Page 8 of Bound

His side throbbed anew.

He’d been certain. Of himself. Of her. When he’d seen her standing in that stall, when she’d not flown to safety like the rest of them. The fear in his belly had been real and some of it was his, but most...

It had been hers.

Swirling and biting and urging him to action.

As he touched her. Lifted her. In ways that should have been unnecessary, except that she was...

Different. That was all. In ways that he needed to understand.

Jamen was arguing with the Proctor. No, not arguing. Pleading. The hesperwere harnessed to one side, by older and much more capable handlers—coaxed to stillness by the buckets of grain provided to them.

None of it was their fault. They were used to the open skies and pulling loads far from the city walls. But their strength was needed for this order, and it would mean so much if people could see Jamen’s signet, and didn’t Braum remember being young and new to his trade?

And Braum had been fool enough to listen.

Braum broke in. Took Jamen by the collar. Shook him once to get him to stop his pleas and talk sensibly.

The Proctor calmed considerably.

“This should not have happened,” Braum acknowledged with a nod of his head.

“In that we are agreed,” the Proctor groused, glancing about at the displaced stall-keeps.

Then there were the swarms of angry merchants. Some chattering in languages he did not understand, but the irritation in their eyes was clear enough. Some were winged, others were not, and yet none seemed to be torn and bloody like his...

As she had been.

His hands curled into fists as he fought for calm. To stay and tend to his responsibilities—even though they seemed paltry and ridiculous compared to the one that mattered most.

Wasn’t that what they were always saying? Nothing else was of greater import. Nothing.

And yet he was here.

Pulling out his meagre bag of coins as Jamen did the same, offering the first of a few instalments. The merchants stared with interest at the exchange. Braum could well imagine they would insist on restitution from the Proctor before even the first sun had set.

He rubbed at the back of his neck. He needed to fetch another cart. Get the logs out of the way and to their intended destination.

He was inspecting the largest of them, that was all. And if he did so from the crushed remains of her stall, then...

That was hardly his fault.

He wasn’t prying. Certainly was not spying. As he leaned down, his hand resting against the thick bark of the log that had destroyed much in its wake. There were bits of fabric on the stone floor, but he could not make out its purpose. Was she a weaver? There was too little for that. Unless she had sold most of her stock already.

He glanced up warily as he caught sight of a stranger leaning against the log, looking over at him with a less than pleased expression.

“You may take your complaints to the Proctor,” Braum got out with all the politeness he did not feel. “Unless your preference is for a personal apology rather than coin.”

A grunt in answer. “I’ll get my due; I’m not worried.”

And yet he lingered. An elderly man, his hair poorly combed—or perhaps it was simply the flurry of movement that had dislodged it from its band.

Braum stood from his crouch. He’d learn little from here. And besides, he would rather hear from her directly, if ever she allowed him that particular privilege.

“Girl get hurt?” the man continued, eyeing the stall with a critical eye.

Braum had to swallow down the unreasonable outrage he’d seen at her blood. She was fine. She certainly had walked away from him quickly enough. “A few marks. She refused assistance.”