Echoes of the Raven (The Eldrystone #2)

38. CHAPTER 38

38

VALERIA

“Fancy that! A princess of Castella staying in my inn.”

Francisca Martinez - Castellan Innkeeper - 21 AV

I grunt as I move and pain blooms in my abdomen. A rush of memories hits me. Calierin attacking me, her dagger piercing my side, the frantic urgency to escape, the searing jolts coursing through my bones with every beat of the horse’s hooves.

And then… nothing.

My hand flies to my neck. Relief washes over me when my fingers wrap around the amulet. The opal feels cool to the touch, comforting.

Slowly, I open my eyes and see Rífíor’s face resting mere inches from mine. His eyes are closed, the fringe of his black lashes swooping upward toward the corners of his eyes. His breathing seems labored. There is no color on his cheeks. His olive skin is actually sallow, making him appear ill. I search my addled mind for a reason, but I can’t remember anything past the pain and my quiet prayers to Niamhara. I asked her to heal me, and perhaps, she listened, eventually.

I glance around, examining the small room we’re in. It seems Rífíor found us a place in some sort of inn. It isn’t much, but it appears clean and tidy. Sunlight spills through a small window, illuminating the simple furniture, well-polished by time and use.

Pushing the covers down with a trembling hand, I inspect my wound. I’m weak and even lifting my head to see better takes a toll. I collapse back down, wondering who mended me. All that is left is a silver scar, the size of an acorn, so I’m certain espiritu was used.

Was it Niamhara or someone else? Did Rífíor find this inn and a fae healer? Did his actions save my life?

I glance at him once more, the curve of his black eyebrows, the thick line of his lashes, the stubbled line of his jaw that I yearn to caress.

Argh, Val! Don’t be an idiot. If he saved you, it’s because he needs you.

He stirs. I shut my eyes for some stupid reason. Maybe because I don’t want him to catch him staring at him like a fool. Besides, I’m tired, so very tired. He lets out a quiet groan as he stands, his clothes rustling. Maybe Calierin stabbed him too, and I just didn’t realize it. Either way, it doesn’t matter. We’re here now, and it’s all right to rest. It’s all right to…

I startle awake. I must have fallen asleep. I don’t know how long I’ve been out, but maybe it was a long while because no light filters through the window anymore.

At first, I think I’m alone, but then Rífíor peels away from the shadows in the corner, where he sits on a chair that groans as he stands. The light from several candles illuminates his angular face, clinging to the dark perfection of his hair like stardust on midnight velvet. He seems better than he did before, not as haggard.

He stares at me, saying nothing. I wish I could close my eyes and pretend to be asleep, but …

I swallow. The simple action sends me into a coughing fit that makes my side smart. He walks to a small table and pours a glass of water from a metal pitcher. Coming close, he tips the glass to my mouth, holding my head up with his free hand to help me drink. The water is cool, a blessed relief to my heated body.

“You still have a fever,” he says, “but you are improving.”

After a few sips, he rests my head back down. I think of what to say, but my mind is foggy.

“It was stupid what you did,” he says. “You should have told me you were wounded. You could have died.”

“I… had to get away from her.” My voice is scratchy, barely a croak.

“I could have bandaged your wound,” he goes on, “put pressure on it so you did not bleed out. It might have spared us all of this.” He gestures around the room.

Naturally, he’s furious about the time wasted. Without my blunder, he might already have reached the veil—or better yet... Tirnanog—and would finally be free of this wretched realm and its inhabitants, including me.

“Like I said,” I clear my throat, “I couldn’t wait to get away from your… friends .”

He runs a hand through his hair, looking tired. “It is all the same, I suppose. I keep thinking I should have been able to smell all that blood, but I did not. It makes me suspect Niamhara’s hand.”

Saints and feathers! Even I was able to smell my own nauseating descent toward death. Rífíor, with his keen senses, should have as well. That is indeed strange. Suddenly, I remember something.

“Calierin took my Plumanegra key!” I say.

“Not to worry, I took it back. It’s in one of the rucksacks.”

“That’s a relief.” I pause. “Do you really think Niamhara hid the scent of my blood from you?”

“I do. I have a feeling she has been interfering for some time . ”

His tone hints at a for some time measured in decades, far exceeding the mere weeks I’ve envisioned.

“What precisely do you mean?” I ask, though I doubt he will answer my question. Ever since I met him, he has been more impenetrable than the Plumanegra vault.

To my utter astonishment, he sighs with resignation. “I believe it is time to talk. But first, you should eat something. You have to regain your strength.”

What? He’s finally ready to talk, but he wants me to eat first. Seriously? I couldn’t care less about food right now. I think I would gladly starve to death while he tells me all his secrets. I can’t even count how many nights I’ve stayed up inventing conjecture after conjecture about his past.

“I will go get the broth Francisca offered and be back shortly.”

“Wait! Forget about the stupid broth.” I sit up, holding my side and wincing. “We can talk now.”

He leaves anyway, and as he shuts the door behind him, I clench my teeth in frustration. With difficulty, I prop the pillow against the wall and fully sit up. The pain around my middle brings tears to my eyes, but once I get comfortable, it returns to a dull ache. I wait, picking at a hole in the sheets to distract myself. Every minute feels like an hour, and I imagine some catastrophe befalling him, keeping me from ever learning the truth.

I’m irrationally relieved when he comes back. He carries a tray with a ceramic bowl and a piece of bread. The bowl steams as he sets it on the table, and the scent of seasoned broth wafts in front of my nose, awakening my hunger. He tears the soft parts of the bread and drops them into the bowl, then attempts to feed me with a wooden spoon.

I pull back. “Um, what are you doing? I can feed myself. I’m not that helpless.” I’m taken aback by his behavior. I never imagined Rífíor as the nurturing type.

He sets the spoon down and puts his hands up. “I’m glad. I’m not accustomed to treating adults like infants.”

I glare at him. “I’m not an infant.”

“No, you certainly are not.” He grins.

I hide a blush by lowering my head as he places the tray on my lap. I begin to eat and find the broth mild in taste, perfect for my convalescent stomach.

“It’s good,” I say.

He nods, pleased for an instant, then his stern, unreadable expression returns.

“Well? I ate. Are you going to talk now?”

“You hardly had a taste.”

I shove three more spoonfuls into my mouth. “Happy now?”

He grunts to indicate he isn’t, but I’m done with this game. “Don’t try to back down. This conversation is overdue.”

“Very well.” He pulls the chair from the corner closer to the bed and sits, interlacing his finger. “Let me start by saying that my life is my own, and I don’t owe anyone any explanations. So this is not that. This is only a necessity. Understood?”

I arch an eyebrow, thinking about his words and trying to decide whether or not they’re true. After some pondering, I come to the conclusion that they are not.

“I disagree,” I tell him. “I think that, after everything you’ve done, after the way you’ve treated me, the least you owe me is an explanation. From the beginning, I’ve been nothing but a pawn to you, a means to an end. Nothing justifies treating anyone like that. Nothing except, perhaps, a terribly, terribly good reason. So, if you want me to understand you and maybe one day forgive you, you will explain yourself.”

His response is a grunt.

I wait expectantly for him to begin but instead, he says, “You’re sitting up. The healer said that once you were able to do that, you should walk. So, get up.” He takes the tray away and puts an arm out, crooking his elbow.

“Puta madre, Rífíor. I’m not walking anywhere until you—”

“This will be done on my terms,” he says categorically.

We stare at each other, his dark eyes holding the resolve of who knows how many years of stubbornness. I know I’ll never win.

Defeated, I take his arm, and with his help, stand. As I stretch to my full height, my bones creak, and every inch of my body hurts. I think this is how Nana must feel, her joints ready to split in two at the slightest movement.

My legs tremble as I try to look stoic, but I don’t fool him. He turns and wraps an arm around my waist, offering me the support I need—in truth, bearing most of my weight. He guides me to the other side of the room, then back again. It only takes a few steps, but I’m utterly spent, catching my breath as if I’m not accustomed to exertion.

“One more time,” he says.

I don’t feel as if I can possibly take another step, but I won’t let him use my lack of effort as an excuse not to talk, so I turn and, gritting my teeth, do it one more time. Once back, I’m ready to collapse on the bed, but he doesn’t allow it. Instead, he practically picks me up and deposits me on the chair.

“There,” he says. “That should give the housekeeper time to change the sheets.” He heads for the door.

“Where are you going now? How many excuses are you going to come up with to postpone the inevitable?”

He glances back over his shoulder, one eyebrow arched. “My excuses got you this far, didn’t they?”

Bastardo! I try to make a flourish with my hand to let him know he has won, but I’m so weak, the effort is wasted since it looks as if I’m waving at imaginary flies .

He’s gone and back in under a minute. As he waits for the housekeeper, he stands in the corner, arms folded over his chest, one foot crossed over the other.

“I never imagined you to be such a… dedicated caregiver,” I say sarcastically.

He doesn’t take the bait. He just continues to stand there with his corpse-like expression, the same one I grew familiar with when he played his role of royal guard.

A moment later a friendly, heavyset woman comes in, followed by a younger girl.

“I’m so glad to see you so recovered,” she says as the girl begins working on the bed, quiet and demure. “We thought we would lose you.”

We? I glanced questioningly at Rífíor.

“Francisca was very helpful last night,” Rífíor says, “and I have no doubt her generous efforts played a big part in your survival?”

“Oh,” I manage. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank him.” She hooks a finger toward Rífíor. “You were near death when he burst in here. It was late, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer from my stubborn husband and convinced him to fetch the healer. After Thoran took care of you, this one wouldn’t leave your side.” She smiles at Rífíor. “You found you a good one, girl. Hold on to him.”

Rífíor stares at the floor, and I find myself suddenly fascinated by the rafters overhead.

“But never mind all that.” Francisca bats at the air. “You will be right as rain soon. Thoran’s espiritu is still at work.” He turns to the girl. “Almost done? By the way, this is my daughter, Lina.”

I incline my head. “Nice to meet you, Lina.”

The girl blushes as she curtsies, then continues working, smoothing the sheets. They are nice enough people, and it seems I owe them a great deal, but I’m impatient to talk to Rífíor, so I’m glad when Lina finishes the bed at last, and they leave, promising to return with a savory supper that will finish restoring my strength.

“Want to lay back down?” Rífíor asks.

“No, I want to sit here.” I point to the bed. “And you, sit there and fucking get started.”

“Such language, Little Princess.”

“Don’t call me that.” It’s what Bastien called me when he broke my heart.

The smirk on his face dies gradually, swiftly replaced by a stern expression unlike any I’ve seen on him before, which is saying a lot. My own mood shifts, becoming as solemn as his. I fear that whatever he’s about to tell me will be more dire than anything I’ve learned about him so far, which is also saying a great deal.

I steel myself, wondering if the impending revelation will shatter me beyond repair.