By Chance Met (4 page)

Gardon grunted and slid to the ground. Reijir prodded him with his foot then let out his breath. He picked up Gardon’s weapon and tossed it into the rank canal then wiped his blade clean on the ruffian’s jerkin and shoved the knife back into its sheath. Only then did he turn to the lad who now lay still and silent on the cold alley floor.

Worried, Reijir knelt by him and examined him more closely. He softly swore when he recognized the youth despite the blood and dirt that obscured his features.
Heyas
, it was the lad from the Vomare. The one who had helped him. Reijir scowled and looked back at the inert thug behind him.

This had been no random assault. The scoundrel had attacked the boy in retribution for assisting Reijir.

Reijir pulled the youth’s breeches up then carefully lifted him in his arms and headed for the street. He needed more light to examine the lad thoroughly. As he passed Gardon, the thug feebly groaned and half-opened his eyes. They widened with alarm when they fell on Reijir.

The Herun looked from him to the Deir in his arms. The youngster’s face was swollen, his nose and mouth were bleeding profusely, and his chest down to his belly was an ugly patchwork of welts and bruises.

Fury bubbled up within Reijir, and he abruptly lashed out with his foot. The sound of breaking bone and snapping cartilage assured him Gardon would roam the south district no more. Satisfied, he bore his precious cargo to the Vomare.

The few remaining customers were startled into silence when he barged in. The tavern owner hastened to him with a shocked cry. Reijir did not bother to explain but set down the youth on a long table.

He tore open what was left of the boy’s shirt and swiftly examined his torso. He did not like the look of the rapidly darkening mottled patch on the latter’s belly–it was possible he was bleeding internally. And he suspected the youth’s ribs were broken judging from his pained and labored breathing.

The tavern owner caught his breath when he laid his eyes on his server’s torn breeches. “Holy Veres! Was he raped?” he anxiously asked.

Without looking up, Reijir shook his head. “I found him in time. It’s fortunate I came back,” he 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

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 cabinets full of bottles and vials of varying shapes, sizes and color. A rather astringent scent reminiscent of medicaments permeated the air.

It was a room such as one might find in a hospital or a physician’s residence. It reminded Naeth of the town healer’s examination room back home in Losshen.

His attention was caught by the sound of feet hastening up a flight of stairs. So he was in a ground floor room then.

After some time passed, he heard feet descending those same stairs at a brisk pace.

The footsteps steadily neared.

“Deity’s blood! How did this happen?’

Someone was talking, explaining. Something about finding him beaten up and on the brink of being raped. Naeth shuddered as recollection of his misadventure in the alley

came flooding back.

So I wasn’t raped?
he thought in confusion.
But Gardon had pulled down my
—

Naeth thrust the memory aside. Gardon had not succeeded in despoiling him, and that was what mattered. Now if only the pain would go away. It was so hard to think, to make sense of what was happening.

Fingers quickly spread his shirt open then skimmed over his skin so lightly he scarcely felt their touch. Whoever it was examining him murmured something in a rather peremptory tone but the feather-light touches did not cease. A little while later, he smelled an aromatic odor that reminded him of the hoarhound and feverfew plants that grew in the field behind his family’s house. He recalled the bitter hoarhound brew he and his brothers had perforce imbibed whenever they came down with the sniffles.

His hair was gently pushed back from his forehead, and a soft damp cloth was dabbed against his temple. It went on to his left cheek and the corner of his mouth. Each time the cloth touched his skin it stung, but the discomfort was soon followed by a cool sensation that lessened the hurt.

Those must be wounds he’s treating
, Naeth fuzzily thought.

He managed to open his eyes a crack and take a peek at the Deira who tended him.

He almost fainted again when he recognized the exotic-looking aristocrat from the Vomare. The Herun of Ilmaren, Camrion had said.

The Herun was holding a gauzy cloth to the mouth of a bottle filled with a clear liquid. After a while, he set the bottle down and resumed his ministrations, tending to Naeth’s chest and shoulders next.

Movement on his other side alerted Naeth to the second presence in the room. He shifted his gaze and peered at the other Deir. Thick strands of gleaming brown hair fell across his forehead, partially obscuring a pair of dark eyes. He was probably a physician judging from the way he methodically ran his fingers over Naeth’s battered flesh.

As the Deir bent lower over him, his loose shirt’s neckline dipped and opened to reveal a trail of reddish bruises from his throat to his shoulder. Even in his innocence, Naeth recognized the signs of interrupted coitus.

“I take it Ashrian is staying the night,” he heard the Herun comment.

“He’ll have to now,” was the dry reply.

“I’m sorry for the interruption.”

“Nothing we can’t address later.”

Naeth closed his eyes, the mere effort to keep them open even slightly already exhausting. He turned his head sideways, seeking a more comfortable position.

“What in Aisen is taking you so long, Eiren?” someone complained. “The bed’s grown cold and so have I!”

Startled, Naeth dared a quick peek. He found he was facing the door. A tousled-haired Deir stood there. He looked rather familiar. The Deir scowled when he saw Reijir.

“Holy Saints, Rei! Haven’t you had your fill of my company that you must follow me here?” he demanded waspishly.

It came to Naeth then. The Deir was one of the Herun’s companions from the

skirmish at the Vomare. Naeth realized he must be the Ashrian spoken of earlier.

“Oh, stuff it, Ash,” Eiren said as he continued to examine Naeth. “It was my skills Rei came for, not your disreputable company.”

It was then that Ashrian noticed Naeth lying supine and almost unmoving on the

table. His eyes widened.

“
Heyas
! Is that the lad from the tavern?” he exclaimed, coming into the room. “The one who brained that scoundrel with a serving tray?”

Reijir sighed. “The scoundrel returned to pay him back for helping me.”

Ashrian uttered an imprecation. He glanced at Reijir, eyes glittering with suppressed anger.

“I trust you killed him,” he said. When Reijir only looked at him, he smiled mirthlessly and declared, “Good.”

“Broken collarbone… two cracked ribs… split lip… multiple abrasions… nose isn’t damaged,” Eiren was muttering, heedless of their talk. “Left ankle is sprained. No other fractures, thank Veres.”

“Internal bleeding?” Reijir asked.

“Yes. You did right to bring him to me.”

The physician placed a hand over the intensely painful spot on Naeth’s belly. His eyes began to glow eerily. Shocked by the sight, Naeth could not help opening his eyes wide, a frightened gasp escaping him.

“He’s awake,” Reijir said. He stroked Naeth’s cheek soothingly with the back of his knuckles. “Easy, lad. You’re in good hands. There’s nothing to fear.”

Naeth shifted his gaze to the Herun. Absurdly, all he could think was that Reijir Arthanna was really very handsome. Small wonder Gardon had lusted after him. He sighed and tried to clear his mind of such nonsense. He attempted to curve his swollen lips into a grateful smile.

“Thank you,
Dyhar
,” he whispered.

He slid back into unconsciousness, aware at the last only of a strange prickling sensation that coursed through his body and gradually swept away the pains of his savaging.

The physician’s home was modest by the standards of the Ylandrin aristocracy.

Eiren’s preference for cozy simplicity over luxurious indulgence showed in the comfortable yet stylishly spare furnishings.

“I sent for the carriage,” Reijir said as Ashrian handed him a glass of strong Sidona brandy. “He’ll be able to lie down on the way home.”

“You could fetch him tomorrow,” Eiren offered. “The lad can stay here for the night.”

“Nay,” Reijir demurred. “I’ve kept you from Ashrian’s clutches long enough.”

Ashrian snickered shortly as he sat beside Eiren.

“I still can’t believe you went back there for the sake of a pair of gloves,” he remarked. “Though the boy is likely very grateful that you did.”

“I’m very fond of these gloves,” Reijir replied, making a show of admiring how well said gloves looked on his hands. “And I do try to keep my possessions for longer than a month’s use. Which is more than can be said for certain Deira we know.”

Eiren chuckled while Ashrian threatened to heave a cushion at the Herun.

“Well, he should be fairly healed in about a fortnight, barring any unforeseen complications,” the physician said. “By the way, what’s his name? Do you know? I should like to call him something other than ‘he’ and ‘lad’ and ‘boy’.”

“His name is Naeth,” Reijir answered. “And he hails from Losshen.”

“Losshen!” Eiren grimaced. “He’s rather far from home for one so young.”

“Why, how old do you think is he?”

“I wager he’s yet to reach the age of consent.”

“That young?” Reijir shook his head. “He’s an orphan. The tavern keeper said his entire family died in a fire.”

That elicited expressions of sympathy from the other two.

“But perhaps he has relations back in Losshen,” Ashrian suggested, swirling the golden contents of his glass. “
Sedyra
seldom live far from their kin.”

“Yet Naeth came to Rikara precisely because he had no one,” Reijir said.

“Maybe one of his parents had a falling-out with relations and moved away to put distance between them,” Eiren commented.