Read Online The Language of Souls by Lena Goldfinch - Free Book Online
Authors: Lena Goldfinch
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residue of embers inside and sealed it with the cork. Though his fingers fumbled with the leather lacings, he managed to tie the votif securely to his belt. That done, he motioned for her to do the same with hers.
With tear-reddened eyes, she did as he wished. Her fingers shook so badly she seemed barely able to set the cork in place, but she did it. As she tied her votif to her belt, he noticed she was wearing her leathers again. That was good. Good and nor mal.
“My horse?” he asked.
Her brow wrinkled again, so he made the blowing sounds of a horse and her expression cleared. In turn, she made chewing motions and extended her arms, indicating a very large, round belly. Rundan nodded with an uneasy sense of satisfaction. As soon as he was strong enough, they could continue—
He broke off mid-thought. Continue to where? To the palace, where she’d be tortured and put to death? After all she’d done for him? She’d saved his life. His father’s words returned to him: take her to the palace or do not return . In view of all she’d done, the choice wasn’t all that difficult, was it?
A movement caught his eye and he glanced up. The girl had picked up her fishing spear. She pointed to the cave entrance and with graceful hand motions indicate d that he should stay and rest.
“No,” he said. “I must go to the river to bathe.” Frustrated that she didn’t know his language, he beckoned to her. The girl seemed to understand his need, for she grabbed up his clean tunic and pulled his arm across her shoulders. She guided him thro ugh the tangled briars outside.
After he checked on his mare and found her in good health, he leaned on the girl and let her help him down to the water. She left him on the bank and went a short distance upstream to fish. With her body half-turned from him, she offered him a measure of privacy, but he noticed that she remained close enough to reach him if he needed help.
Rundan first quickly washed the leathers he’d been wearing and set them aside. Even that small task winded him, to his dismay, but he continued, slowly wading into the cold water. He was even more dismayed to find his body so wasted that his ribs showed. Thinking of how the girl must have washed him while he was sick, Rundan ducked his head in humiliation. Even now, he could tell she watched him with worry in her eyes.
With a sudden twist of shame in his gut, he climbed onto the riverbank and, with quick motions, sluiced the water off his skin. He grabbed up the clean tunic and yanked it over his head. As he tugged the garment down and smoothed the fabric over his chest, he noticed a tear down the front which had been mended with a boot lacing, one she must have found in his bags. The tear must have been a nasty rem inder to her of the soldier who’d attacked her—and what he’d intended to do. She could have easily buried the garment while he was lost to his fever and left it underground to rot. But she hadn’t. She’d taken the time to mend it. For his sake, he was glad she had, because the clean linen covered his bare flesh and warmed him.
The snapping of a twig caught his attention and he looked up.
The girl was running toward him, wearing a grin that transformed her face. The shadows that had darkened her eyes were gone, the ones that told him she hadn’t slept for many nights, and that she’d worried over him as much as his mother might have. As she ran, she held her fishing spear high and pumped it into the air, proudly displaying a plump torpista.
He imagined her coming to the river every day, drawing water, catching fish he vaguely remembered eating as broth. She’d fed the fire, tended his wounds, and cared for his horse. Surely she must have known he was taking her to her death. Every day that he’d lain senseless she could have run, but she hadn’t. He thought of the spoon in his votif with renewed amazement.
Now, seeing her excitement over the fish, Rundan’s heart squeezed.
Something
With tear-reddened eyes, she did as he wished. Her fingers shook so badly she seemed barely able to set the cork in place, but she did it. As she tied her votif to her belt, he noticed she was wearing her leathers again. That was good. Good and nor mal.
“My horse?” he asked.
Her brow wrinkled again, so he made the blowing sounds of a horse and her expression cleared. In turn, she made chewing motions and extended her arms, indicating a very large, round belly. Rundan nodded with an uneasy sense of satisfaction. As soon as he was strong enough, they could continue—
He broke off mid-thought. Continue to where? To the palace, where she’d be tortured and put to death? After all she’d done for him? She’d saved his life. His father’s words returned to him: take her to the palace or do not return . In view of all she’d done, the choice wasn’t all that difficult, was it?
A movement caught his eye and he glanced up. The girl had picked up her fishing spear. She pointed to the cave entrance and with graceful hand motions indicate d that he should stay and rest.
“No,” he said. “I must go to the river to bathe.” Frustrated that she didn’t know his language, he beckoned to her. The girl seemed to understand his need, for she grabbed up his clean tunic and pulled his arm across her shoulders. She guided him thro ugh the tangled briars outside.
After he checked on his mare and found her in good health, he leaned on the girl and let her help him down to the water. She left him on the bank and went a short distance upstream to fish. With her body half-turned from him, she offered him a measure of privacy, but he noticed that she remained close enough to reach him if he needed help.
Rundan first quickly washed the leathers he’d been wearing and set them aside. Even that small task winded him, to his dismay, but he continued, slowly wading into the cold water. He was even more dismayed to find his body so wasted that his ribs showed. Thinking of how the girl must have washed him while he was sick, Rundan ducked his head in humiliation. Even now, he could tell she watched him with worry in her eyes.
With a sudden twist of shame in his gut, he climbed onto the riverbank and, with quick motions, sluiced the water off his skin. He grabbed up the clean tunic and yanked it over his head. As he tugged the garment down and smoothed the fabric over his chest, he noticed a tear down the front which had been mended with a boot lacing, one she must have found in his bags. The tear must have been a nasty rem inder to her of the soldier who’d attacked her—and what he’d intended to do. She could have easily buried the garment while he was lost to his fever and left it underground to rot. But she hadn’t. She’d taken the time to mend it. For his sake, he was glad she had, because the clean linen covered his bare flesh and warmed him.
The snapping of a twig caught his attention and he looked up.
The girl was running toward him, wearing a grin that transformed her face. The shadows that had darkened her eyes were gone, the ones that told him she hadn’t slept for many nights, and that she’d worried over him as much as his mother might have. As she ran, she held her fishing spear high and pumped it into the air, proudly displaying a plump torpista.
He imagined her coming to the river every day, drawing water, catching fish he vaguely remembered eating as broth. She’d fed the fire, tended his wounds, and cared for his horse. Surely she must have known he was taking her to her death. Every day that he’d lain senseless she could have run, but she hadn’t. He thought of the spoon in his votif with renewed amazement.
Now, seeing her excitement over the fish, Rundan’s heart squeezed.
Something
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