Heir of the Gods

Ch. 27: Old Wounds

Calix woke half-smothered by a pillow to find Tarquin in a chair next to the bed. His face was calm, but a raging storm of fury flashed like lightning in his dark eyes. Calix closed his eyes again, and let out a long sigh.

His back was no longer the mass of agony it had been since the whipping.

Malitech had only allowed him two days to recover before ordering the company's departure from Antelium. Calion and the company's surgeon had done everything they could to help, but the two week journey had been little more than a blur of blood and pain. The deepest wounds had bled from Antelium to Levitum—the only thing that kept them from festering was the cold.

He placed a hand on the mattress to push himself up, but Tarquin reached out, quick as a snake, and touched Calix's shoulder. "Don't. The physician here ordered me to make sure you don't tear the wounds open again."

Calix slumped back into the pillows, gaze darting around as much of the room as he could see. It was dark beyond the heavy curtains of the windows.

"How long have I been asleep?" he asked, grimacing at the harsh rasp that came from his parched throat. He remembered being awake for most of the court physician's ministrations until the man had managed to force a bitter liquid down his throat, shoving him unceremoniously from consciousness. 

Tarquin grimaced. "Nearly two days since you arrived. He kept you sedated until the wounds set properly. Some of the lashes were in bad shape." His dark eyes flashed again, his lip curling back in a snarl as he said lashes.

A breath huffed through Calix's nose. No wonder his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. Moving gingerly, he managed to sit up without setting his back bleeding again, ignoring Tarquin's quiet protests.

He pointed wordlessly to a nearby pitcher of what he hoped was water. His throat felt like he'd tried to swallow a desert. As Tarquin poured, Calix rubbed gently at his eyes before scrubbing a hand over his jaw and the weeks' worth of beard there, careful of the bruises on his face.

Behind his closed lids, he saw her face again and again. The horror in her eyes as she'd look at him. Every moment of hesitation. Each reluctant step closer to him.

He heard the phantom crunch of gravel and the soft sweep of her skirt as she'd stepped away from him. The condemning sound of her shocked gasp when he'd told her what Malitech had done and how he had failed her.

Her touch had been nearly unbearable, not because she had accidentally pressed against injuries she didn't know were there, but because it made him want to take her in his arms.

Despite his shame, despite his utter conviction that the gods were punishing him for taking what was not his, he had still wanted to sweep her into his chest and lose himself in the feel of her lips on his. His hands had ached with the desire to bury his fingers in her soft, jasmine-scented hair.

If he did not heed the gods' warnings, would they instead turn their wrath upon her? The gods had forsaken him ten years ago, and would surely bring ruin to any who ignored that fact.

A gentle hand on his arm made him start, and he looked up to find Tarquin offering him a goblet. Hand shaking slightly, he took it and lifted it to his chapped lips. The water soaked into the parched tissue of his tongue and throat as he drank.

Tarquin returned to his seat and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped so hard his knuckles turned white. "What happened?" he growled. "I want to hear it from you. Every detail."

Calix was surprised he'd even waited this long to ask. He set the goblet down and began to shake his head.

Tarquin leapt to his feet and snarled, "If you say nothing happened, I will kill you. And then I'll tell Arcturus, and laugh while he kills you." His friend paced back and forth like a caged lion, looking just as murderous as he professed to be.