Page 19 of Salt in the Wound

"Dagny is teaching him."

Bohdi makes a sound that is not quite a laugh and not quite a sigh, something in between, the exhale of hearing an insufficient answer and deciding how much energy to spend dismantling it.

"Dagny is teaching him words for rope and fish and that thing Gunnar made last night that should be classified as a war crime." He pauses. Eskil can feel the pause, can feel the weight of what's coming next, the careful precision with which Bohdi is selecting his approach. "She is not teaching him the nuances of cultural integration."

Eskil stops sharpening.

He doesn't look up from the blade. The whetstone rests against the steel, motionless, and the space between them fills with the sound of the ship, the creak of rigging, the slap of water against the hull, the muffled voices of the dawn watch changing above them. He stares at the edge of his sword, at the fine line where honed metal meets light, and considers the shape of the problem Bohdi is outlining.

Because Bohdi is right. And they both know it.

Dagny can teach Indrie to navigate the ship. Gunnar can teach him to navigate the kitchen. Ermin can follow him around with puppyish enthusiasm and learn to identify herbs by smell. But none of that addresses the central issue, which is that Indrie doesn't know what he's walking into. He doesn't know about Valen, its customs, its people, its expectations. He doesn't know what will be asked of him or how critically they need him.

And Eskil can't communicate any of that through intermediaries. Not properly. Not in a way that Indrie will believe.

He looks at his second-in-command, who is watching him with infuriating patience, right and aware of it and decent enough not to gloat. Bohdi's arms are crossed over his chest, his red hair catching the first real light of morning, his expression steady and open and waiting.

"What do you suggest?" Eskil asks.

"I think you need to spend time with the boy yourself."

Eskil's grip tightens on the whetstone.

"Hiding behind Dagny and Gunnar as intermediaries is easier, yes," Bohdi continues, his tone measured, not accusatory but not gentle either, delivering a truth that needs to be heard regardless of whether it's welcome. "But Indrie is terrified of you, and distance is only going to make that worse."

Eskil opens his mouth. Bohdi holds up a hand.

"The crew has warmed to Indrie because they've spent time with him. They've sat with him, worked beside him, let him tend their wounds and argue about stew with their cook. They know him. He's not a stranger to them anymore, not a foreign captive, not a frightened boy from a conquered kingdom. He's Indrie. He's theirs." Bohdi lets that land before delivering the final stroke. "You have spent the last week and a half avoiding him."

"I haven't been avoiding him."

"You changed your route to the helm three days ago to stop passing the galley."

Eskil's jaw clenches hard enough that something clicks. "That was—"

"And you've been taking your meals in your cabin instead of with the crew, which you haven't done since you were twenty-two and nursing a broken heart over that shipwright's daughter in Harren. And you've posted yourself at the helm during every hour that Indrie is on deck, which puts you as far from him as possible while still technically being on the same ship."

"Are you finished?"

"Almost." Bohdi leans forward, dropping his arms, planting his elbows on his knees. "You're not subtle, Eskil. You've never been subtle. You are a fine king, a fearsome warrior, and the most stubborn bastard I've ever had the misfortune of loving, but subtle is not among your virtues. Every man and woman onthis ship has noticed you keeping your distance from the healer, and if they've noticed, then Indrie has noticed, and what do you think that distance tells a man who has spent his entire life being kept at arm's length by the people who control his fate?"

The question doesn't require an answer. It provides its own.

It tells him he's not worth the effort. It tells him the initial kindness was an anomaly, a flicker that's already burning out, and the cold distance that follows is the real temperature of the room. It tells him what he already believes: that he is a tool to be used when needed and set aside when not.

Eskil stares at the blade across his knees and says nothing for a long time.

Bohdi doesn't fill the silence. He's said his piece. He sits beside his king in the growing morning light and waits, because that's what Bohdi does. He pushes until Eskil is at the edge, and then he stands beside him and waits for Eskil to decide whether to step forward or back.

"I'll handle it," Eskil says eventually. The words are rough, dragged out from somewhere he doesn't enjoy accessing, but they're sincere.

Bohdi nods. He stands, brushes off his trousers, and claps Eskil on the shoulder, a firm, grounding pressure that says more than the gesture should. "I know you will."

He turns to go, takes two steps, and then pauses. The grin creeps back onto his face, slow and inevitable.

"For what it's worth," he says, looking back over his shoulder, "Ermin and Skander have caught six rats so far. I'm going to have to start thinking seriously about that blade."

Eskil fixes him with a look. "I thought you didn't have a collection."