Solivagant

Chapter Thirty-Three

Asher's head was pounding. Each beat sent a wave of pain crashing through his mind and echoing his ears, overwhelming the rest of his senses. It was the worst at the back of his skull—he felt like a scorching knife had been driven into his brain, twisting deeper with every passing second.

"You should have called me sooner." A man's voice, quiet but full of authority. Asher hadn't heard it before. A flash of cold jolted through him, driving away some of the fog over his mind, and he shivered.

"I stabilized him, and the damage wasn't severe. He probably would have woken on his own in a few days."

He sounds familiar. Asher fumbled with the second man's words, their meaning sliding through his head and draining away like water. His thoughts were still too sluggish, the agony ripping through his head too great.

"Comas are... complicated, Rivas. Complicated and dangerous. You should've called me."

Asher's mind cleared a little as the unfamiliar man spoke, and he settled back into his body. His limbs felt heavy and cold, as if his blood had frozen over. A fierce chill dug through him, flaring every few seconds. With an effort, Asher curled his fingers into the soft ground—no, not ground. Fabric. He bunched some up in his hand, befuddled.

"He's awake." This time, Asher recognized Rivas' clipped voice.

"Partially."

Asher's headache receded; with a start, he realized someone's hand was resting across his forehead. He flinched and tore his eyes open, a trickle of alarm breaking through his daze. He was lying in a bed, a plain wall inches from his nose. Golden light flickered across the plaster, soft and warm. Jt was very bright; he winced, dragging his gaze across the surface. Someone was standing behind him; he could see the man's silhouette on the wall. Asher swallowed, his heart fluttering in his chest.

"There." The stranger sounded satisfied; the hand vanished. "I quickened the boy's recovery rate. Give him five minutes and he'll be fine."

Asher felt a little stronger now, his senses sharpened by the jolt of fear. He pushed himself onto his back, sucking in a harsh breath as the world spun beneath him. A man about Rivas' age stood next to the bed, his icy blue eyes shifting to Asher at the movement. Across the room, a table was pressed into the corner; Rivas leaned against one side, his attention focused on the papers scattered across the rough surface. The door was shut, and a lantern atop the table provided the only illumination: it was impossible to tell the time, or figure out where he was.

Asher stared at Rivas for a moment, utterly disoriented, before turning his attention back to the stranger. The man's sleeves were rolled up—he didn't have the mark of a Valkir on his forearm, though Asher did notice a scar across the back of his hand. He wore his hair unusually long; at its shortest, it curled just past the base of his ears.

The stranger tilted his head, studying Asher's face. "Hello."

"Who...?" The word grated in Asher's throat, barely even audible. He swallowed. Something about the man sent a whisper of unease through him, but he couldn't quite figure out what. "Who are you?"

The stranger's lips twitched. Another chill pulsed through Asher, and he automatically brought one hand to the back of his head.

Rivas cleared his throat, looking up for the first time. "He's your king."

Asher frowned, his mind going blank. Then it hit him. He gasped and struggled upright, breaking into a cold sweat. A bout of dizziness struck him in retaliation; he slumped against the wall, nausea twisting his gut as he stared at the stranger. The throbbing in his head worsened a thousandfold, and for a moment he lost all sense of the world around him. The king. The king. It didn't make sense—the man before him wore simple, practical clothes, and his posture was utterly relaxed. But there was a certain command in his demeanor, the sort of self-confidence that came with years of authority.