Romeria
Ianca sits in the corner of the sanctum’s wagon, her shoulders hunched.
“She’s calm today,” I whisper. “That’s good, right?”
“Yes, I think being near me has helped. She doesn’t feel so lost.”
What would that have been like, to step off a boat after a long journey, hustled into a wagon and led away by a stranger, then locked up in a church with more strangers? All while losing her eyesight and her bearings on reality? No wonder she was agitated. “How long do you think she has?”
Gesine shakes her head. “Some seers can live years, others only weeks, which is why we must gain whatever knowledge we can from her now. For that, you must travel with us.”
“Of course.” Gladly. It’ll be a break from dealing with Jarek and stiff, chafed thighs.
Gesine climbs in. “Ianca, we are moving to more comfortable accommodations for the journey north, and I must get you ready.”
Ianca’s eyelids crack open. “I am tired,” she complains.
Gesine’s gentle hands pull Ianca’s hood over her scant hair, hiding her. “I know. We will move you, and then you can rest.” Her palms stroke the old woman’s face.
I turn away to give them privacy.
And find myself staring at a wall of leather and weapons, the scent of clean sweat and male muskiness filling my nostrils. At least Jarek bathes regularly. Even his hair looks freshly washed and braided.
His expression is as harsh as always. “Feeling better today?”
I sense he has an ulterior motive for checking on my welfare, and I hope it has nothing to do with the collapsed cave. I play into his game, plastering on a wide smile. “I am. Thank you so much for asking. And how are you feeling? You know, after that little visit to your blood brothel—”
“I didn’t need you to defend me to my commander.”
“But I did it, anyway. You’re welcome.” I pause. “Unless you’re here to ask Gesine to heal whatever Abarrane did to punish you?” She didn’t touch him, and we both know it.
He grits his teeth, his gaze raking over my face as if searching for hidden truth. “This story of amnesia. Is it genuine?”
The quick change of subject distracts me, but I recover quickly. “I’m sorry, what’s your name again?”
He snorts at my flippant answer. “I’m expected to protect you at all costs, including my own life, and yet it is obvious you are keeping rather significant secrets. You and the king. Abarrane, too, likely.” His steely eyes wander to where she barks orders. “I am her second-in-command. I should be in their confidence.”
“Maybe you need to prove that you’re loyal.”
“Do not ever question my loyalty to Islor, to my Legion, or to my king,” he snaps.
“Fine. Maybe it’s not your loyalty. Maybe it’s your prejudices.”
“My prejudices … I’d say I’ve been more than open-minded, literally saddled for days with a Ybarisan from whom a single drop of blood would tear me apart, tasked to give my life for hers.” He steps in closer. “I would like to know why she is so very important to Islor’s future.”
Is that what Zander told him last night during their little private conversation?
“Some help, if you will?” Gesine calls out, guiding a hunched Ianca to the wagon’s edge.
I could kiss the caster for the perfectly timed interruption.
A beat passes with us squared off, and then Jarek breaks away. Without hesitation, he grips Ianca’s waist and lifts her down. Far too fast for a woman so frail. It earns an admonished gasp from Gesine, who hops down to catch Ianca, as if she may collapse.
But Ianca merely laughs, an old woman’s cackle that turns heads. “So many little nymphs running around.” Hidden deep within her cowl, her cloudy, useless eyes lift to Jarek’s face as if she can see it clearly. “Weak little nymphs.”
“This way, Ianca.” Gesine coaxes her toward Elisaf and the new wagon, saying something my ears can’t catch.
Jarek watches them go.