WinterofThorns Read Free

ached, knowing he
hurt. She laid her palm on his forehead and the moment she did, his eyes eased
slowly open. He stared up at her—the lustrous blue of his irises dulled with
pain—and sluggishly ran the tip of his tongue over his top lip.
    There was a commotion at the door and she
heard low voices. A quick glance told her the men she had asked her brother to
find were there to give blood. For once Alden had done as she’d bid without too
much complaint.
    “Where?” she heard the warrior ask in a
weak, husky voice.
    “You are safe, milord,” she said, smoothing
the worry lines on his brow. “You are at Riverglade and Prince Vindan’s men are
nearby.”
    She straightened as the healer came back to
the table with a vac-syringe in his hand. At the older man’s nod, she gently
tilted Seyzon’s face toward her to give the healer access to the thick column
of the warrior’s neck. She felt their patient tense as the fiery load was
administered. Almost instantly, his eyes closed again.
    “Sleep well, milord,” she said then moved
aside as the healer rolled another table close to Seyzon’s then bid a volunteer
to stretch out atop it.
    * * * * *
    Seyzon wasn’t sure if he was conscious. He
thought he was because he hurt so badly. His chest and stomach felt as though
they were on fire and when he tried to move, pain ripped across him from one
side to the other. Surely if he was unconscious, he wouldn’t feel such ungodly
agony.
    He had no idea where he was though he
remembered being told. His sixth sense wasn’t niggling him so he didn’t think
he was in enemy hands. Though he hurt, he didn’t feel dread. He wasn’t
distressed about his whereabouts even as the pain throbbed through his body.
Instinct told him he was being cared for by people who meant him no harm.
    Thirst made his mouth feel encased in
cotton and when he ran his tongue over his lips, he wasn’t surprised to find
them cracked. He was fairly sure he had a fever for his head throbbed
unmercifully and he was sweating profusely, the sting of salt running into his
eyes. The moment a soft, cool hand eased under his neck to lift his head, he
forced his eyes open. All he could see was the rim of a cup placed at his lips.
    “Just a little now.”
    The voice was soft, very feminine, sweet as
honey, and it wound around him like a protective vine. Its owner held his head
steady as water was drizzled down his parched throat. He drank greedily,
groaning when the cup was taken away.
    “A little more?”
    He tried to speak and couldn’t, but apparently
words weren’t needed for the angel administering to him returned the cup to his
mouth. Another few sips exhausted him. She laid his head down gently on the
pillow. He desperately wanted her to move into his line of vision, and when she
did—her smiling face looking down at him with encouragement—he felt his heart
thud dangerously in his chest.
    “Good morn,” she said.
    She was lovely beyond words as she stood
there gazing down at him. He remembered her from the battlefield, recognized
her gentle voice and tender touch but could not bring to mind her name.
    “Jana,” she said as though she’d
intercepted his confusion. “Jana Reynaud. You are at Riverglade and Commander
Vashteel has been wearing a path in the corridor, wanting to see you.” Her
smile wavered. “Unfortunately, you have contracted an infection. Your fever has
been dangerously high for several days now but you’ll be just fine. Healer
Cronin just wants to limit the exposure of those around you for the time
being.”
    “You?” he managed to ask, swallowing against
the terrible dryness that had invaded his mouth again.
    “I’ve been caring for you since we operated,”
she said. “There were a few warriors who were in to donate blood but Healer
Cronin was very selective about which of them were allowed to do so.”
    “Operated?” he echoed, frowning.
    “You were stabbed, milord,” she said. “Your
spleen had to be