the water. No one spoke, the atmosphere heavy with concentration, and the two men acted with a grimness and purpose that implied they had been in this situation before. The thought scared her—she had no idea who these men were, and no way to protect herself if they were not friends. They were seeing to Darren, it was true, but that did not mean they would feel the same courtesy toward her. If Darren trusted them, she would too, but she had no way of knowing if they were friends of his, or merely shipmates.
Darren moaned and she spun back to look at him, thoughts of her own safety flying away in tatters as fear for him took the place of other concerns. The large man took the knife out, still dripping, and handed it to his smaller companion, who once again took it with hardly a glance. He clutched the handle between his teeth, picking up some of the cloth Taya had brought and placing it between Darren’s teeth. The larger man, gentle for all his great bulk, placed his hands against Darren’s shoulders, preparing to hold him down. He looked up at Taya, who stood in the middle of the room with a stricken look on her face, agonizing over what was soon to be and knowing it was the only way.
“It must come out, my lady, and swiftly. Do not worry—we know what we are about. A doctor will not be necessary. The wound will need a compress, however, and he would do well with a fusion against fever if you have the knowledge to make it.”
She nodded curtly, letting none of her relief show on her face. Had they ordered her from the room her pride would have bid her stay, and perhaps the man had seen something of that determination in the way she held herself, because his words gave her the a way to flee the room without shame. She feared if she stayed she would lose her dinner to the sickly-sweet smell of pain and blood, and the agony of watching without being able to help. She went swiftly, leaving emblazoned on the back of her lids the image of her love, sweat sparkling on his chest in the dim firelight, a knife glinting as it moved toward the vicious hole in his shoulder.
Back down the steps she moved, the ancient wood’s protestations sounding too much like a crying soul, and then into the kitchen, clattering knives and pots as loudly as she could as she worked, in a futile attempt to disguise the shrieks of pain that filtered through the floorboards above her. She was no healer, but she knew a few simple recipes against fever and pain, and she made one as slowly as she could—and still the men above her worked. Unable to sit still, driving herself mad with anxiety, she began to slice cheese and bread, wondering at how long the task seemed to be taking. Finally silence descended, but the quiet, broken only by the sounds of the storm outside, wore on her nerves worse than the noises had. She listened anxiously for sounds on the stairs as she moved on to chopping vegetables, but the stillness was unbroken. Would they come to fetch her? Should she go up?
A shadow moved off to her side and she spun, startled. Somehow, the two men had descended the ancient stairs without a single creak to betray their presence. They were standing in the doorway, keeping a respectful distance between themselves and her. Something in how they looked reinforced in her mind the notion that this was not the first time they had met such circumstances. If pressed, she could not have said what it was that she saw—perhaps it was the way they stood, clearly exhausted but still very much on guard, wary and watching. Perhaps it was something in the smile the burly man gave her, tired to be sure, and wary, yes, but somehow casual. Perhaps it was the way the thin man bowed to her so civilly, with long hair a mess around his face and shirt soaked in blood; had she not been so terrified, she might have found the image ironic enough to be amusing. Instead, it took every vestige of will she had in order to keep her voice steady as she asked, “How does he fare?”
“He has lost much blood, but the floor has gratefully accepted it all.” Still the only one to