Page 113 of The Cinders

He covered his ears and closed his eyes tightly.

Not tight enough to stop the pulse of light that seared between his lids; a flash of brilliance that silenced the unseen wasps.

Lim’s breath came hard and fast, echoing in his covered ears.He let his hands fall.Far distant cries filled the quiet; human, not beast.

He opened his eyes, and his heart beat like a war drum.A naked man lay on his side amongst the straw, knees tucked towards his belly, his hands clasped and tucked beneath his chin, as though he slumbered.

His long black hair, loosened and damp, splayed around him in a messy tangle that covered his face.

Lim felt numb; his understanding of the world shattering like a dropped vase.

He didn’t need to see the face of this man to know who lay there.The scars told him; reaching from the man’s thigh along his side to his shoulder.Higher still, Lim knew, but the prince’s hair acted in place of his veil, covering the damage done to his throat and cheek.

He’d not been mad to name the fox.

‘Oh, Xian…’

Lim rushed forward, fearing he’d lost him; when he’d only just learned he could never let him go.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

LIM DROPPEDto the straw and stone, searching for the rise and fall of Xian’s chest.His hands hovered near the prince’s body, battling twin fears; of Xian waking with Lim’s hands on him, and of daring to touch him and finding no sign of life.

‘Don’t do this, Xian.Don’t you dare,’ Lim said gruffly.‘I won’t have it, do you hear me?’

He poked at the prince.As he’d poked at the fox.Demanding, not praying, to the gods that he’d have the same result.

Xian’s moan barely reached Lim’s ears, but the sound might as well have been a flock ofhwameisinging their morning song.

Choked laughter bubbled with Lim’s relief.

‘You’re alive.’

Xian sighed as he curled into a tighter ball.A soft snore reached Lim’s ears.

The man was deep asleep…and completely naked.Xian wouldwishto die if he woke to find himself like this.

Lim shrugged off one shoulder of his jacket before realising what a pointless thing it was to use the shredded, singed material to cover Xian.

He took in his surroundings at last.They were in a small walled courtyard of a single-storey building; a merchant’s office, perhaps.But one long abandoned.The back door hung from one hinge.The room within was sparsely furnished; only one overturned table from what Lim could see.But he brightened at the sight of the curtain hanging from a window.A long curtain of hemp, one that would have touched the floor if it hung inside, but now flapped about in the open air like an army’s banner.

‘I can work with that,’ Lim muttered.

He looked to Xian, and satisfied the prince wasn’t yet waking, he hurried to the window.Crates lay scattered about beneath it, one half filled with pumpkins; well out of season and in the darkness looking like a pile of black pots.The gourds held a pungent odour, not yet rotting but soon to be so.The last of the autumn vegetables enduring into the new year.

Lim leaned over the crate to snatch at the material and tore the curtain from the stoic nail that held it by one corner.

A groan made him spin around.

The prince was rousing, pushing himself onto his elbow, whimpering with the pain it caused him.

‘Careful now,’ Lim called, sprinting back to the prince’s side.He dropped the hemp and reached for him.‘Take your time.’

He touched Xian’s shoulder, and a slender arm swiped at him.Missing its target widely.

‘Don’t touch me,’ the prince slurred.

‘Your highness.’Lim knew they were well beyond formal address, but hoped it would draw his attention more readily.‘It’s me, Song Lim.’