Songbird's Cage

Chapter 27

Rory rinsed the last of the dirt and blood from his skin. The water in the wooden tub was cold now. His body was sore – it had been so since he had woken on a low pallet on the floor, several days before, with Bastion and a sephigari, a druid healer standing over him. That was what the people of the Wilds were, beneath the names given to them by the Esarians. They were druids, worshippers of the old gods, practicers of the ancient arts and traditions.

He exhaled slowly, straightening. Caradoc had been true to his word – they were being treated as guests, given anything material that they desired. A bath, clean clothes and linen, food to eat, all had been delivered without another word to it.

Pushing back his dripping hair, he stepped out of the tub. As he twisted and his weight shifted, he suddenly felt as if another knife had been put through his leg. Pain flared through his body, making him clench his teeth to quiet his scream. Before he could recover, Lark rushed around the wooden divider that separated the two sections of her quarters. He cursed, grabbing for a towel to cover himself with as she appeared.

"Gods above, Lark!" he swore, his teeth gritted. "Some warning next time would be appreciated."

Heat rose to his face as she stopped, staring at him. Her gaze was low on his body. He was painfully aware that he was standing before her naked, save for the linen in his hands.

But her eyes were riveted to the thick, knotted line that marked the skin of his upper thigh. The pallid stretch of tissue was beginning to bleed again. Rory knew the strangeness of healing magic, knew that he had ripped open flesh that had already begun to scar, closed on the surface but unmended beneath.

"Your leg," she breathed. "Rory..."

He closed his eyes, not knowing what to do with her pity, not wanting to face the extent of the damage to his leg. The work of the sephigari wasn't permanent; it was meant to last long enough for the injured to begin to heal on their own. He had no way of knowing how bad the wound truly was or would be.

When he opened his eyes, Lark was staring up at him. Her hair was dark with dampness, a blanket wrapped around her bare shoulders. She had bathed before he had, and her cheeks were rosy now from sitting in front of the fire in the hearth.

"Highness," he said pointedly, looking up at the ceiling as her gentle gaze moved across him. "If you don't mind, I think it would be better to continue this conversation with both of us clothed."

She was blushing now too.

"You're bleeding again," she said worriedly. He sighed.

"I'm fine, Lark. I'll take care of it."

She retreated and he shut his eyes for a moment. He had foggy memories of her tending to him on the road, but they felt like the fragments of dreams, like they hadn't truly happened.

Easing himself onto the cold floor, he reached for another piece of linen, wrapping it tightly around his leg and tying it off. It was crude, but he found he didn't have the will to improve his work. With a sigh, he retrieved the folded pile of clean clothing that Bastion had left, slowly, painfully dressing himself. His muscles were agonizingly stiff, sore from two weeks that he could barely remember.

Rory slowly buckled his belt and pulled on a shirt. It was a strange luxury to have clean clothes again. Leaning against the edge of the bath, he straightened, holding the remainder of what Bastion had brought under his arm, and walked out from behind the partition, struggling to hide his limp.

Lark was by the window, facing away from him, still wrapped in her blanket. Her shoulders were trembling.

"Lark?"

She turned at the sound of his voice. There were tears in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. He shook his head.

"What for?" he asked, taken aback. Her breath caught in a sob.

"This is my fault," she said, unable to look at him. "They never would have found you if not for me, never would have hurt you. I–"

"Lark," he said sharply, cutting her off. She flinched, meeting his gaze.

"None of this is your fault," he said, stepping forward, biting back a grunt as he eased his weight onto his injured leg.

"But your leg–"

"Will heal," he finished. "Nothing you could have done would have stopped the Weald. They always get what they want. Trust me."

She took a shuddering breath. He could see that something had changed about her. Her eyes were red from exhaustion and emotion, and she seemed unsteady and insubstantial, like too harsh a word might break her. She wasn't the same girl he had known before.

Rory gently pressed the remainder of the clothing into her arms.

"Get dressed," he ordered. "Everything is going to be alright."

She nodded faintly, and he leaned against the windowsill, turning his back to her. It was an easy lie, one to convince himself as much as it was to convince her.

There was a chair by the window, and he sat heavily, thankful to take the weight off his wound. Rubbing his face, he studied the endless forest outside the glass. The edges of the trees were beginning to color with the shades of autumn.

"Lark?" he asked softly.

"Yes?"

He didn't want to ask the question, was afraid of the answer.

"How long has it been since we were captured?"

There was a pause in the sounds of her dressing. His heart skipped a beat.

"You don't remember?" There was surprise in her voice.

"No," he said quietly. "I don't remember much of anything after we were attacked."

He looked up to find her beside him, clutching her bodice against her chest, the laces loose. She turned, and he wordlessly began to fasten the garment. Vaguely he registered how careless it was of Bastion to find her clothing that she would have normally needed the help of maidservant to get into.

"You don't remember anything?" There was something in her tone like disappointment, hidden beneath the concern.

He could recall a few foggy things, memories that were hard to differentiate from hallucinations.

"You told Bas that I was the Captain of the Guard," he said, almost lost in the absent task of lacing the back of her corset.

"That's it?" He heard the same crestfallen notes again.

"Yes. Everything else is just... black."

It wasn't true. He remembered kissing her and never wanting to stop. But he knew it had to have been a delusion, a pain-induced fever dream. He couldn't have – wouldn't have – kissed the future queen, kissed Aspen's wife.

He tied off the laces with a short pull. She was still for a moment, then twisted to face him again.

"You nearly died," she breathed. He studied her.

"From what Arodal did?" he asked. She swallowed hard, and he wanted to kick himself as her tears returned.

"From Bastion." Her words were barely audible. She could hardly form them. "He was going to–"

Lark broke off, taking a shaky breath.

"That's why I lied," she said. "Why I told him you were a captain. He would have killed you."

Rory stood suddenly, ignoring the protests of his body, and embraced Lark. She held him tightly, speaking into his chest.

"I couldn't let him," she cried, muffled in his arms. "I would have gone mad. And after what you told me–"

Rory's felt his pulse jump, racing in double time.

"What did I tell you?" he demanded. She pulled away slightly, looking up at him, her blue-grey eyes like endless pools.

"You told me that you loved me," she said softly. Then she was kissing him, and he knew that it hadn't been a dream.