Blood Seed: Coin of Rulve Book One (23 page)

The accident clouded his wedding ceremony, but out of love for Leeza, Etane tried not to ruin it for her as well. Tarn would look after Sheft, and he’d get back to his friend as soon as he could. 

It wasn’t until the next morning, after the wedding night was over and he had found delight with his new wife, that he saw he wouldn’t be able to get away. Cloor wanted his empty casks back at his ale-house, and the trestle tables had to be returned, or Vehoke the grocer would charge another day’s rent. He intended to ask Mariat to go help Tarn in his place, but between the coming and going he couldn’t speak to his sister until well after the noon meal. She was washing yet another big stack of plates.

“I didn’t have a chance to tell you yesterday,” he said in a low voice, “but Sheft got hurt at the field-burn. I think Tarn could use some help with him.”

“Am I to run over there every time someone stubs a toe?” Mariat asked irritably. “Let his father take care of it. Good-bye was good-bye.”

Etane saw Leeza’s mother bearing down on him. “Oh god. What does she want now? But listen, Mariat. Go over there if you can. Sheft told me Tarn isn’t really his father, and maybe that’s what he was trying to protect you from.”

Startled, she turned to him. “What?”

Before he could say another word, his new mother-in-law snatched him away.

#   #   #

Mariat returned to the pan of soapy water and plunged a pile of plates into it. Sheft was trying to protect her? Where had her brother gotten
that
idea? Sheft was gone from her life. He’d said he loved her, then got rid of her, and that was that.

But if he was hurt… Mother always liked Sheft. For her sake, at least, she should go and see what was wrong. She finished her task, sourly gathered up her basket of herbs and salves, and took the familiar—and now quite desolate—path over the fields. The smell of smoke still lingered in the afternoon air. This visit was an act of charity, nothing more.

But her heart leaned toward where Sheft was, and her feet hurried after. When she got to the house, the place looked deserted. There was no sign of Padiky, which was odd, because Tarn’s wagon was still at their house.

“Is anybody here?” She knocked. No one answered, so she opened the door. The fire had gone out, leaving a chill inside.

Sheft was sleeping on a mattress on the floor, covered with a brown blanket. A bright shaft of sunlight coming from the window illuminated his pale hair. At the sight of him, once so dear, a pang went through her heart. But why was he sleeping down here? And where was Tarn?

Placing the basket on the table, she noticed a cup at Sheft’s head had been knocked over and water spilled. She leaned over him. “Sheft?”

He wasn’t asleep. His eyes were squeezed shut, and his forehead was creased in pain. Fear jumped into her. “Sheft!”

He seemed unaware of her. The blanket covering his back was dark with a large stain. She bent closer and detected the unmistakable smell of blood. She sank to her knees beside him, but when she tried to pull back a corner of the blanket, he gasped. The blanket had been soaked with blood, which had dried and stuck to his back. 

Oh God Rulve. Mariat flung off her cloak and ran to get water, but the house crock was empty. The fire was out. Where were the kitchen cloths? Where had Tarn gone? He just threw a blanket over his son and left him? But then he wasn’t his son, was he? Thoughts tumbled, and for a moment she panicked, then forced herself to be calm. With deliberate motions she got the fire going, drew water from the well and set it over the flames, found a mug in the cupboard. She knelt next to Sheft and carefully poured water on the blanket to loosen it.

The creaking of the door broke into her absorption. Oris stood tentatively in the opening. “I came for my toy,” he said. “The foreigner said I could.”

“Toy?” She sat back on her heels. “What are you talking about?”

Oris indicated Sheft with his chin. “The ones he makes.” He stepped in and peered at the mattress. “Is he dead?”

The word was like a cold hand wrapping itself around her heart. “No,” she answered firmly. She would not allow the question, not even the possibility, to shake her. She returned to her work, dreading what she would find under the blanket. “Go home, Oris. I’ll bring you a toy later.”

“He promised me the same thing, and never did it. Instead he broke my leg.”

Startled, she looked up. “Broke your leg! When?”

“Yesterday. At the field-burn. See, I can hardly walk on it.” He took a few steps with an exaggerated limp.

“You got hurt at the field-burn?”

“All the rakes and things were spilling out of the cart. So he fell over me, and then all the tools fell on
him
. That’s when my leg got broken.”

For a moment she could not speak. “Why did the tools spill?”

“A greensnake scared the horse, and the shaft broke. It wasn’t my fault.” He glanced around curiously. “Where are the toys?”

She looked down at Sheft, who was quivering in pain, and a lump formed in her throat. She swallowed it. “Did you ever say thank you?”

He looked at her, surprised. “I didn’t get my toy yet.”

She wanted to shake him. She wanted to scream at all the gossips and rumor-mongers and hate-filled people who had made this boy the way he was. “He saved your life, Oris! This”—she indicated Sheft’s rigid body on the mattress—“could’ve been you, only you’d be dead.”

Oris shrugged. “I don’t think so. My dad says I’m strong. Are the toys in here someplace?”

They stared at each other, and she recognized in his matter-of-fact gaze an innocence already corrupted. Sheft was right to leave this accursed place, for they had accused him of doing to their children what they themselves had already done. “I don’t know where the toys are. Go back to my father and tell him—” He still had a house full of wedding guests, and there was nothing he could do here. “Tell him I’ll be staying here tonight. Tell him I said you could have one of those leftover raspberry jam tarts.”

“All right!” He whirled and ran to the door, where he stopped to look back. “Um, Gwin would be mad at you if you said I was here. And then, um, I’d just say I wasn’t.” With that, he was gone.

Mariat turned to Sheft, and all she had ever felt for him came rushing back. She wanted to lean over and kiss his flushed cheek, brush a tangle of wheat-colored hair off his forehead but—good-bye was good-bye. Her throat tightened. “You did a brave thing,” she managed to whisper to him. “Oris and his family will never thank you, but I do.”

She poured more water on the blanket, then began carefully peeling it away. He stiffened,

and with an indrawn hiss of pain, slumped into the mattress and was still. Biting her lip, fearing what she would see, Mariat removed the blanket.

“Oh, Rulve!”

In the common field she’d watched him work, shirtless and sweaty. She admired his straight back, the muscles in his shoulders, and had imagined running her hand down the smooth groove of his spine. But what she saw now scraped across her stomach. Deep gashes in his left shoulder raked down his back to the right side of his waist. Scarlet strips of his shirt were embedded in the wounds, and sickening glimpses of rib-bone and torn muscle showed through the skin. As she watched, bright red welled up in places where blood had already dried. 

Oh Sheft! How can you bear this?

He inhaled, making a long ragged sound like a sob. He seemed to fight his way into consciousness, and his whole body clenched with some kind of concentrated effort.

She watched in disbelief as blood receded into the open gashes. Some instinct told her they would ooze once more if he passed out again.

With wounds like these, he should have already bled to death. Incredibly, he seemed to be doing something to prevent that. A memory snapped into her mind: when she’d stitched up his arm in Hawk, that wound hadn’t bled either. She leaned back and studied his face. Whatever he was doing, the lines of strain there told her the cost must be terrible. Her heart poured out to him and tears stung the back of her eyes.

But she had no time for them now. She quickly gathered as many clean cloths as she could find and brought them, her medicines, and a bowl of warm water to his side. The cord around his neck was in the way, so she lifted his head and gently took it off. He moaned in protest, his eyes half-open. 

“It’s all right, Sheft. I’ll put it back when I’m done.” Her aunt always told her to speak to the sick as if they could hear and understand. She took a deep breath. “Now I have to get your shirt off. I’ll be as quick and careful as I can.”

She soaked the whole shredded area of his back with herb-water, then carefully peeled off the bloody strips of his shirt. In addition to everything else, a large, ugly bruise had formed midway down his right side. Something heavy must have cracked a rib. No wonder he couldn’t seem to take a deep breath. But there was little she could do about it, so she concentrated on the jagged wounds. The worst gaped at his left shoulder, then scored diagonally down. She dabbed away every speck of dirt she could see “Sheft, I’m going to pour some eferven on you. Remember this is the medicine”—oh God—“that stings.” She dribbled the clear liquid on his back, a little at a time.

He gasped and dug his forehead into the mattress as the medicine bubbled in the deep cuts and punctures.

She wiped away tears with her sleeve and forced herself to continue. When she was finished, she sat back and allowed them both to rest for a while. “You did good, sweetheart,” she murmured. To her dismay, the last word just slipped out.

Without turning his head, he stretched his right hand toward her. It trembled, and she couldn’t help but catch it up, warm and dear and calloused from work, and kissed the palm. He didn’t open his eyes, but she could see him swallow. She wanted to bend down and nuzzle under the curve of his jaw. 

But enough of that. Now they both had to endure the needle and thread. “Sheft, I have to do some stitching here. But I’ll go as easy as I can.” He winced at the first prick. She did too, for it was as if she felt it on her own skin. She thrust the sensation away, kept her voice low, her hand steady. “It’ll help if you grip the sides of the mattress. Yes, like that.”

Mid-way through her efforts, he shuddered and passed out. Immediately, as she had somehow known it would, red welled up again. It took all her attention to dab it away so she could see to stitch. After only moments, he stiffened and again the bleeding stopped. He must have spent the entire night doing that, all alone and in agony.

Don’t think about it. Concentrate on what you’re doing
.

The mattress was drenched and her hands sticky when the job was finally finished. She leaned back and wiped her forehead on her sleeve. “We’re done, sweetheart. The worst is over now.”

Either he heard her or realized the needle had stopped tormenting him, for the muscles in his shoulders slowly relaxed.

Her hands had been steady, but now they shook. She scrubbed them until they stopped, then carefully dribbled healoil over every inch of the gashes and scrapes on Sheft’s back. She folded several kitchen cloths, tore another into strips, and spread green burvena thickly over the bandage.

“Sheft, I’m going to put a cloth on your back. The salve might feel cold.” He flinched when she laid it over him, and his eyes fluttered open. “Now can you raise your chest a little?”

He did the best he could while she got the cloth strips under him and tied them over his shoulder and across his back to keep the bandage in place. He eased down with a sigh when she finished.

She suddenly remembered the spilled water. He must have tried to reach it in the night. “Oh, Rulve!” she exclaimed, jumping up in dismay. “With all that blood loss, you must be raging with thirst. I’m so sorry!”

Having had plenty of practice with her aunt, she got him to turn to the side as far as he could and raised his head. He gulped the water down, spilling only a little onto the towel she held beneath his chin, then sank down and closed his eyes.

She watched him breathing, this man she still, in spite of everything, loved so much. Gently, she slid her hand over his uninjured shoulder. His arm twitched, but his eyes stayed closed. “This part of your back is still beautiful,” she whispered. “Still beautiful.”

But never again would the rest of it be.

She took a deep breath. “You can’t spend the night on that bloody mattress.” She pulled one of the two straw mattresses off Tarn’s bed, positioned it beside Sheft, and helped him edge onto its surface. The other mattress she wrestled out the door and threw the stained blanket on top of it. “I’ll take care of all that in the morning.”

He cried out, startling her. She rushed to him and his eyes were glazed, but lit with urgency. “No! Burn.”

“Everything’s all right. The field-burn is over. Etane says you did a fine job.”

“Burn it!” He grabbed her hand.

“It is, Sheft,” she soothed him. “It’s all burned. Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.”

He continued insisting and trying to get up until she got a sleeping potion into him. When he finally quieted down, she washed the blood and soot off his face and hands and hair. Even though he didn’t seem to see her, gratitude spilled over the pain in his eyes. His hand fumbled at his neck, looking for the pendant. Riah must have left it to him.