Blood Seed: Coin of Rulve Book One (26 page)

“Sheft.” Gently, she shook his right shoulder, bare above the bandage, and this time the touch rushed down to his groin. “Be at peace, sweetheart. Perhaps the wise people of the Seani can advise you, heal you. It’s surely Rulve’s providence that summons you there. In any case, I’m coming with you.”

“No, Mariat. Absolutely n—”

She put a finger on his lips. “The Rift-riders will protect us. You seem to have forgotten all about them.”

She was looking at him with such love that for a moment he couldn’t speak. A hope too big to acknowledge was beginning to dawn on him, but he quickly thrust it away. “I can’t let you do this. Oh God, I want to! But I can’t.”

Her face clouded. “You pushed me away once before—out of fear for me, you said. Don’t let fear separate us again.”

He remembered the terrible winter without her, how precious she was to him, what his life would be like if she wasn’t part of it. How could she have such faith in him? Such miracles didn’t happen in his world, and he was having a hard time comprehending they might. “For how long would you stay with me?” 

She reared back slightly in surprise. “What do you mean, how long will I stay? I’ll stay always, like any other wife.”

The pain must be making him hear things. He could hardly believe the word she used so casually:
wife
. Everything he thought he could never possess—commitment he could never deserve, intimacy he never dared hope for—resided in that word. “You would hold-fast to me as—as your husband? In spite of all you know about me?”

Her eyes danced as she looked at him. “Yes.” She wriggled closer to him, tucked her head under his chin, and placed her hand lightly over his waist. “This I choose. This I would hold fast.” 

He put his arm around her, but had to continue. He had to make certain she understood—that
he
understood. Taking a deep breath, he plunged on. “What about—about children?” Another word, beyond belief.

She answered him sleepily, her voice muffled against his chest. “Babies are very nice,” she said. “You would make a good father.”

The word stunned him, another simple word, and sudden elation leaped up in him.
Husband, father
—such words he had always dismissed, quickly, before they could hurt him. But now she offered them to him as if they were not some impossible resurrection.

“Mariat, I don’t even know who my father is. What if it wasn’t Neal, but someone who attacked a helpless woman in the dark?”

She nuzzled him. “I’m holding fast to you, Sheft, not your father.”

“But what would our children be?”

“I don’t know. Parents never know.” Her eyes were closing. The wine, the long hours she spent caring for him, the encounter with the beetle-man—all must be taking their toll. “But I think they would be like usual—part me, part you.”

“But I’m—”

“You’re kind and brave and strong.”

She was beyond his imagining, and always had been. But still he had to be certain. “Because of me, the darkness came tonight. Would you face such a nightmare again?”

With her eyes closed, she murmured against him: “Isn’t that the grace given to husband and wife? That they can face anything if they’re together?”

She had faith, and courage—enough for them both. She knew everything about him and accepted him, exactly as he was, and loved him. His heart swelled with wild joy and he pulled her tightly against him. “Oh, Mariat! I will love you forever, no matter what, with everything in me.”

“I love you too, Sheft,” she breathed. “So now we are betrothed.” With a sigh she fell asleep against him.

For hours it was not pain that kept him awake, but the need to make sure she was still there. And she always was.

Mariat stirred in the half-dark, dimly aware of a robin singing far off, its lone, clear voice echoing in the distant halls of dawn. With a dreamy smile, she moved closer to the warmth of her beloved’s body.

It was broad day when she next awoke. The blanket that she had used to cover Sheft last night was now tucked around her. Mariat propped herself up on one elbow and gazed at her betrothed. He lay asleep on his stomach, his head turned toward her, with only a corner of the blanket covering his waist. The crook of his right arm covered his eyes and partially shielded the strands of his wheat-colored hair. It was as if he tried to hide his appearance even in sleep.

Her eyes caressed him, and ran over the muscles of his bare shoulders and arms. He was so beautiful. He had endured so much, had opened his heart so completely to her. In their darkest hour, grace had come to them, and their lives had become inextricably intertwined.

She sighed in pleasure and stretched to her toes, a woman pledged in troth. Inextricably

intertwined. A delicious concept. Soon, after they were married, they would in truth become inextricably intertwined. Softly, so as not to wake him, she leaned over and kissed his wrist. It felt hot against her lips.

He sighed and moved his arm, and Mariat laid her hand over his forehead. “You have a fever!” she cried. “I was afraid of this. Of this exact thing.”

His silver eyes flickered open and rested on her. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Sorry, Mariat.”

“It’s not your fault, dear heart. Of course you can’t help it.” She got up, wrung a cloth in cold water, and placed it around his neck. The bandage covering his back was clean, but now he faced another danger.

“You used up so much ice last night!” she exclaimed. “Is there any left?” She shook him gently. “Ice, dear heart. We need ice, for the fever.”

Eyes closed, he licked his lips. “Working... I’m working on it.”

She brought water, but soon after he drank it, he began shivering. Then he got hot again and threw off the blanket. Trying to keep him still and the bandage intact, she fought the fever, rinsing and replacing the cloth, bathing his face and arms in cool water, and putting another blanket on him when he began shivering again. She prayed to Rulve and made the sign of his circle on Sheft’s forehead with healoil. They were supposed to leave on their journey the day after tomorrow. After this relapse, would he have the strength? If they arrived late, would the Rift-riders wait for them?

In the early afternoon the door burst open, and she was so concerned for Sheft that it startled her not at all. It was her father, who gave her a big hug. “I got Oris’s message. How is Sheft?”

“He was getting better, but now he’s got a fever!”

She led him to stand over Sheft, whose face looked flushed against the pillow. Moro got down on one knee and inspected the bandage, gently touching it here and there. “Poor lad. Tarn did a fine job, though.” He looked around. “Where is he? I’ve brought back his wagon.”

Mariat decided not to mention that Tarn had nothing to do with Sheft’s bandage, and that as far as she could tell, had heartlessly abandoned him. The news would only fill her father with recriminations. Instead she mumbled something about needing more burvena from the apothecary in Ferce, which she did, and let Moro assume Tarn had gone to get it, which he certainly had not.

“I’m sure you were a great help here, Mariat. You did well to spend the night.”

You don’t know the half of it
, she thought.

“You don’t know,” Sheft mumbled from his mattress, “the half of it. She’s…a very brave woman.”

Moro looked puzzled. “Eh?”

“He’s feverish,” Mariat said quickly. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying.” 

Sheft groaned a disagreement and pushed the cloth off his neck. “Very brave.” He opened his eyes, which were like pools of melted silver, and found her face. “Fever. I think from ice-reaction, Mariat, not—” He gestured feebly toward his back.

“Icy action?” Moro asked. “What’s that?”

“It’s the fever talking.” Hastily Mariat knelt beside Sheft and gave him a poke in the arm. “Moro’s here, Sheft. Don’t speak. Just save your strength.”

He blinked at her, seemed to remember what he had just said, then nodded sheepishly.

Mariat lifted an edge of the bandage and sniffed at it. Sheft was right: the wounds were not infected. The fever must be a reaction to the great drain of ice, perhaps his body’s way of trying to balance the humors after an overwhelming effort. But he had a fever nonetheless, and maybe a potion would help.

She got her father to bring in water and firewood. He clomped in and out, talking about the wedding, while she made a medicine and helped Sheft drink it. After she had settled him down again, her father invited her outside. “Looks like you need a little fresh air.”

As they went through the door, Mariat felt a momentary chill as she passed through the ghostly memory of the beetle-man who had stood there only hours ago. Now a square of sunlight tried to purify the spot.

They sat on the doorstep. It was a hazy afternoon, and an east wind blew from the deadlands, bringing the rich smell of earth. Later on, there would be rain.

Moro cleared his throat. “You still care for him, don’t you?”

Her heart full, she nodded.

“Daughter, marriage is hard enough for a man and wife who are more or less alike, but if they’re different—well, all kinds of things can crop up. As young as he is, Sheft knows this, and he’s already said his good-byes. It’s for the best that you part.” He patted her knee. “Take another look at Gwin, now. You ignored him at the wedding, and he came around again yesterday, asking about you. He’s a fine lad, and one day will take over his father’s smithy. He’s good with children—we’ve seen that for ourselves—and treats you and our family with respect. You can’t ask for much more in a husband.”

It took all her restraint to keep from blurting out the truth:
Forget Gwin! I’m already espoused. To one I love so much.
But as she looked at her father’s lined face, she realized that he had just spent his first night completely alone since Mama died, with no son or daughter to keep him company. He missed his wife terribly, and hinted that he looked forward to the time when both his children would settle nearby and raise grandchildren. She must prepare him gently for the news of her departure. She began by telling him what Sheft had done for Oris.

“Daddy, everyone in the village should know he saved the boy’s life. Then they would see Sheft as I do, and change their minds about him.”

Her father shook his head sadly. “They wouldn’t believe it, Mariat. They’re too far gone in hate. Your mother—and Riah too—always said this hatred came from fear. But I think it’s much worse than that. In order to thrive, evil must be fed, and that’s not done out of fear. For his own good, Sheft is better off in Ullar-Sent.”

She had no answer to that, and Moro stood up. “Come home as soon as Tarn returns.”

She reached up to hug him. “I love you, Daddy.” He smiled back at her as he rode away.

Leaving him was going to hurt, both him and herself, more than she had thought.

It was mid-afternoon, and she had just scrubbed the carrots she was going to use for dinner, when Sheft woke. His forehead was still warmer than it should be, but at least he could sit up, cross-legged on the mattress. He looked around and sniffed the spring air that came through the open door. “I feel like a man pulled out of the grave.”

She smiled at him fondly. “And that’s exactly what you look like. You should see your hair.”

With a wry smile he ran his fingers through it, with little effect. 

“Here, let me do that.” She pulled a comb out of her pack and sat on the mattress beside him. “Bend your head down a little.” He did, and she worked the comb through his tousled, pale hair.

“Ow.”

“Sorry.” She worked in silence for a moment, then drew back to view him. “I think I liked you better the other way.”

Obligingly, he messed his hair up.

“Stop that! I was only teasing.” She plied the comb again. “There, that’s better.” They faced each other, and she was acutely aware that only the crack between the mattresses separated them. She looked away.

“There’s soot and dried blood all over your pants,” she said. “Lie back. I washed the top half of you yesterday, now I should do the bottom half.” She brought a cloth and a basin of warm water and knelt beside him.

“I’ll do it,” he murmured, fumbling one-handedly at the tie at his waistband. “Just go and finish making dinner.”

“Sweetheart, you’ll pull on those stitches. Let me.”

For a moment he resisted, but then took a position partly on his left side, an elbow crooked under his head. A flush crept up his neck as she removed his pants and small-cloth.

At the sight of him her throat swelled, as did the warm place between her legs.

He slid the elbow under his head over his eyes. “Sorry, Mariat,” he said in a low voice. “I guess it’s obvious what I want to do.” 

It was. Very. A little breathless, a little shaken by how much she loved him, she cupped her hand over that part of him. “After we’re wed, sweetheart,” she whispered. “After those stitches come out.”

Under the shadow of his arm, he swallowed and nodded. 

Knowing what she was doing to him and trying not to, she washed him as matter-of-factly as she could, but her hands were heavy with tenderness. She attempted to concentrate on cleaning off the blood, on rinsing out the washcloth, on commenting to herself that his hair down here was as pale as that on his head, but she was failing. The muscles of his legs felt solid as she rubbed soap over them, and her whole body wanted to press against his.

The hand at his waist tightened into a fist.
When we’re wed, beloved. When we’re wed.
For both their sakes she finished quickly, and he was soon wearing a clean small-cloth and pants. When she came back to his side after emptying the basin, he turned and gazed at her with his heart in his eyes.

She caressed the side of his face. “You covered me up in the night.” She smiled at the thought of him leaning over her and tucking the blanket around her. “That was nice.”

He sat up, took her hand, and with lowered eyes traced the outline with one finger, moving it slowly between each of hers. She felt what he was doing all over her skin. “I hope it won’t be long,” he said, “until I can do other nice things for you in the night.” His voice was light and teasing, but when he raised that silver gaze to her, she knew what troubled him.  

“I’ve never—been with anyone—either,” she admitted.

His diffidence drained away, and he was seeing only her. He pulled her close. His arms were strong, his kiss urgent and deep. The feel of his chest against hers, of his bare shoulders under her hands, sent a hot stroke of desire through her.

They drew back and he simply looked at her. But lines of pain between his eyebrows seemed to express a love so strong and so vulnerable it hurt. Tears stung, for her longing for him was almost more than she could bear. “Beloved,” she whispered.

He squeezed her hand, and not taking his eyes from her, sank back. They both knew if they were to go anywhere the day after tomorrow, he’d have to regain his strength. She covered him with the blanket, and with a sigh he closed his eyes.  

My dearest love,
she thought to him.

Now it was her turn to wash. She climbed to her feet and emptied and refilled the basin. After making herself presentable, she hauled Tarn’s mattress back into his room.

A good thing too, because in the middle of preparing supper, she heard the creak and rumble of a cart, and Tarn came through the door. He seemed taken aback to see her. Then his eyes fastened on Sheft—clean, bandaged, and asleep on the floor.

#   #   #

So he had lived. Again the boy had lived.

Apparently it was more important to Ul, Tarn thought bitterly, that one foreigner survive than an entire village be saved. But if he had learned anything in his life, it was to avoid rushing into judgment, especially of the gods. Perhaps events were still unfolding, and he should wait and watch.

“You may go home now, Mariat,” he said. “Thank you for what you’ve done here.”

Instead of murmuring some modest response, she lifted her chin at him and her eyes flashed. “Where were you?”

Her attitude first startled, then angered him. She had no business questioning him, and he answered curtly. “In Ferce. Replacing the cart.”

This explanation plainly did not suit her, but because she was Moro’s daughter, he summoned up the patience to keep matters within the grasp of her experience. “Mariat, you are young and probably can’t understand why I left him. No doubt it seemed heartless to you, but you’re not aware how grave the situation has gotten in At-Wysher. Because of this, I’ve asked Sheft to leave. It’s best for everyone.”

She stood there stiffly. “He saved Oris. He took the brunt of the field tools spilling out of the kunta-kart.”

He sighed. “Whatever he says happened, Sheft still should have died. It was the will of Ul, and you pulled him back. Now he’ll be a cripple and a burden on his family up north.”