Page 18 of Court of Talons
I snort, half coughing as the air lodges in my swollen nose. “I don’t know how to use it.”
“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said in days,” he snaps, and a moment later, the true source of his anger becomes clear. “You were to meet with Rihad yesterday.”
He catches me before I can lurch upright. “Lie still. I told the men who came ’round that the ride and the attack in the mountains has caught up with you, and that you would honor Rihad more by healing before he sees you. It’s true enough, and the Lord Protector seems inclined to give you both grace and space.” His tone implies I deserve neither, and I wince. He’s right.
“Lance my bruises.” I wave my hand at the poultices. “I’ll heal faster.”
“No,” he retorts, with the sharpness of a teacher driven to the edge of his patience. “You’ll heal faster but imperfectly, with scars beneath your eyes.”
Defensively, I point to my neck, though the blood rushing to my face makes my head throb. “I’m already scarred. What’s one more?”
The priest doesn’t speak after that. I fall into a fitful sleep. At one time, I can almost hear voices. Nazar’s calm and measured tones, Caleb’s—I think it must be Caleb’s—high and earnest patter. But mostly I draw in the fragrant smell of mint and cloves and the strong tang of garlic, so strong I’ll taste it for days, I’m sure.
When I wake again, I don’t move, but Nazar is there anyway. He peels away the top cloth to uncover one eye, and I blink up at him, almost able to see him through the slit that’s opened up. The swelling has diminished. My head is clearer, my senses sharper. I have to be improving.
“Lie still.” Nazar’s words are clipped, and regret scores through me as he resettles the rags. I went out yesterday to buy soldiers, not to get my head bashed in. The priest pulls the cloths off my mouth and wipes at my lower face, then I feel the press of a cup against my lips. The water is clean and pure and tastes like air.
“I’m sorry, Nazar,” I say when he pulls it away. “I only wanted to help Caleb. I was foolish.”
“You fought with your fists and the stave.”
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I consider the soft breeze upon my face instead, the smells of ginger and cloves and cooked meat. I’ve no idea how long I’ve slept, but my mouth feels different now. My teeth are secure in their sockets, my tongue no longer too thick. I blink my eyes wide open beneath the cloths and can see more of the brightness of the full sun. The swelling is nearly gone.
At length, Nazar speaks again. “Why did you fight with your fists? You’re not as strong as a man—or even most boys. You’ll never be as strong.”
I frown. I stretch my fingers out and curl them back again. They’re sore, but nothing seems broken. “I used the stave as well. I’m good with the stave.”
“You’ll never be as good as a trained man with the stave either. At least one wielded by your hands. You’re not meant toattackwith such tools. Only defend.”
I wonder if something has gone wrong with my mind. Nazar’s speaking and I can follow his words, but I don’t understand what they mean. I listen to the quiet gurgling of my stomach. I’m hungry, I realize. That has to be good. That has to mean I’m healing. That has…
When I drift back awake again, I’m sitting up. I blink my eyes open and can absolutely see Nazar through my left one. It’s not that difficult. He stands directly in front of me, his lined face not three inches in front of my own. When I flinch back, his eyes crinkle. He straightens and hands me a bowl. “Eat.”
It’s a porridge of rice and honey and gingerroot, and it smells wonderful. “Slowly,” he directs as I take the bowl with shaking hands. “You can eat it all, but not all at once.” The waterskin beside me is full, and at Nazar’s nod, I pick it up too. I don’tdeserve his care. My throat closes up, and I focus on the meal so Nazar can’t see my face.
“You know nothing of how a warrior knight fights in a tournament.”
Nazar says the words without censure. They bite just the same. I’m glad my face points away from the priest but wince as embarrassment brings the blood to my cheeks in a flare of pain.
He’s right, of course. I’ve never seen a tournament. I’ve rarely been allowed to hear the tales of the bards firsthand. And I was too proud to ask the servants to recount the tales, contenting myself with overheard snatches of poorly remembered details.
That same pride now stings me to speech. “Tournaments are simple enough. There are knights on warhorses with a lance and a sword. They race toward each other.”
“Yes, for show,” Nazar says mildly. “How do they fight when the parade is done?”
“The parade?” My shoulders drop. I’ve eaten all the rice, but I stare at the bowl, lost. The tournament play I’ve seen in our own yards had been nothing but boys riding toward each other with fake lances and swords. That’s all I’ve seen, in truth. All I’ve been allowed to see.
“True warriors don’t fight with their fists. They fight with their minds.”
I lift my head at that, scowling at the priest. “Caleb wasn’t getting hismindbeaten in, Nazar. He was getting pummeled on his actual body.”
“Neither he nor the other boy were true warriors.”
“Well, the other boy had a fine sword and the clothing of the Second House, red and white. He looked like a warrior knight.”
“A warrior knight.” The priest’s disdain is palpable. “Fighting for money against a clearly impaired squire.”
He has a point. “Caleb could have drawn him into a fight for pride or rage.”