Tower of Dawn (Throne of Glass #6) - Sarah J. Maas Page 0,73

horse’s side. She pushed, jutting his leg upward, and he hung there, three girls gritting their teeth while they tried to lower him, the others watching in observational silence—

One of the girls let out an oomph and lost her grip on his shoulder. The world plunged—

Strong, unfaltering hands caught him, his nose barely half a foot from the pale gravel as the other girls shuffled and grunted, trying to heft him up again. He’d come free of the horse, but his legs were now sprawled beneath him, as distant from him as the very top of the Torre, high above.

Roaring filled his head.

A sort of nakedness crept over him. Worse than sitting in his undershorts for hours. Worse than the bath with the servant.

Yrene, gripping his shoulder from where she’d just barely caught him in time, said to the healers, “That could have been better, girls. A great deal better, for many reasons.” A sigh. “We can discuss what went wrong later, but for now, move him to the chair.”

He could barely stand to hear her, listen to her, as he hung between those girls, most of whom were half his weight. Yrene stepped aside to let the girl who’d dropped him back into place, whistling sharply.

Wheels hissed on gravel from nearby. He didn’t bother to look at the wheeled chair that an acolyte pushed closer. Didn’t bother to speak as they settled him in it, the chair shuddering beneath his weight.

“Careful.” Yrene warned again.

The girls lingered, the rest of the courtyard still watching. Had it been seconds or minutes since this ordeal had begun? He clenched the arms of the chair as Yrene rattled off some directions and observations. Clenched the arms harder as one of the girls stooped to touch his booted feet, to arrange them for him.

Words rose up his throat, and he knew they’d burst from him, knew he could do little to stop his bellow to back off as that acolyte’s fingers neared the dusty black leather—

Withered brown hands landed on the girl’s wrist, halting her mere inches away.

Hafiza said calmly, “Let me.”

The girls peeled back as Hafiza stooped to help him instead.

“Get the ladies ready, Yrene,” Hafiza said over a slim shoulder, and Yrene obeyed, ushering them back into their lines.

The ancient woman’s hands lingered on his boots—his feet, currently pointing in opposite directions. “Shall I do it, lord, or would you like to?”

Words failed him, and he wasn’t certain he could use his hands without them shaking, so he gave the woman a nod of approval.

Hafiza straightened one foot, waiting until Yrene had walked a few steps away and begun giving stretching instructions to the ladies.

“This is a place for learning,” Hafiza murmured. “Older students teach the younger.” Even with her accent, he understood her perfectly. “It was Yrene’s instinct, Lord Westfall, to show the girls what she did with the brace—to let them learn for themselves what it is to have a patient with similar difficulties. To receive this training, Yrene herself had to venture out onto the steppes. Many of these girls might not have that opportunity. At least not for several years.”

Chaol met Hafiza’s eyes at last, finding the understanding in them more damning than being hauled off a horse by a group of girls half his weight.

“She means well, my Yrene.”

He didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he had words.

Hafiza straightened his other foot. “There are many other scars, my lord. Beyond the one on her neck.”

He wanted to tell the old woman that he knew that too damn well.

But he shoved down that bareness, that simmering roar in his head.

He had made these ladies a promise to teach them, to help them.

Hafiza seemed to read that—sense it. She only patted his shoulder before she rose to her full height, groaning a bit, and walked back to the place left for her in line.

Yrene had turned toward him, stretching done, and scanned him. As if Hafiza’s lingering presence had indicated something she’d missed.

Her eyes settled on his, brows narrowing. What’s wrong?

He ignored the question within her look—ignored the bit of worry. Shoved whatever he felt down deep and rolled his chair toward her. Inch by inch. The gravel was not ideal, but he gritted his teeth. He’d given these ladies his word. He would not back down from it.

“Where did we leave off the last lesson?” Yrene asked a girl in the front.

“Eye gouge,” she said with a broad smile.

Chaol nearly choked.

“Right,” Yrene said, rubbing her hands together. “Someone demonstrate