Chapter
10

Aodren

THE PALLOR OF LEIF’S SKIN HAS THE grayish-green tint of an unripe melon, not the healthy color of recovery, as I was secretly hoping. There is no way he can fight in tonight’s melee, which means the plan with Lirra Barrett is a go.

“You’ll be getting back to your chambers soon, my dear.” The healer, who I’ve learned is named Margeria, has taken a liking to Leif. She inspects his wound, touching around the stitches, prodding for signs of infection. To his credit, Leif doesn’t so much as flinch.

“Wannafightem . . . bludgers . . . Wincup,” he slurs, voice raspy and dry, eyelids too heavy for him to lift.

“All in due time, dearie.” She swipes his forehead with a cloth and spends another minute neatly tucking the linens around his body. He kicks them loose a second later.

“Gimme . . . biscuit?” Leif attempts a smile, only to have exhaustion foil the plan. Biscuits are a bizarre request.

The woman chuckles, surprising me, because she’s barely given me more than a pinch-mouthed curtsy. “Rest up, and when you wake, I’ll have two waiting for you.”

She crosses the room and sets the cloth over the edge of an empty bowl. “Your Highness, I’ve given him something to ease the pain. He won’t be quite himself,” she says. At best, her tone is formal, unlike the warmth she showered on Leif. I cannot tell if it’s due to my title or the history of my kingdom. Regardless, I’m grateful to her for fetching Ku Toa the night of Leif’s stabbing. Had she not done so, he wouldn’t be groggily fighting to watch us now.

“Thank you,” I tell her. “For all you’ve done to help him.”

Margeria dips in a customary bow and leaves.

Now that we’re alone, I’m not sure what to say. My guards are waiting for me outside the healer’s room so I can have a private moment to discuss the tournament with Leif. Taking his place tonight hasn’t bothered me, until now. Which is why the words fail me. The eager anticipation and the dedication he showed in training these last few months will be for naught.

Leif’s eyelids slog downward. The sleep concoction the healer gave him must be working. Perhaps now isn’t the best time to discuss the tournament after all. I walk to the door, ignoring the relief that comes.

“Ya going?” Leif croaks.

I turn back to face him. “Do not let me keep you up. I came to see how you’re faring. However, you need your rest. I will return later.”

He yawns. “Who’sformal . . . now?”

The mumbled question loosens me up enough to abandon the wooden-soldier stance and return to his bedside.

“Yer betterwhenya . . . forget being king,” Leif says, entertaining with his candidness.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I smile inwardly. How much of this conversation will he remember later?

Leif wriggles to try to loosen the cocooning blankets, but gives up quickly and frowns. “Cannafight . . . tonight . . . nofight.”

“I know.” I try hard not to cringe. It serves me right for trying to sneak out. He deserves to hear from me what is the plan for the melee. “I’m going to fight in my own name.”

His eyebrows crawl up like slow, sluggish caterpillars, but they make it up his forehead. A little of the exhaustion clears from his eyes. “You . . . in the melee?”

I nod.

“Baltroit know?”

“No one knows but you and Lirra. She’s going to help me.” I explain her role this evening, though Leif probably won’t remember half of what’s being said.

When I’m done, he stares glassy-eyed at the closed door. “Better watch Hemmet,” he says after a beat, talking about Gorenza’s son. “Man’s . . . crafty.”

“I will.”