Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

Rhapsody lay still, unwilling to open even a little the cloak that had warmed her through the journey. Her bleary eyes scanned the room; its walls were bare and the freezing air within it was old and stale. In the darkness she could make out a single bed and a table, in addition to the chair she sat in, as well as doorways to the outside and to what was probably a closet.

A moment later the cottage filled with dim light as Anborn lit a lantern and the fire began to crackle. He left the cottage and was gone quite some time; Rhapsody took advantage of his absence to fall into a light slumber. She was jostled rudely awake when the door slammed; Anborn strode back into the room, carrying a large tub that looked as if it was used as a trough.

—

He set the tub in front of the fireplace after dumping some debris out of it onto the dirt floor, then left the room again, returning with a large black pot, which he hung over the fire. Once more he left the cottage, and as the strength of the fire began to grow Rhapsody felt pain in her limbs as they started to thaw. She tried to rub her arms and legs under the cloak but found her hands unresponsive. Panic was starting to set in when Anborn came back.

This time he had two enormous buckets, and he filled the tub in front of the fire. Then he went to the pot over the flames, removed it carefully with a piece of leather shielding his hand from the red-hot handle, and poured the water from it into the tub as well. Steam rose to the thatched roof, and Anborn came to her, stripped the cloak from her, lifted her out of the chair, and dumped her unceremoniously into the tub.

A choked gasp escaped her and she began to weep tearlessly as the hot water blasted her still-frozen body, returning feeling to her extremities and agony to her torso. She trembled uncontrollably as skin from her toes and fingers peeled off and rose to the surface, floating among the flimsy scarves that she still wore.

Anborn left the cottage again without a word or a backward glance. He returned again shortly with more water, with which he refilled the pot over the fire. Then he came to the tub and stood over her, watching her cry. He crouched down to her level and regarded her coolly, then reached out and pulled off the scarf that barely covered her breasts.

“Get that thing off,” he said, indicating the lower part of her costume, which was skimming the surface of the water along with leaves, twigs, and other forest debris. Rhapsody tried to slide out of it, but she couldn’t raise her hips high enough; Anborn reached into the tub impatiently and tore it loose, tossing it onto the floor behind him. His eyes ran over her body, the look on his face professional, as though he were sizing up an animal at a farm auction. Then he went back to the fire and stirred the water in the pot.

“Is the feeling coming back yet?” he asked, his back to her.

“Yes,” Rhapsody sobbed, trying to regain control of herself. She watched as black skin from her knees cracked and rubbed off into the water, leaving raw pink patches beneath. “Where is the gladiator?”

Anborn turned, a look of disgust on his face. “You certainly have your priorities backward,” he said, annoyance riddling his voice. “You should be wondering whether we can save the use of your hands and feet, not your toy.” He pulled the pot from the fireplace and poured more of the steaming water into the tub, watching with grim satisfaction as Rhapsody cried out in pain again.

“Well, that seems promising, at least,” he said, returning the pot to the fire again. “Now, what did you want to ask me?”

Rhapsody took shallow breaths, trying to control the agony that was coursing through her, making her arms and legs ache to the bone. “Please, Anborn,” she stammered, “where is he?”

Anborn looked at her again, his eyes dark and piercing. Finally he spoke. “He’s in the root cellar,” he said sharply, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Is he your lover?”

—

The scene in Sorbold came flooding back to her, and the sheer irony of his question caught her off guard. Revulsion that she had suppressed for survival purposes flooded her, and she began to convulse in pain and the memory of what had happened.

She had tried to hold it in, hoping that she could wait until she was in Oelendra’s strong arms to lay it down, but the trauma was too strong and her defenses were gone. She wept aloud, the terror she had felt in the gladiator’s grasp mixing with her agony. Anborn turned rapidly back to the fire. He brought the kettle forth again, this time pouring it slowly in the far end of the tub, disturbing the water as little as possible.

When he was finished he rested his hand on her shoulder. “All right,” he said, his voice gruff but not unkind, “that’s enough. You can cry later; it offends my ears. I’ll take that as a no. So why did you undertake this asinine kidnapping?” He reached into the water and began to cup it into his hand, pouring it over her shoulders and parts of her upper body that were above its surface.

Rhapsody’s eyes cleared a little, and went from the room around her to the man bathing her. They were both very rough, a wilderness cabin with mud-caulked walls and no ornamentation, much like Anborn himself. She watched, hiccoughing, as he skimmed the pieces of dead skin that floated on the muddy water’s surface, tossing them onto the dirt floor behind him. Then he took hold of her shoulders and raised her upper body farther out of the water to keep her head above it, much in the same way she had when bathing the children of the F’dor before Oelendra’s roaring hearth.

Rhapsody shivered, and when she calmed down she tried to explain the plan and what had happened. As she spoke her voice grew smoother, and soon the hiccoughing that had interrupted almost every word eased to an occasional vocal cough. When the feeling returned to her hands she ran them along her arms and legs, bathing them in the steaming water as Anborn was bathing her upper body, a look of dismay on her face as still more pieces of skin flaked off, leaving painful sores exposed to the heat of the dirty tub.

Finally, when she had finished, Anborn shook the water from his hands and regarded her seriously. “Are you sworn in allegiance to Llauron?” he asked.

“No,” Rhapsody said. “But he taught me a great many things about healing and horticulture. I try to follow the goal he outlined for me.”

Anborn snorted in contempt. “Listen to me. Here is the first rule: when your allegiance is sworn, you will follow that person’s instructions, unquestioningly, until death or later. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Rhapsody testily. “What’s your point?”

“The second rule,” Anborn continued, “is that when you are not sworn, you owe nothing to anyone, and you never put yourself into situations that can harm or kill you unless it benefits you personally. You have faced, and may still suffer, rape, injury, the loss of limbs, and death, for someone to whom you have no oath of loyalty. That is stupid, miss. You owe Llauron nothing.”

“You don’t understand,” she answered, shivering under his glower, either from the disdain in his eyes or the dropping temperature of the water. “Llauron did not direct me to get the gladiator. It is I that have been gathering the children of the F’dor.”

“And a good thing for them, too—had I known that was what they were I would have put them to the sword myself and been done with it. In fact, I think I still will.” He stood up and went to the corner where he had left his gear and brought forth from its scabbard an enormous bastard sword that glinted in the dim light. Rhapsody watched in horror as he strode to the door, murder on his face.

She tried to get out of the tub to stop him, but her legs betrayed her and refused to budge. In desperation she called his name, using her deepest powers of Naming.