Page 49 of Salt in the Wound

The silence stretches. Eskil can feel his second-in-command watching him, can feel the weight of that perceptive, patient attention even through the barrier of his own hands. Bohdi is reading him. Bohdi is always reading him, translating the set of his shoulders and the tension in his jaw and the particular quality of his silence into a diagnosis that is invariably, infuriatingly accurate.

"Three days out, maybe," Bohdi says, finally, "if sailing is smooth. And then we arrive and you have to explain to your brother why there's a healer in Valen that won't look at you."

Eskil drops his hands. He looks at Bohdi and doesn't bother to hide the irritation on his face. He never does. "This is not a good time to discuss this, Bohdi."

Bohdi gives him a flat look. The kind that has no humor in it, no warmth, just the clear-eyed assessment of a man who has run out of patience for dancing around a subject. "When is a better time, my lord? When he's standing on the shoreline, unsure of his place among us, because you can't decide if you want him or not?"

Eskil grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches. "It's not that simple. And it's not a matter of wanting or not wanting."

"Isn't it?"

"No." He picks up a piece of charcoal and turns it in his fingers, needing something to do with his hands that isn't putting a fist through the desk. "He still thinks I own him. Anything I feel or act on is tainted by that dynamic. I cannot pursue a man who believes he has no choice but to comply."

The words come out measured, rational, the carefully constructed argument of a man who has been having this debate with himself for weeks. They are sound. They are reasonable. They are the correct position for a king to take regarding someone in his care who comes from a background of slavery and abuse.

"I thought you told him he was free. You said he understood." Bohdi's brow is furrowed in confusion.

"He asked me tonight if he would belong to me if he stays in Valen."

"And you said?"

"I said no." Eskil's hand tightens on the charcoal until it threatens to snap. "I told him he would never belong to me. And his face just... broke."

Bohdi is quiet, his expression thoughtful. He uncrosses his arms and leans forward, elbows on his knees, and studies Eskil with the careful attention of a man working through something.

"Seems awfully different than his reaction last night when you told him the exact same thing." Bohdi taps his nose, the familiar gesture, and his brow furrows. "That doesn't make sense."

"I know it doesn't make sense, Bohdi. That's what I'm telling you." Eskil drops the charcoal on the desk. "He meant something that I didn't understand, and my answer was wrong for whatever he was actually asking, and I can't figure out what it was because every time I try, the language gets in the way."

Bohdi considers this and then says, with more seriousness than Eskil expects from him, "I understand. And I agree. The timing is wrong. You're right about the power dynamic and you're right that pursuing him while he's confused about his station would be unwise." He pauses. "But I think you need to talk to him again. Before we make land."

"I tried, Bohdi—"

"Then try again. Differently." Bohdi meets his eyes. "Because whatever is between you two, you can't fix it by avoiding it, and he can't fix it alone. He doesn't have the words and he doesn't have the power. You have both. Use them."

Eskil stares back. The rebuttal forming on his tongue dies at the conviction in Bohdi's eyes.

Bohdi isn't done. He leans back in his chair, but the casualness is gone. His voice is quiet, stripped of its usual humor, and the words carry a weight that tells Eskil his second-in-command has been sitting on this for a while.

"You have not seen how Indrie looks at you when you turn away."

Eskil stares at him.

"I have," Bohdi continues. "Dagny has. Gunnar has. Half the crew has, because it's not subtle, Eskil. He watches you constantly, compulsively, as though you're the force his whole world arranges itself around. And when you look back, he drops his eyes, every time, because he's been taught that wanting something is the fastest way to have it taken from you."

The words land one after another, each one finding a space between Eskil's ribs that he didn't know was unguarded.

"The fear in Indrie's eyes is not of you," Bohdi says. "It's of what he feels for you."

The cabin is very quiet.

The lamp swings gently with the ship's roll. The charts rustle on the desk. The water whispers against the hull. And Eskil sits in his chair and stares at the broken charcoal and his useless maps and tries to fit Bohdi's words against the conversation on the deck and can't quite make the pieces connect. He knows there's something there. He can feel it, the shape of an understanding just beyond his reach, but the picture won't resolve. Indrie asked to belong to him, and Eskil said no, and the word belong is sitting between them in two languages and meaning two different things and Eskil still can't see the second meaning clearly enough to name it.

But he can feel its outline. And the outline is enough to know that he needs to find Indrie and try again.

He is quiet for a long time.

"Check the water stores," he says, finally.