2 #4

The pitcher would have fallen if her right hand hadn’t caught it in time. The pull reached her wound. Isolde stayed still until the pain lost its edge. Then she filled the bowl with both hands, using the left for support.

The water tasted of smoke.

Kaoran returned with a bucket and left it beside the saddlebags he had prepared in the stable. When he came upstairs, he found the pitcher out of place and Isolde sitting on the edge of the bed.

Her left leg trembled. Her right foot touched the floor. Her good hand gripped the mattress. The effort had drained the color from her face.

“You waited until I left,” Kaoran said.

“I wanted to sit up.”

“You could have asked for help.”

“I could do it myself.”

“Now you have your answer.”

Isolde looked at the distance to the window. It had seemed short from the bed. At that moment, it contained an entire day’s journey.

Kaoran brought a chair closer without touching her.

“Your body has spent several days fighting the infection. Your muscles have lost strength. Your left foot is slow to respond. Your hand needs time. All of that exists however angry you choose to be.”

“When will I walk?”

“First you’ll stand.”

“When?”

“When you can sit for ten breaths without opening the wound.”

Isolde counted. On the sixth, a drop of sweat fell from her chin. On the eighth, she sagged to one side. Kaoran steadied the chair, and she rested her forearm on its back to take the strain off her side.

“Eight,” she said.

“Tomorrow there’ll be more.”

“Tomorrow there’ll be ten.”

Kaoran picked up the bread and left it on the small table.

“Eat.”

“I want to ask you something.”

“You can ask.”

“Did you know my father?”

Kaoran took a while to answer. The pause held a choice.

“I knew King Ardan before he wore a crown. We were in a northern campaign together.”

“Why did I never see you at court?”

“Because I stopped going.”

“What happened?”

“That answer needs more than an afternoon.”

Isolde took a piece of bread. Chewing required an absurd amount of attention.

“And my name?” she asked. “Who told you?”

“Maelia spoke of you years ago. Then I saw you in Cendral. The guards were shouting your identity while trying to turn it into a bounty.”

“Enna knows.”

“Enna suspects.”

“It amounts to the same thing when someone is afraid.”

“She has chosen a risk. You’ll have to let it belong to her.”

Isolde put down the bread.

“I can’t trust someone I’ve just met.”

“I haven’t asked you to.”

“You expect me to trust you.”

“I expect you to check what I do.”

The answer reminded her of the pendant fragments Kaoran had saved for her, the open door, and the bowl he had brought when she called. Small facts. Isolde could check them even here, struggling to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Outside this house, I’m Iria,” she said.

“All right.”

“Enna gets no other information.”

“All right.”

“If guards come, wake me before you decide anything.”

“If there’s time.”

Isolde frowned.

“There’s always time.”

Kaoran looked at the window. He had left the saddlebags on the stable bench, and from here only one buckle was visible.

“If a patrol crosses the wall while you’re sleeping, I’ll have to move quickly. I can wake you while I prepare to leave.”

Isolde judged the distance between the bed and the stairs. She too had needed to give orders before an explanation was finished. What was unbearable was finding herself now among those who waited.

“Start by waking me,” she said.

“I will,” Kaoran replied. “Enna can leave a warning down below. I’ll explain the signals before she comes back.”

Isolde looked at the motionless fingers of her left hand.

“Then promise you’ll teach me not to be at the mercy of that wait.”

Kaoran rested his forearms on his knees.

“Learning takes time.”

“I have time. The whole kingdom thinks I’m dead.”

The words came without a tremor. Hearing them, she understood they might be true in a wider sense than she had imagined.

Darian would have taken an account to Caleryon.

Aelyn would have received a decree. Her father might have heard the announcement from a guarded bed.

Maelia might still be captive, unaware of what had happened in Cendral.

Every hour of silence added weight to the lie.

Fire woke beneath her breastbone.

Isolde breathed in for three counts.

Held for one.

Let it out for five.

The flame stayed inside.

“What name do I use here?” Kaoran asked.

Isolde touched the two fragments of the hawk. The wish to keep them still shamed her. That gift carried years of her life, and deciding what to do with them would be hard; this afternoon she could leave them inside the cloth.

“Isolde,” she said. “Here, I’m still Isolde.”

Kaoran set the broth on the bench and moved the chair that stood in the way beside the bed. She tried holding the bowl with both hands. The handle slipped a little between her damaged fingers until she found a way to brace it against her palm.

From the window, she saw Enna stop beside the split oak. The woman took a ribbon from her pocket and showed it to Kaoran before continuing downhill.

Isolde rested the bowl on her knees.

“Explain the colors.”