Something was wrong.
Or, to be more precise, something — someone — was missing.
Steeling himself against the sharp, icy prickle of the mythe, Draven swept his awareness over the base. Drugged with Drexavin, the research team and support staff were invisible to him. Chereni’s test subjects were right where they should be, all clustered together, radiating varying degrees of fear, anger, and resigned boredom.
Dominick, however, was nowhere to be sensed.
With a muttered curse, Draven headed for the dormitory.
When Dominick hadn’t shown up on time for his lesson, he’d given the young man a generous half hour, expecting that he’d either overslept or overindulged again. Romani’s scathing litany of his son’s shortcomings, delivered the morning Draven had boarded the fast courier with Dominick in tow, suggested either was likely.
When Dominick’s bed proved to be empty, and possibly unslept in, Draven had to consider that imposing his own shielding pattern upon the boy’s mind might not have been his brightest move. It was the strongest protection Draven knew, the one he used himself when he sought to avoid psionic spies. It had never occurred to him that Dominick might take it into his head to disappear. With that particular shielding pattern wrapped around his mind, Draven wasn’t going to be able to sense him unless he was practically on top of him.
He resigned himself to hunting Dominick down the old-fashioned way: asking around and checking the surveillance logs. It was inconvenient and annoying, but things would become a lot more so if he had to admit to Sergei Romani that he couldn’t keep track of one troublesome young man.
Three hours later, Draven was fairly certain that Dominick was no longer on the base, but he had yet to determine where he’d gone.
And how he’d gotten there.
The gate guard hadn’t seen him, and no shuttles had left the base since Azziani’s departure. In fact, the only vehicle that had left the base since he’d last seen Dominick yesterday morning was a flyer from the vehicle pool, which had only taken a short test run after repairs. He’d already spoken to the tech crew supervisor, who’d confirmed that it was a routine test flight to check the flyer’s stabilizers. The supervisor had offered to call the pilot in, but after looking at the flight logs, Draven was satisfied that Dominick hadn’t escaped that way.
To make matters worse, the locator signals from Dominick’s slate and phone placed the slate safe in his room, and his phone with Matt, the shuttle pilot whom Dominick had apparently befriended. Matt handed over the phone when asked, but said he hadn’t seen Dominick since the evening of the day he’d taken Azziani up to Lyra Station, so he was no help in tracking Dominick’s last movements.
It appeared that Draven was the last one to have seen him.
Back in his office, Draven sank down in his chair, cradled his aching head in his hands, and tried not to think about Rafe Azziani and the report he’d be expecting to carry back to Romani when he returned.
He’d barely even started this job, and it was already fucked beyond belief.
If it hadn’t been so important to him to gain Romani’s favor and make his way back to DeMira’s side, he’d cut his losses and take his chances in the Colonial Alliance. He had the skills, and Romani’s reach wasn’t that great. Not yet.
Only the fact that he’d never see Nikolai DeMira again stopped him from following that particular train of thought. Everything he’d done for the past six years had been done with an eye toward somehow redeeming himself in DeMira’s eyes and being given one more chance to prove himself worthy.
He brought his fist down hard on the desk. He was not going to allow Dominick Romani to ruin his plans. The boy was here somewhere, and Draven was going to find him, even if it meant taking the entire base apart, piece by piece.
* * *
Nick stopped to lean against a boulder while he studied the rocky terrain before him. Hiking in Lyra’s mountains was a lot more of a challenge than he’d imagined it would be. The only paths he found were game trails, and following them had quickly gotten him all turned around and confused. He’d had to backtrack so many times, he had no idea which way the plateau lay.
He wasn’t about to admit to being lost, though, not even to himself. All he had to do was make for the highest point and have a look around.
Once he’d got his bearings, he’d be fine. It wasn’t like he was a novice; he’d been hiking plenty of times back on Earth. The fact that all of his hiking experience had been gained in parks on marked trails was irrelevant. Hiking was hiking, and once the sun came out and he knew which way he was going, he’d be on top of things again.
He had a few more days before Jo came looking for him, and he was confident that he’d be back at the plateau waiting for her long before she arrived.
Settling back against the rock to rest, Nick lifted his eyes to the sky. He hadn’t seen the sun in two days, and the clouds had been getting steadily darker since he’d woken up this morning. He dug in his pack for his rain poncho and slipped it on over his head just as the first drops fell.
It was probably a good thing he didn’t have his phone. With rain moving in, he’d have been tempted to call Jo to come and pick him up, and he hadn’t come up with a single solution to the problems that had driven him out here in the first place.
Nick hated that he had no power here. Other people were in control of every aspect of his existence. The future, which he’d never given much thought to before, looked to be a dark, bleak place where he raped men’s minds and broke their bodies at his father’s bidding. It was barreling down on him fast, and Nick couldn’t see a way out.
He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples. He’d hoped escaping into the wilderness might help him focus his thoughts, but thus far, he could see no way off of this rock without Sergei’s approval. And the only way he was going to get that was by cooperating.
Or… possibly by not cooperating.
Draven couldn’t force him to learn psi, although he’d certainly given it a try the other day. And Chereni couldn’t make him wash the damn glassware.
Or beat the native test subjects.
The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. The only thing that was really under Nick’s control was whether or not he cooperated.
Well, he wouldn’t. He would stage a silent protest, perhaps even stock up on meal-paks and lock himself in his room.
The thought of it brought a small smile to his lips. Eventually, Chereni and Draven would give up on him and ship him home. And while Sergei might be pissed, what could he really do? Send him off to Space Fleet, as he’d threatened to? Hell, even that would be a better future than the one he’d have if he did as Sergei wanted.
The rain became heavier, and a cold wind picked up. Nick glanced about for a good spot to wait out the storm. As he scanned the landscape, his gaze settled on a familiar rock formation: a wind-carved spire towering over the trees. He frowned, trying to remember where he’d seen it before. A desert hike he’d done with Brandon and Justin a couple of years ago? Or was it—
No, not a desert hike…
Yesterday. He’d seen that exact same spire yesterday.
He’d been going in a great bloody circle.
With a muttered curse, he set off toward it.
He’d spent a couple of hours yesterday afternoon sitting at the base of it, staring down into a gorge at a swiftly flowing river. With a little climbing, he’d made his way down to the riverbank. There, he’d found a shallow cave, where he’d spent the night.
If he could find his way back there, at least he’d have shelter for the night. The thought of getting warm and dry was appealing, and Nick’s spirits rose as he hunted out the easiest path. Without the sun to guide him back to the plateau, there was no point in wandering about. With his luck, he’d only end up even farther away.
The sound of rushing water soon filled his ears, and Nick moved faster, wanting to get out of the rain. By the time he reached the river he was soaked through, despite the poncho. He’d lost sight of the rocky spire in the mist of rain, but now that he’d found the river, it didn’t matter.
Between the rain and the mud, footing along the riverbank was treacherous, and Nick went down on the rocks several times as he made his way upriver. The bank narrowed as he followed it upstream, which lifted his spirits further. There should be a sharp bend just ahead, and once it straightened out again, the bank would widen and the caves were only a bit farther on.
The riverbank continued to narrow until it became little more than a ledge some two meters above the surging water. It hadn’t slowed him down much yesterday; there’d been plenty of handholds. It would probably be safer to wait until the rain stopped, but from the color of the sky, that wasn’t going to be anytime soon. The caves — and protection from the icy rain — were so close his skin was prickling with the need to get dry and warm.
“All right, not much farther now,” he told himself firmly. “You can do this.”
He began creeping along the ledge, checking his handholds carefully as he made his way around the river bend. The rock beneath his feet was slick, and the rain was pelting down so hard now that it was impossible to see more than a meter or so to either side. Nick clung to the rock wall and edged his way along.
As he rounded the bend, the handholds became more numerous, though the ledge hadn’t widened yet. He could do this. He was nearly there, and began to relax just a little at the thought of the cheerful campfire he would build.
A gust of wind came screaming through the gorge. Nick flattened himself against the rocky wall and clung on. As he tried to adjust his footing to secure himself, his foot slipped out from under him. The bottom dropped out of his stomach as he scrabbled for a handhold.
For one brief moment, he thought he was safe. But his hand came down on slippery, wet rock, and his fingers couldn’t find purchase. He grabbed wildly, missed, and plunged into the churning water below.
He was prepared to hold his breath and to fight the current, but he hadn’t anticipated the cold. It bit deep, and the last thought he had time for was that it couldn’t be more than a few degrees above freezing.
Then he was fighting for his life.
The current sucked him under, tossing and turning him until he didn’t know which way was up. He fought to escape, but he’d lost all sense of where the surface was, and his muscles were starting to cramp from the cold. Panic burned through him. Desperate for air, Nick had to make a conscious effort to remind himself not to breathe.
He was dragged over rocks and hurled into them. When he surfaced, he gasped for breath a moment too late, then choked and panicked, struggling even harder. Light appeared above him, and he reached for it, knowing it was too late. The last thing he was aware of was the current tugging him back down, and the light fading fast.
* * *
Vaya finished securing the fish trap he’d fashioned out of a hollow log. The river was frigid, and it was with relief that he finally waded out, shivering. As he turned to survey his work, the bark-fiber rope holding the trap in place snapped, and the current swept the log downstream.
Cursing, Vaya dropped to his knees in frustration, unable to do anything but watch an entire morning’s work disappear.
He’d never lost a fish trap to a snapped rope before. It would be easy to blame the whims of the Dragon Mother, but this was his own fault. He’d been distracted and unfocused ever since his last hunting trip had ended with him lying in the middle of a great circle of destruction.
Though he had no desire to go through that again, the bottle of kiva still sat in his pack, untouched. The choice before him weighed heavily upon his mind, and he had yet to decide how he would meet the Dragon Mother.
A drop of cold rain hit his cheek, and he glanced up at the sky. The past two days had been overcast, the air heavy with the scent of impending rain. Now it had finally decided to fall.
The sense of wild energy feathering through his body that had presaged the last storm was absent. Perhaps this would just be a good, soaking rain shower.
Or perhaps not.
Perhaps the storm-power would overtake him again, without warning. Vaya shivered at the thought. Kiva would at least prevent him from tearing the land apart. It would be prudent to take some now, just in case another storm was coming.
As he turned toward the cave, a flash of bright red upriver caught his eye. Curious, Vaya hurried up the bank for a closer look.
The red turned out to be some kind of cloak, wrapped around a man who had been caught in a tangle of deadfall and wedged against the rocks. The man’s eyes were closed, and his lips were blue.
It took some work to free him from the branches. Vaya ended up having to cut away most of the cloak, which was made of a thin, slippery material the likes of which he’d never seen before.
The rain was nearly as cold as the river, and by the time he’d dragged the body onto the bank, his teeth were chattering. He lay the man on the rocky ground and looked him over. Pale skin, dark hair cut short, and wearing one of the Sky People’s time-keeping devices around his wrist.
Definitely not Ajhani.
Definitely not dead, either; he was still breathing, though he wouldn’t last long if Vaya didn’t get him warm and dry quickly.
Vaya eyed the man as he considered whether or not it was worth the effort to save him. Chances were, he was one of those who had kidnapped Piri and the others. Vaya might save himself and the clan a lot of trouble by simply dumping the man back into the water.
Look for a gift from the river, Ivaka’s voice whispered through his mind.
A gift?
Surely not.
The Dragon Mother had a dark and twisted sense of humor indeed, if this was the gift Ivaka had spoken of.
With a muttered curse, Vaya set to work checking the man for broken bones. Scrapes and bruises covered his pale skin, but he seemed to be whole. Vaya lifted him carefully over his shoulder and carried him into the cave.
He lay the man near the fire and began stripping off the sodden clothing. In the pocket of the man’s jacket, he found a device he recognized as one of the Sky People’s weapons. He slipped it into his own pack for safe-keeping.
Once the man was dried off and settled in Vaya’s own furs, he headed back to the riverbank to retrieve the pack. Inside it, he found a supply of the Sky People’s ready-to-eat meals, a bedroll, and a container for water. There were a number of smaller items, none of them recognizable, though Vaya was certain they weren’t weapons.
When he was satisfied that there was nothing dangerous left in the pack, he put everything back inside and set it against the cavern wall near the fire, next to his own things.
Only then did Vaya tend to himself. He dried off and spread his own clothing out to dry, then made some tea. He debated only briefly before adding a dose of kiva. He hadn’t gone to the trouble of hauling the man out of the river only to blast him to bits if a storm should come.
Still shivering, he settled himself by the fire to warm up while he contemplated what, exactly, the Dragon Mother expected him to do with the river’s gift.
* * *
The sun was just setting by the time Vaya felt sufficiently warmed up to check his patient more carefully for injuries. A brief examination revealed bruised — or possibly cracked — ribs, and a nasty lump on the side of the man’s head. Vaya had learned enough during his years with the Guardians to know that if the man had been hit on the head in the wrong place, without the help of a skilled healer, he might never wake up.
Which might be for the best, since Vaya couldn’t imagine what he was going to do with him. Take him back to camp to answer for the Sky People’s crimes before the Council?
No.
He had no idea how long it would take for the kiva to begin affecting him again, but once it did, it would only hamper his ability to handle a prisoner. And even if they did reach the camp, by that time, he would not be capable of making the return trip to the mountains.
The prospect of living out the last of his days helpless in his mother’s care was not one he was eager to contemplate. He would not put her or Erasha through that if it could be helped.
He ate the last of yesterday’s fish and then considered the problem of getting some sleep. After a head injury, the man could wake up confused, or even violent. Vaya’s eyes strayed across the cavern to the pile of bark he’d peeled and the rope he’d been plaiting. Trussing the man up for the night would solve the problem nicely.
He cut a length of the coarse rope and used it to tie the man’s wrists in front of him. Another length bound his ankles. That should be enough. Even if he proved strong enough or agile enough to escape, if Vaya bedded down beside him, he’d be woken once the man began to struggle.
Satisfied that he’d done what he could to safeguard himself, Vaya banked the fire and slipped into the furs. The man’s skin was still icy cold to the touch, so Vaya pressed close against him, using his own body heat to warm him.
He wasn’t normally one to pray, but as he put an arm over the man to draw him close, he couldn’t help but whisper, “Aio… what is your will in this? What is best for my clan? Do I kill him now? Or…”
He fell silent as it occurred to him that the Sky People might want him back badly enough to trade him for Piri and the others. And Vaya spoke enough of their language that he could make his own demands understood.
It also occurred to him that if Aio had wanted the man dead, she would not have needed Vaya to do it.
“Very well,” he muttered darkly. “An exchange of prisoners, it is. If he survives.”
* * *
Icy currents pushed and pulled his limbs and tossed his body about as if he were a rag doll. His lungs burned, and Nick struggled to escape, certain his next breath would be his last.
He woke with a start, choking back a scream.
No… he couldn’t be awake. This had to be a nightmare… no one could feel this bad and still be alive. His body was one solid ache. Every breath hurt, his head was throbbing horribly, and he couldn’t move.
He pried his eyes open to find himself lying on his back, staring up at a rough, uneven ceiling lit by flickering firelight.
A cave… he’d been trying to reach the caves along the riverbank for shelter when he’d lost his footing. What he couldn’t remember was getting out of the river and dragging himself into one of them.
Something was wrong with the bedding. It didn’t feel like the lightweight sleeping bag he’d brought with him. It was thick and warm, and felt almost… furry?
What the hell was he lying on?
He turned his head in the direction of the light, groaning as even that small movement sent sharp spikes shooting through his head. His vision blurred with tears of pain, and he blinked them away. Across the cavern was the fire, and before it moved a dark, human-shaped shadow. The shadow squatted before the fire to stir something, then rose and moved toward him.
Moments later, Nick found himself staring up at a man who was the spitting image of the natives imprisoned at the research center. Long black hair done up in a loose braid, impossibly dark eyes, dusky golden skin…
Where the hell was he?
He groaned as the rest of the pieces came together to form a grim picture. He remembered his fury at discovering the native prisoners, the blind drunk that had followed, and Draven’s cruel punishment when he’d asked for the day off.
His heart sank as he realized Jo was the only one who knew where he’d gone, and after several days of wandering in circles and a dunk in the river, there was no knowing how far he was from their rendezvous point. And since he’d stupidly left both his phone and slate behind, there was no way they’d be able to track him.
He’d have to find his way back on his own.
The native dropped gracefully to his knees. He wore pants made of some kind of soft leather, but no shirt, and despite his discomfort, Nick found his eyes drawn to the sculpted muscles of the man’s chest and arms.
“Who—” Nick started, but the only sound his dry throat would make was a weak croak.
The man held out a wooden cup, then slipped an arm behind Nick’s shoulders to help him sit. It hurt like hell. Any inappropriate thoughts he might have been about to entertain were wiped away by the waves of pain gripping his body. His benefactor seemed aware of his discomfort, and eased him up slowly while Nick clenched his teeth and bit back a whimper. By the time he was upright, he was sweating.
Once he could concentrate on something other than pain, the reason he couldn’t move became clear: his hands were bound in front of him with some kind of rough, handmade rope.
Nick drew in a sharp breath as the beginnings of panic stirred in his gut. His eyes darted to the man’s face, which was set in a grim mask. Not the face of a friend, or even a concerned stranger. The man held up the cup, then slowly brought it to Nick’s lips and helped him drink.
He’d already taken three big gulps before it occurred to him that if this was the same man who’d bound his hands, perhaps it wouldn’t be wise to accept food or drink from him.
Then again, he’d been helpless enough to be bound. If his rescuer had intended to kill him, he’d already had ample opportunity. Besides, he was so parched, he had to drink.
He’d only gulped down half the cup when the man pulled it away. Nick started to protest, and the man said something to him in a language that sounded all liquid and flowing, almost like a song.
The man’s voice stopped him cold. It sounded like honey and dark smoke, and was sexy as hell. Under other circumstances, Nick might have asked him to keep talking just to hear it some more.
“I don’t understand you,” Nick said. “I don’t suppose you speak Standard?” And when he didn’t get an answer, he muttered, “No, of course you don’t. How would you?”
The man lay him back down slowly, his careful actions belying the flash of anger in his dark eyes.
Nick lifted his hands. “You can’t tie me. How am I supposed to piss if I’m tied?”
One eyebrow lifted, and the man moved to the foot of the bedding and whipped the cover off of him. Nick yelped as the cool air drifted over his bare skin, and a hot flush crept over his face as he realized he wasn’t wearing anything.
The native pulled a knife from his belt. Nick’s heart leapt into his throat, but all the man did was cut through the binding on Nick’s ankles. He unwound the rope and tossed it away before moving back to Nick’s side and helping him to his feet.
Every muscle screamed at the movement, the pain too intense for him to even think about the fact that he was naked and the other man wasn’t. When he was standing, he looked down at himself. Dark bruises and partially healed scrapes covered his chest and his sides. That explained why it hurt so much to breathe. He’d probably cracked a rib or two.
“Did you pull me out of the river?” he asked before he remembered that his captor didn’t understand him. “If you did, I owe you one.”
The man said nothing, but put an arm around him to steady him as he guided him to the mouth of the cave. Outside, the sun was sinking. The man helped him to a tree, where Nick assumed he was supposed to relieve himself. He managed to maneuver his bound hands into position so he could aim, and sighed as the uncomfortable pressure eased.
When he’d finished, his captor guided him back to the bedding, which was, indeed, made of some kind of fur. Nick lifted his hands again, examining the rope. It was coarse, and his wrists were already reddened and chafed beneath it. “It’d be a whole lot easier if you’d untie me. I’m not going anywhere. I hurt too goddamn much.”
The man pushed him back down on the furry bedding. He grabbed some more of the roughly-made rope and started to wrap it around Nick’s ankles.
Nick kicked out, earning himself a sharp slap on the thigh and a dark glare. The man’s hand went to his knife again. He didn’t have to say anything; his meaning was crystal clear. Nick forced himself to lie still, though he burned with fury.
In short order, his ankles were bound tightly together once more. When he was secured, his captor moved back to the fire.
“Hey — you going to cover me back up? I can’t do it all trussed up like this.”
The native squatted down in front of a pack sitting near the fire and drew out a small pot, which he brought across the cavern. He knelt down next to Nick, scooped some goo out of the pot with his finger, and began spreading it over the bruises on Nick’s chest.
His face might be impassive, but the man’s fingers were gentle and his hands were warm. Whatever the stuff was, it smelled good, like a mixture of flowers, cinnamon, and something else Nick couldn’t identify. A few minutes after it had been worked into his skin, the pain started to ease, and Nick let his head fall back into the bedding with a soft moan of pleasure.
“Oh, God, that feels so good,” he murmured. “You should get a job as a masseuse. Hell, you’re pretty enough, you could be a professional Companion.”
The man merely grunted, and when he’d finished, wiped his hands on a bit of cloth, then pulled the furs up over Nick, covering his shoulders. He said something Nick didn’t understand, more of those liquid syllables that sounded almost like a song, then got to his feet and moved back to the fire.
The walk to the tree and back had exhausted Nick more than he’d imagined it would, and he closed his eyes and drifted off.
A touch on his shoulder woke him. His captor was back beside him, this time with another cup of water and a bowl of something that smelled wonderful. He helped Nick sit up again — which was considerably less painful now that the salve had been worked into his skin — then dipped a wooden spoon into the bowl and held it to Nick’s lips.
Nick gave him a narrow stare. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding,” he muttered. “Look, just untie my hands. I won’t run. Hell, I can hardly walk. You saw.”
The man sat back on his haunches and stared at Nick, dark eyes impassive. This message, too, was crystal clear: my way or starve. Nick nodded his understanding and opened his mouth. The spoon slipped in, and the rich taste of seasoned broth filled his mouth. Whatever it was, it was a hell of a lot better than the processed, over-seasoned grey stuff they put in meal-paks. He couldn’t suppress a little groan of pleasure as he chewed a tender piece of savory meat.
“This is the best thing I’ve eaten since I got here,” Nick said around a mouthful. “Did you make it?” After swallowing another bite, this one with some kind of vegetable that was almost like potato, but not quite, he added, “Stupid question — didn’t see any convenience stores around here.”
The spoon pushed against his lips again, and he ate another bite. After that, the man kept the food coming fast enough that Nick didn’t try talking to him again. Once he’d finished the contents of the bowl, the native rose and headed back to the fire.
“Hey, are you sure you can’t untie me?” Nick called after him. “I promise I won’t run.”
There was no response.
“Come on, please?”
This time there was movement by the fire, and as the native approached, Nick thought maybe he’d finally gotten through to him. But instead of loosening his bonds as Nick was hoping he would, the man grabbed a fistful of his hair and forced his head back, then poured something warm and bitter into his mouth. Nick struggled, determined not to swallow, but the man held his mouth shut and waited patiently. He was just as determined as Nick, and at the moment, he was a hell of a lot stronger.
Too exhausted to continue fighting, Nick gave in and choked the stuff down. As soon as he’d swallowed it, more followed. With no strength left, Nick gave in and drank it. When he was finished, the man pushed him back down into the furs and covered him again.
“What was that?” Nick demanded when he’d caught his breath. “What the fuck did you give me? You can’t treat me like this! Do you have any idea who my father is? When I get back to the base, I’ll have you arrested!”
The dizziness hit fast, and Nick stopped his rant and squeezed his eyes shut. Blackness engulfed him.
* * *
It was a great relief when the prisoner finally succumbed to the strong, drugged tea Vaya had forced down his throat. Blackseed tea was good for pain, and the coldroot he’d added would ensure that the man would sleep long and deep. Considering his injuries, sleep was the best thing for him, and since Vaya had gone to the trouble of saving him, it only made sense to care for him properly.
Having no desire to communicate with his prisoner, Vaya had kept a mask of indifference on his face, even when he’d been sworn at and insulted. If he let on that he understood most of what was said to him, there would only be more complaining and more chatter, so he kept his mouth firmly shut.
He banked the fire and then stood over the furs, glaring down at the man who had taken his bedding. Early summer it might be, but nights in the Iceshards were still cold. There was no way he was going to shiver through the night with his one blanket while his enemy enjoyed the warmth and comfort of his furs.
Gritting his teeth, Vaya slid into the furs next to him. At least he didn’t need to press close to warm him tonight. The man was throwing off enough heat of his own to keep things cozy without having to resort to snuggling.
Too much heat, in fact, because Vaya woke in the middle of the night feeling hot and sweaty. Half awake, he kicked off the furs and drifted back to sleep.
He woke shivering in the chill morning air. The fire had burned low in the night, and he snagged the blanket and wrapped it around himself as he squatted before the embers and coaxed it back to life. Once it was going again, he set some water to boil for tea.
“God, it’s cold.” The complaining tone from behind him grated on his nerves, making his shoulders tense. “You got any more blankets? I’m freezing my ass off, here.”
Vaya turned to see his prisoner watching him with half-closed eyes. The man’s face was flushed, and Vaya moved to his side and leaned over him, pressing his own cheek to the man’s forehead. His skin was burning hot.
“Hey, man, I don’t feel so good. And I really need to pee.”
Vaya untied his ankles. When he helped him up, he noted that the man’s pain seemed to have lessened, though he was shaky and unsteady on his feet, and his skin was feverishly hot. When he’d wrestled his prisoner back into the furs and secured his ankles again, the whining resumed.
“I’m thirsty. Can I get some water? I don’t feel so good.”
Vaya fetched him a cup of water and helped him sit up to drink it.
The man watched him with narrowed eyes, sniffing at the cup suspiciously. “This isn’t that crap you gave me last night, is it?”
With effort, Vaya resisted the urge to dump the water over his head. That would only serve to get the furs wet, and he had no desire to sleep in damp bedding. He helped the man drink the water, then eased him back down.
“You know, if you untied me, you wouldn’t have to do so much for me.”
Biting back a retort, Vaya headed back to the fire and brewed some more of the blackseed tea. He added both coldroot, to help the man sleep, and feverbane to take his fever down.
When the tea was ready, he took a cup over to the furs and knelt at the man’s side. The man eyed the cup and then Vaya with suspicion. “What is this? Smells funny. I don’t want it.”
When Vaya put an arm under him, the man writhed and twisted, grunting in pain as he tried to wriggle away. Fighting him risked making his injuries worse, prolonging the time they’d be stuck in this cave together, so Vaya let go of him and glared.
“You have fever,” he snapped. “You need to drink. Or if you want to die, I can throw you back in river.”
So much for refusing to communicate. Although it was possible the man hadn’t understood; Vaya knew his accent was thick and probably hard to understand. Something must have gotten through, though, because the man stopped struggling.
“You can talk,” he said.
Vaya rolled his eyes. “Of course I can talk. You think we are savages just because we do not speak your words?”
The man flushed, and Vaya guessed that was exactly what he had thought.
“Medicine.” Vaya gestured to the cup. “Does not taste good, but will help your fever. Will you stop fighting and drink?”
Eyes the color of honey met and held his gaze for a long moment. Finally, the man nodded slowly. “I’ll drink it.” This time, when Vaya lifted the cup to his lips, he drank it all down, grimacing at the taste.
“I bring you water,” Vaya told him, then corrected himself: “I will bring you water.” The patterns and cadences of Federation Standard — a language he hadn’t spoken since before the winter — came back to him as he reached for the words he needed. He rose to rinse out the cup and fill it with water.
“You could untie me,” the man suggested. “I could drink it myself, then.”
“I could,” Vaya agreed. “But I will not.”
“Why not?”
“You are my prisoner.”
“Prisoner?” he whispered, eyes widening. “But I didn’t—”
“Enough,” Vaya said sharply. “Your people have taken mine, and so I take you. You be silent now, or I will gag you.” He held the water to the man’s lips and the man drank, keeping his eyes fixed on Vaya the whole time.
When he’d finished the water, Vaya lay him back down and adjusted the furs. “Sleep now,” Vaya told him, rising to return to the fire.
“My name is Nick,” the man said quietly. “And I haven’t done anything wrong. I haven’t even been here for more than… two weeks, maybe.”
Vaya didn’t respond, but the man’s words stayed with him long after the coldroot he’d added to the tea had done its work and sent him off to sleep. They continued to bother him as he headed down to the river to set up the new fish trap he’d built while the man had slept.
A gift from the river, indeed.
What in the Dragon Mother’s coldest hell did Aio expect him to do?
If the prisoner — no, not prisoner. He had a name, didn’t he? And he’d offered it to Vaya freely. If Nick was telling the truth, he’d had nothing to do with the disappearance of Piri and the rest of the hunting party.
If he was telling the truth.
Not being a mythe-weaver, Vaya had no way to know for certain if Nick spoke the truth. Nick was aware he was in danger, and would likely say whatever he had to, if he thought it would buy him his life.
As he finished tying off the fish trap, Vaya noted a slight tremor in his hand, and his heart sank. It hadn’t taken long for the kiva to take up where it had left off, but now, with an injured man to care for, there was no choice but for him to continue taking it.
While he gathered edible roots from the forest, Vaya considered his options. He could still kill the man. Then he could stop taking the kiva and—
And what? Pretend there is still any hope at all that I might return?
Vaya stared back in the direction of the cave. He’d begun to accept that he would never attain the control he sought, but he had yet to make peace with the idea that he would not be returning to his clan.
With a curse, he turned his thoughts back to the injured man in the cave. The idea of trading Nick for his clansmen still hovered in the back of his mind where it had been lurking since he’d first conceived it. If he were to attempt such a trade, Nick would have to be healthy enough to make the journey to the base, which meant Vaya was stuck with him until his fever had passed and his injuries had healed.
He would wait, he decided, and see what Aio wanted. He would do what he could to save the man. If Aio still chose to take Nick’s life, then Vaya would stay here in the mountains where he would not be a danger — or a burden — to his clan.
And if she chose to spare him…
Well. There would be time enough later to worry about the logistics of getting them both to the mining base and negotiating an exchange of prisoners.