Page 29 of The Dark Mage

R en’wyn woke to Fael groaning and wheezing, the night at its darkest beyond the yellowed curtains.

He burned with fever, and his cough tore wickedly through his chest. She crawled from bed, eyes half-shut, staggering as she put the avens root back on to boil and lit another spoonful of lobelia in the copper bowl.

At some point, Mari had thoughtfully left clean sheets outside the door.

Ren’wyn remade the bed—a task that required almost more effort than she could muster with Fael still in it.

She washed him and coaxed him to take a few more spoonfuls of tea before he passed out again.

Hoping to reduce his coughing, she propped his muscular frame up with pillows.

When he finally seemed less agitated, she collapsed with her head in his lap and drifted off.

When she woke again, late morning sunlight pierced her eyelids. Fael lay still and pale, and she bolted upright, convinced he was dead.

But his chest rose and fell, and tears sprang to her eyes. With shaking fingers, she passed her hands over his body, silently reassuring herself that his fever had lowered and that he was resting more ea sily.

Bone-tired, her muscles ached in places she hadn’t known existed.

Her shoulders, in particular, throbbed—the price of bearing Fael’s weight on the road.

She tucked herself against him, relishing his solid presence.

She’d feared the worst—a fever that would carry him away without a goodbye. But he was hea ling.

The realization of what he meant to her flooded her system. She embraced his body and wept, tucking her head into the hollow between his shoulder and chest. She sobbed until her eyes ached and her chest he aved.

Fael slept on, coughing sporadically, while Ren’wyn drifted, listening to the heavy thump of his h eart.

Throughout the day, she refilled the brazier, washed Fael, and changed the sheets.

He drank more tea but didn’t wake. When she wasn’t caring for him, Ren’wyn escaped downstairs to inhale the food Mari provided, staring out the window as she suppressed her anxiety.

Finally, long after the winter sun had disappeared behind the horizon, she collapsed—completely s pent.

A warm hand ran over her hair and back. She hummed with plea sure.

Esrin loves touching my hair.

Her eyes shot open.

Fael’s face was pale, but his lips were turned up at the corners as he regarded her from his pi llow.

“What did I do to get you undressed and into my bed?” he rasped, his voice hoarse but a live.

Ren’wyn threw her arms around his neck. The bristly hairs on his chin brushed against her cheek, and he chuc kled.

“It must’ve been bad,” he grimaced, then groaned as he shi fted.

She touched his forehead—the fever had jumped again in the n ight.

“It’s not fair,” he grumbled. “You’re in your nightgown, but I’m too weak to take advantage of the situa tion.”

He must be delirious—or he’d never have said that.

Still, he was right. She was in her underclothes, and they lay skin to skin. The blanket had slipped, leaving her thighs and upper breasts exposed. She fumbled for the coarse wool quilt as his fingers brushed her back.

“Hmm,” he sighed, his touch drifting down her spine and over her w aist.

Ren’wyn was aware of every heartbeat, every breath, everything as he relaxed into the pillows. Her treacherous stomach clenched and swirled. His fingers returned to her shoulders, tracing her delicate skin until his breathing slowed and he drifted to s leep.

Ren’wyn scrambled out of bed, nearly overturning the ceramic bowl as she splashed cold water onto her face.

I’m not ready for this.

Fael was her whole world—and that terrified her. Realizing what his life meant to her was agonizing. A physical relationship could only complicate that.

The last time I loved a man...

She splashed her face and neck again, trying to rinse away every memory of the times she’d watched Fael, touched him, held him.

A pale face stared back from the mirror, her eyes haunted by the truth: Fael had found his way into her stony heart—and softene d it.

But he wasn’t Esrin. No, Fael was something else enti rely.

Carefully, she made sure Fael was warm and dry. She helped him swallow a few mouthfuls of tea and brushed his hair. He slept with his head in her lap, curly strands tickling her h ands.

She indulged the feelings she thought had died after Esrin’s betrayal. Fael’s heartbeat and breath propelled her own as the darkness of night enveloped them and the fire burned low.

He saw her as en ough.

He delighted in her dark p ower.

He had reawakened her h eart.

In his sleep, Fael moaned, repeating, “No.” He whimpered and thrashed we akly.

Ren’wyn took his hand and wiped his brow. He trembled, and she began to hum—soft and st eady.

She hummed and remembered nights with Ila.

Fael calmed beneath her t ouch.

Ren’wyn pressed her head against his shoulder and continued to hum until his breathing slowed, his body rela xing.

Grounded by his presence, she finally fell as leep.

“Holy shit” was the first thing she heard in the mor ning.

Fael was sitting up, holding his head.

“How long have I been out?” he asked, his voice ragged. “I feel like the dead.”

“Three days,” she replied, counting in her mind.

“Where are we?” His gaze was f oggy.

“Sicen,” she responded. “You are Seth, and I’m Lassa from Laran. We’re on our way to Ishvaen to work with our aunt. There are soldiers in town.”

Fael reclined against the pillows, staring at his hands before coughing deeply and groa ning.

“Shit,” he said a gain.

“You already said that.” Ren’wyn gave him a look of false exasperation and was rewarded with a wheezy l augh.

After a brief hesitation, she clambered out of bed and hauled her dress over her smallclothes. She needn’t have worried—Fael was himself again and looked away through the curtains. She poured him a drink and put on the ke ttle.

“Drink all of that. It’s tea to keep fighting your fever. Our hostess, Mari, has chicken broth made. I bought a chicken for the inn yesterday with the agreement they’d turn the carcass into broth for you.”

“You think of everything, don’t you, Ren’wyn?” he sighed affectiona tely.

She slipped from the room, content with his recovery and warm from his pr aise.

Downstairs, Mari stood at the front counter, wiping it down. Ren’wyn asked for the b roth.

“He’s awake, then?” Mari asked, clearly ple ased.

“Yes,” Ren’wyn replied, grateful to share her re lief.

“I’ll be up as soon as I can,” Mari prom ised.

Ren’wyn returned to the room to find Fael tugging on his tunic. His skin was ashen, and he gasped as a wicked cough racked his c hest.

“What the hell are you doing?” she dema nded.

“Getting decent,” he replied through gritted teeth. “I imagine you’ve seen more of me the past few days than you ever thought you would, and I’d like to preserve whatever shred of dignity I have left—real or imag ined.”

She had seen all of him, bedridden as he’d been, but she wouldn’t tell him. It would only embarrass him. Instead, she waved a hand dismissively and stepped in to finish straightening his shirt. Slowly, they worked together to get his breeches on, taking a break at his knees when he grew t ired.

Mari arrived with bread and eggs for Ren’wyn and hot broth for Fael. Ren’wyn watched him eat every spoonful before he sank back against the pil lows.

“I’ve never felt so weak,” he admi tted.

“Your fever was high,” Ren’wyn said gently. “You were barely conscious for the last three days, and you’re still very dehydr ated.”

“How can I ever thank you?” Fael a sked.

“Don’t,” Ren’wyn said simply. “You saved me in the Territories—and again in Delmor. I just wanted to do the same for you.”

They sat in comfortable silence until Ren’wyn finally spoke. “It’s going to be a few days before you’re able to get around. Will we be all right staying here?”

“I suppose so,” Fael said. “Any chance we could get some books, though? Or better yet, a battle plan to re view?”

She laughed and told him to rest, fretting with the blankets as she tucked them around him.

“There are no other rooms available,” she whispered after a long p ause.

“Stay here, then,” Fael shrugged. “If the past few days have been as bad as I feel they’ve been, I don’t think sharing a bed will change anyt hing.”

Ren’wyn didn’t want to admit that sharing a bed with an invalid was much different than sharing one with him consc ious.

“Besides,” he smiled, “we’re brother and sister—low-born and used to sha ring.”

Too tired to argue, she crept into the small bed, still worn from broken nights of sleep. Fael relaxed into the pillows, and she put as much space between them as she could, brushing her fingers along the dark wooden wall.

Sleep finally found her, and they drifted off together—relieved and exhau sted.

Six days passed before Fael left the room—six days of boredom and frustration. Ren’wyn didn’t particularly care for grumpy Fael, his tone cynical and harsh as his pent-up energy simmered. She often found herself standing with her hands on her hips, mouth twisted against his prickly comm ents.

“I don’t care that you want to get up,” she repeated, one hand holding him back on the bed. “You’re not strong enough yet, and I don’t feel like fixing whatever damage you c ause.”

“You aren’t a healer, and you aren’t my mother,” he reto rted.

“No, but you insist on acting childish—forcing me to mother you.”

Silence. He crossed his arms and stared out the window, scow ling.

“Eat,” she prompted. “Recover your strength. I promise this will end.”

He grumbled but followed her instructions. Even putting on his shirt still sent him into coughing fits, but she didn’t remind him. Fighting wasn’t worth it—she let his anger wash over her like waves against the s hore.

Finally, he rubbed his face. “I’m sorry, Ren’wyn,” he said. “And thank you. You deserve better than this.”