back. A lantern lit the two of them oddly, putting Volos in mind of a witch preparing a sacrifice. But when she glanced at Volos, her expression was grave but kind. “He’s very weak but he’ll live,” she said.
A little of the tension in Volos’s chest loosened.
“Volos?” Mato said. “The men who did this to you…”
“Dead.”
Mato nodded. “Good.” He smeared more of the acrid green poultice on Volos’s shoulder. It hurt, but Volos remained still. “You have a lot of scars,” observed Mato.
“I told you. I was a soldier.”
“This man you came to rescue… he has a Wedey name.”
“That’s because he’s from Wedeyta.”
Mato moved back a bit and looked solemnly into Volos’s face. “He’s a Wedey who was captured by the Juganin. Does… does he mean us harm, Volos? Do you mean us harm?”
Gods, Volos was so tired, and he hurt, and although he should have been rejoicing over Berhanu’s freedom, he only wanted to sleep. “No. You have my word. He came here in search of peace.”
“And you?”
Volos couldn’t exactly say the same, not when the blood of eight slain men still stained his skin. “I came here to save him. That’s all.”
After a pause, Mato nodded. “Well, you have. Although it looks as though you nearly got yourself killed in the process.” He scrunched up his mouth and then patted Volos’s uninjured shoulder. “Roll on your side, please. Your back needs tending to.”
Volos did as he was told. That left him facing Mato’s mother and Berhanu. With her lips pressed together in a grim line, she was smearing some sort of ointment in the crack of Berhanu’s ass. Perhaps mercifully, the prince appeared to be unconscious. Volos didn’t want to look, yet couldn’t seem to avert his gaze. The wounds on his own back burned fiercely, and a part of him was glad for it— penance for not being faster, stronger, more clever. Penance for killing. Penance for living when others died.
Sometime later, Mato covered Volos with a light blanket. “I’m sorry we had to put you here. Mama and I couldn’t carry either of you up the stairs to the bed.”
“This is fine. This is… Thank you. For caring for us. If you hadn’t…”
Mato smiled at him. “You should sleep. Your Wedey friend will need help soon, and Mother and I need to get to the inn.”
“Gods, Mato, I’m sorry. You must be exhausted.”
“It’s no matter. Rest. I’ll bring you food and drink soon.”
Mato rose to his feet and gathered up the remains of the supplies he’d used to doctor Volos. His mother did the same after laying a blanket over Berhanu. She was unusually silent for a Kozari, but Volos detected no hatred in her expression. Just a sort of weariness that suggested she’d done this sort of thing before.
“How long until he’s able to travel, do you think?” Volos asked.
She glanced at her patient. “A few days, if you go slowly.”
“You don’t have to go,” Mato said. “Stay here awhile.”
Oddly, Volos wished he could do just that— spend a few weeks in the sleepy village, pretending he was a man with no cares. But he shook his head. “He has to get to Felekna.”
“The capital.”
“Yes.” Volos didn’t explain. “Besides, if more Juganin come…”
Mato exchanged quick glances with his mother before turning to Volos. “Where did… where was he being held?”
“A big farmhouse near the woods. One with lots of outbuildings.”
“I know the place. Few people pass that way and the house has been empty for years. Since the war. I think your secrets will stay safe for a while.”
Volos nodded gratefully. Mato and his mother left, but they kept a lantern burning on the floor not far from Berhanu. Volos lay and watched the prince slumber until sleep came washing over him as well.
****
The day crawled by in a haze of sleep and ache, and sometimes Mato stopped in to bring fresh water or a little food or to check on his patients’ wounds. Berhanu had remained
A little of the tension in Volos’s chest loosened.
“Volos?” Mato said. “The men who did this to you…”
“Dead.”
Mato nodded. “Good.” He smeared more of the acrid green poultice on Volos’s shoulder. It hurt, but Volos remained still. “You have a lot of scars,” observed Mato.
“I told you. I was a soldier.”
“This man you came to rescue… he has a Wedey name.”
“That’s because he’s from Wedeyta.”
Mato moved back a bit and looked solemnly into Volos’s face. “He’s a Wedey who was captured by the Juganin. Does… does he mean us harm, Volos? Do you mean us harm?”
Gods, Volos was so tired, and he hurt, and although he should have been rejoicing over Berhanu’s freedom, he only wanted to sleep. “No. You have my word. He came here in search of peace.”
“And you?”
Volos couldn’t exactly say the same, not when the blood of eight slain men still stained his skin. “I came here to save him. That’s all.”
After a pause, Mato nodded. “Well, you have. Although it looks as though you nearly got yourself killed in the process.” He scrunched up his mouth and then patted Volos’s uninjured shoulder. “Roll on your side, please. Your back needs tending to.”
Volos did as he was told. That left him facing Mato’s mother and Berhanu. With her lips pressed together in a grim line, she was smearing some sort of ointment in the crack of Berhanu’s ass. Perhaps mercifully, the prince appeared to be unconscious. Volos didn’t want to look, yet couldn’t seem to avert his gaze. The wounds on his own back burned fiercely, and a part of him was glad for it— penance for not being faster, stronger, more clever. Penance for killing. Penance for living when others died.
Sometime later, Mato covered Volos with a light blanket. “I’m sorry we had to put you here. Mama and I couldn’t carry either of you up the stairs to the bed.”
“This is fine. This is… Thank you. For caring for us. If you hadn’t…”
Mato smiled at him. “You should sleep. Your Wedey friend will need help soon, and Mother and I need to get to the inn.”
“Gods, Mato, I’m sorry. You must be exhausted.”
“It’s no matter. Rest. I’ll bring you food and drink soon.”
Mato rose to his feet and gathered up the remains of the supplies he’d used to doctor Volos. His mother did the same after laying a blanket over Berhanu. She was unusually silent for a Kozari, but Volos detected no hatred in her expression. Just a sort of weariness that suggested she’d done this sort of thing before.
“How long until he’s able to travel, do you think?” Volos asked.
She glanced at her patient. “A few days, if you go slowly.”
“You don’t have to go,” Mato said. “Stay here awhile.”
Oddly, Volos wished he could do just that— spend a few weeks in the sleepy village, pretending he was a man with no cares. But he shook his head. “He has to get to Felekna.”
“The capital.”
“Yes.” Volos didn’t explain. “Besides, if more Juganin come…”
Mato exchanged quick glances with his mother before turning to Volos. “Where did… where was he being held?”
“A big farmhouse near the woods. One with lots of outbuildings.”
“I know the place. Few people pass that way and the house has been empty for years. Since the war. I think your secrets will stay safe for a while.”
Volos nodded gratefully. Mato and his mother left, but they kept a lantern burning on the floor not far from Berhanu. Volos lay and watched the prince slumber until sleep came washing over him as well.
****
The day crawled by in a haze of sleep and ache, and sometimes Mato stopped in to bring fresh water or a little food or to check on his patients’ wounds. Berhanu had remained
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