Chapter 4

Dura

T he captain seems more lucid this time compared to his previous waking moments. For the past month I have healed him more every day, talked him through his hallucinations and fevers and held him down when the coughing fits wracked his body, only leaving for maybe an hour a day to hunt meat and forage for herbs. He has talked to me before, ranted and threatened as well, but today . . . he appears actually awake.

I put down the now-empty cup and reach to touch him again so that I may scan him, checking for fevers or lingering infection, but he recoils from my fingers, disbelief and suspicion in his brown eyes.

“What does that mean?” he asks, his voice hard. “That I am your mate?”

I sigh a little. It would appear my Ash’ka is stupid. Lucky me.

“It means what it sounds like,” I respond, and push my hand forward to him anyway, touching his bare chest, despite his obvious objection. I close my eyes and scan. No fever. No infection. The natural healing of his body reaches out to me with a strong, healthy response, greeting my magic and eager to be guided in fixing his body. The healing is still tentative in his lung, the tissue there delicate, but it is holding. If he stays in bed, maybe another week, he will be able to move around.

None of this I tell him, however. He is still weak and obviously sees me as an enemy. I suppose we still are. I know I do not trust this man I have saved, even if Fate has chosen him for me. There is too much I don’t know about him. Now that he is healing, I suppose I will have to sleep lightly to take care that I don’t wake up with him stabbing me with my own knives. He is human, after all. He has no way of feeling the Recognition. To him I am merely the orcress that defeated him in battle and helped kill his sister.

A sudden feeling of grief threatens to overwhelm me. In the last month I have had much time to myself, to think and regret. I am a deserter, a warrior who has lost her honor. I will never see my people again. Never laugh with my cousin or drink with my comrades. And for what? A fated mate that has every reason to hate me, even as my every instinct is tuned to him.

Proving my point, the man in front of me narrows his eyes. “So, you saved me because you think I am supposed to be your soulmate?”

I nod. “That is the gist of it, yes.” I pull my hand back, rocking back on the balls of my feet, but don’t stand. I regard him, meeting his hard gaze with a guarded one of my own. After all this time I can finally talk to him, get to know him, figure out why him , but I find I can barely think of what to say.

So instead I ask, “What is your name, soldier?”

His face becomes wary. “If we have talked before, don’t you already know it?”

I shake my head. “Your fevered ramblings were full of questions and accusations. You were never lucid enough to answer questions of your own.”

The captain takes this in, his expression considering. I can tell he is weighing his options, deciding if it would be more advantageous to withhold or offer the information I seek. After a moment, he says, “I am Sir Marvik Grimble, Captain of the Blue Guard, Guardian of the First Citadel, personal knight to King Yorian of Adrik. What is your rank and position?”

Ah, he wants an exchange of information, nothing given for free, even though I have answered all his questions honestly so far. This conversation is already making me tired and my heart heavy. “I have no rank,” I tell him, “no position. And you are not the personal knight of anyone. Your king is almost certainly dead.” I have no way of knowing this for sure, it’s true. I left before the end of the battle, but I saw which way it was headed and Rognar said that he would take the king’s head before marching on the Adrikian Capital.

That considering look goes over the human, Marvik’s, face again. He closes his eyes as if in deep concentration and then says, “You are right. He’s gone now.”

What does that mean? How does he know the fate of his king, but not his sister? I want to ask, but we are far from the level of trust I sense would be necessary for him to answer me.

Marvik’s eyes open again and he levels his stare at me. “I know you are lying about your rank. I saw you enter with the orc king. Not just any member of the Horde would be right next to their ruler.”

I am a little affronted. My voice is steel when I reply, “I am not lying. I am a deserter now. Any rank or position I had is gone.” Along with my dreams, I inwardly lament.

“But you had a position before you deserted,” he insists.

I twist my lips. Finally I answer, “I was General of the Southern Horde and ?Keeper of the King.”

“Keeper of the King?”

“It is a similar position to yours. I was ?the king’s bodyguard.” A largely ceremonial role, as Rognar can take care of himself and his Axe and Shield are the first line of defense against challenges and assassinations. But I was the last line of defense, my ax between any threats that came to my cousin.

The human captain absorbs my words. Then he says, “Our intelligence said that it was a cohort of the Northern Horde that attacked Fort Attis. Why was the General of the Southern Armies there?”

“My king was there. My role as Keeper takes precedence over leading my Horde.”

Marvik looks considering. He shifts slightly on the bedroll and grunts softly, obviously in pain, but working not to show it. I could reach out and soothe the ache again, but this conversation has me feeling on guard and I keep my distance. A little pain when he shifts will not kill him and will teach him not to move prematurely.

Finally, the human says, “You gave up a prized position and place of honor just to desert and heal me? Just because you think I am your Ash’ka ?”

“I do not think it, I know it.”

“How?” he asks.

That is an easy enough answer. “I experienced the Recognition.”

“And what is that?”

“An unmistakable feeling, a knowing. It changes everything.”

His gaze is as clinical as it was when we fought, obviously pulling apart my statement, mulling over the implications. Probably strategizing how he can use the information to his advantage. As stone-faced as he is, he is easy to read. It’s all in his dark, fathomless eyes.

After a time he says, “I don’t feel anything different.”

I suspected as much, but having him say it aloud hurts me a surprising amount. But I absorb the blow stoically and nod. “You are human, with no elvish blood. It is to be expected that things would not be the same for you.”

“And if they are never the same for me? If I never feel that you are my soulmate and never want you?”

Another blow. I would almost think that he is trying to wound me. Maybe he is, testing my reactions and temperament. It’s what I would do . . . if I was a captive trying to escape a captor. I look at the man on the bedroll and see his calculating eyes gazing back at me. I have no interest in being the captor of my Ash’ka , but it is clear that is how he sees me. Disappointment washes over me. I don’t know what I really expected when he finally woke up, but I suppose I hoped . . . well, it doesn’t matter what I hoped. The only thing that matters is what is . And that means that we are still enemies at odds, he and I.

His body language gets more and more wary the longer I take to respond. If I wanted to keep him off kilter, I suppose I could refuse to respond at all. But, again, I am not trying to be his adversary, no matter how disappointing of an Ash’ka he is.

“Then my sacrifice will have been for nothing,” I reply, “and all my hopes are naught but foolishness. Now, go back to sleep. You are still healing and if you over-tax yourself, you could open the wound in your lung again.”

With that, I stand, heading back to tend the fire and cook more healing broth and say nothing else for the rest of the evening.