COMMAND THE TIDES - Wren Handman Page 0,4

window, strewing rose petals all around her bedroom and then waiting for her with crossed legs and a smug look on his face, sure of the reception he would get. He may not have been in love with her, and she expected no commitment from him, but he knew how to be a good lover. It wasn’t like him not to write for a full month and then be dragged dead drunk to her door by a couple of friends at an hour so late she would normally have long been in bed. “Asses on horses, how much has he had?”

The taller man frowned, shaking his head. “He’s not been drinking, ma’am; he has been shot. The arrow is still in his shoulder, and we need to remove it. Quickly.”

For a moment she could only stare at him, shocked into silence. As soon as he said it she could smell it—the blood in the air. She looked down to see a pool of crimson growing on the floor beneath their feet. The two men exchanged a look, and she felt her back go stiff. She had seen the look before, had no doubt given it herself, to those helpless and useless women who could do nothing but shriek and faint. She had never been in their number. So she hadn’t jumped to action at the first sign of danger—she dared challenge any man to say he would have done differently. She was surprised, and rightly so. Darren was no soldier—it was a merchant vessel that he worked on, plying port cities up and down the coast. The worst injury he had ever had was a sprained shoulder—and they came to her door proclaiming he had an arrow in his shoulder and expected no shock? Well, I’ll show them, she thought savagely, and snapped quickly to action, her voice ringing with command.

“There’s a spare bedroom up the stairs. It’s the first door on your right. There should be wood beside the fireplace, and flint and tinder will be on the mantel in my bedroom, right across the hall. Build up the fire; I’ll fetch the doctor.”

“No,” the little man said, too sharply, and the larger man silenced him with a look.

“No time,” the large man clarified.

Taya nodded. “Do you know what you’re about?” she asked, voice quiet and dangerous, and the men both nodded. She eyed them both, but there was no time to deliberate about a decision—Darren was still bleeding. She nodded. “I’ll bring water and a knife, then. Go.” They went.

As they disappeared up the steps, she hurried into the kitchen, desperately trying to remember all the things that they would need to tend a wound. An arrow wound, for Ashua’s sake! She had no idea how to treat an arrow wound. Think, woman! He’ll die if you don’t. That thought sobered her quickly, and she formed a list in her mind. Cloth, of course, as well as the knife. A kettle full of water, and some asper leaf to stop the bleeding; she had a paste she smeared on her fingers for needle marks. She gathered them quickly and ran from the room, taking the stairs two at a time. They protested loudly at the pounding they received, a security measure she’d always felt protected her from prowlers. Darren said she was just too cheap to have them fixed. Darren, Darren, what have you done?

The two men had laid Darren on the bed, and while one carefully removed his bloody shirt and cloak, the other stoked the fire, bringing it to roaring life. She handed the kettle to the stocky man by the fire, who nodded a silent thanks, and then moved over to hand the knife to Darren’s other companion. He barely acknowledged her, taking the knife with hardly a backward glance and cutting away the last of the shirt. The arrow was sunk into Darren’s shoulder past the head, blood running thick and fast from the gaping wound. The arrowhead itself was not in view, and she prayed silently that it was not barbed. It could still be slid out, if it wasn’t. If it was, she had a sickening feeling it would take half his shoulder with it when it was forced out.

Still silent, the small man handed the knife back to her and motioned toward the fire. She took it and handed it to the large man, who put it in the kettle that was already hanging over the fire, adding the herbs to