “I can and I will. I think I've had enough adventures for one lifetime.”
“Well, I won't refuse.” The blacksmith put his tools aside and dusted his hands against his soot-stained trousers. “Slap a new hilt on it and I won't have to do a lick else to have it sold. Let's talk.”
They inched farther from the road, haggling back and forth with a few hearty laughs before they shook hands. The smith counted coins from the purse at his belt and then slapped Morghram's shoulder. “Next time we're at the Worn Prayer, then. Safe travels.”
“And fair trade to you,” Morghram replied as he strode back to where Eona waited with the horse they'd kept.
She dismounted, watching the blacksmith's apprentice lead the other horse away.
“It's not much,” he said, offering the handful of silver and few gold coins, “but it should be enough to get you back home to the Chains.”
Eona stared at the offering for a long time before she reached for it. Instead of taking the money from his hand, she curled his fingers closed around it. “Thank you. But I don't need it any longer.”
He stared at her hands against his rough fingers, his brow furrowing. “But I thought—”
“I've learned a lot during my travels, Morghram,” she said. “I can never say how much I appreciate all you've done. Don't think of our time together as a waste. We may not have found what we were looking for, but I believe I've found a greater treasure than what I lost.”
His eyes darted to her face.
She smiled.
Lightning flickered on the horizon, licking the waves of the choppy sea below the dark clouds. A northward breeze carried the tang of salt and the cool scent of rain. Morghram lingered on the cliff, watching as the thunderheads piled themselves higher into the evening sky.
“Morghram,” Eona called from the doorway, drying her hands on her apron. “Come inside already! Supper's getting cold.”
“Coming,” he replied over his shoulder, offering her a smile before he looked back out at the sea, one last time.
He'd always hated storms, feared the way a strong one could take or ruin a man's life. Now he thought that foolish and couldn't think of anything in nature he loved more.
After all, a gale had brought her.
“Morghram,” Eona called from the doorway, drying her hands on her apron. “Come inside already! Supper's getting cold.”
“Coming,” he replied over his shoulder, offering her a smile before he looked back out at the sea, one last time.
He'd always hated storms, feared the way a strong one could take or ruin a man's life. Now he thought that foolish and couldn't think of anything in nature he loved more.
After all, a gale had brought her.
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