Page 8 of Salt in the Wound

A large number of Northern warriors, both men and women, linger around the fires and between the tents, talking and eating and looking imposing. Several of them look at him as he enters the area, sharp, appraising glances from faces marked with scars and tattoos and the weathered tan of lives spent under open sky, and Indrie unconsciously steps closer to his escort.

The red-haired man notices. He waves a hand at the onlookers, a dismissive flick of the wrist, and remarkably, they all go back to what they were doing. A few nod at the man first, a sign of deference, and then their eyes slide away from Indrie, interest extinguished. The man says something conspiratorial under his breath, a low, rumbling string of words delivered with the cadence of a joke, and grins at Indrie, wide and genuine, all teeth. The expression transforms his face from intimidating to almost boyish, and Indrie's lips tilt in a small smile even though he has no idea what the man is saying.

It's the strangeness of it that gets him. The absurdity. This morning he was asleep on his threadbare mat, and now he's being escorted through an invading army's camp by a man who could cleave him in two but is instead making jokes he can't understand.

The man deposits him on an overturned log near one of the larger firepits, pats his shoulder once, carefully, mindful of how fragile Indrie must look to him, and disappears between twotents. Indrie sits with his satchel in his lap and his hands clasped over it and waits. He doesn't know what he's waiting for. He doesn't know what happens next. He watches the camp move around him with the careful attention of someone looking for an escape route, even though he knows, in the rational part of his mind, that there's nowhere to escape to.

The red-haired man returns with a bowl of stew and a waterskin.

Indrie takes both in surprise, blinking up at the warrior who is holding out food to him, casually, naturally, feeding a captured enemy without hesitation. The stew is thick and brown and smells of salt and herbs and actual meat, and the waterskin is full and cool when Indrie's fingers close around it. He thanks the man, even though he knows the words won't be understood, because his mother taught him gratitude before she taught him anything else and it's one of the few things he'll never unlearn. "Thank you."

The man seems to understand the tone, if not the words. He gives Indrie another grin and a nod and then he's gone again, called away by someone across the camp, his axe swinging at his side as he goes.

Indrie eats.

The stew is not good, exactly. The meat is tough and the broth is oversalted and there's something in it that might be turnip but might also be boot leather. But it's hot and it's substantial and there's enough of it to fill the hollow ache in his stomach that he's grown so accustomed to he'd forgotten it was there. He eats every bite. He drains the waterskin. He sits by the fire with the empty bowl in his hands and stares at the flames and tries not to be noticeable.

The warmth of the fire seeps into his skin, loosening muscles he didn't realize he'd been clenching. His shoulders ease down from where they've been hiked up near his ears. The crackling ofthe wood is a sound he knows, at least, the same in any language, in any kingdom, and he focuses on it, lets it anchor him while everything else spins.

Someone notices him anyway.

Another redhead, this one with more belts than should be necessary, each one hung with tools and pouches and a pair of short swords that clank together when she moves, drops onto the log beside him with a broad friendly grin and bright eyes and the energy of a person who has never once in her life hesitated to introduce herself. She's close to his age, maybe a year or two older, with freckles scattered across her cheeks and a scar that nicks through one eyebrow. Her hair is much darker than the man’s, but he still wonders if they’re related. There are no redheads in Kalkoa.

She starts talking to him in the most broken version of his native tongue he's ever heard.

It is, without exaggeration, atrocious. Her accent mangles every vowel, she conjugates nothing correctly, and she strings words together in an order that should be illegal. She says something that he thinks is meant to behello, are you the new personbut comes out closer tosorry, you are new meat?

It's enough to make him laugh.

The sound surprises him more than anything else that's happened today. It comes out of him unbidden, startled loose from somewhere deep in his chest, and he doesn't even know how long it's been since that sort of noise came out of him. Months. A year, maybe. He can't remember. The woman lights up at the sound, clearly pleased with herself, and launches into another string of butchered sentences that Indrie has to piece together with effort.

She eats her own food, a bowl of the same stew, which she consumes with genuine enthusiasm despite its questionable quality, and gestures wildly around them. She points at the fireand says the word in her language. Points at the sky. The tents. The water. The ship anchored in the bay. Each word is delivered with exaggerated care, placed in his hands one at a time, and Indrie realizes she's trying to teach him.

He repeats the words back, careful with the unfamiliar shapes they make in his mouth. Fire. Sky. Tent. Water. Ship. The sounds are harsh compared to his own language, all hard consonants and guttural stops, but there's a rhythm to them that he starts to hear after the first dozen. She corrects his pronunciation without mockery, just a shake of her head and a repeat of the word, slower, until he gets it close enough to earn an approving nod.

They finish their food, but she doesn't leave. She sits beside him for several hours as the sun arcs across the sky and the camp shifts around them, naming things, pointing out people, naming them. She introduces herself as Dagny, presses a hand to her chest and says it twice, Dagny, Dagny, until he nods, and then points at him expectantly. He tells her his name and she repeats it back with only minor fumbles. In-dree. Close enough. He nods and she beams at him, delighted, radiant with it.

She shows him her dual short swords, drawing them from her belt with a flourish and holding them out for his inspection. They're beautiful weapons, well-maintained, the blades oiled and the grips worn smooth from use. She mimes a few strikes, quick, precise movements that shows she knows how to handle them, and then, to his astonishment, holds one out to him. Handle first.

Indrie stares at it.

He has never held a weapon in his life. Servants in Kalkoa don't carry blades. Slaves certainly don't. He's never even been allowed near the armory, and the closest he's come to a sword is the small knife he has in his satchel for cutting herbs and bandages. He’s not even allowed a knife sharp enough toperform surgeries or extract objects from the skin. But Dagny is watching him with expectant eyes and an encouraging nod, and he reaches out and takes the sword before he can think better of it.

It's lighter than he expected. The balance is different from anything he's held, the weight in the blade rather than the handle, pulling his hand forward. He doesn't know what to do with it, hasn't the faintest idea how to hold it properly, and he's sure he looks ridiculous. But it feels nice to hold a blade for once in his life. Powerful, in a small way, and he turns the sword carefully in his hands and feels something loosen in his grip on himself.

He hands it back and Dagny sheathes both swords without looking, muscle memory doing the work for her. He shows her his satchel in return, opening it up and allowing her to sort through the items with a deliberate care that he notices, and she seems overjoyed to discover he knows medicine. She tells him, in his own language, that he is very useful.

He learns from her that the tattooed man who is kind is Bohdi. She says his name with obvious respect and then flexes her arms and makes an exaggerated fierce face that Indrie takes to mean very strong, very important. He files the name away. The cook who made his stew is Gunnar. Dagny pantomimes stirring a pot and then rubs her stomach and makes a face that is diplomatically ambiguous about the quality. And the young man peering at him from across the fire with rapt fascination, watching them for the better part of an hour with poorly concealed interest, clearly desperate to come over but not quite having worked up the nerve, is Ermin.

Ermin comes over after he hears his name, apparently deciding that being acknowledged from a distance is as good an invitation as any. He's young, younger than Indrie, with sandy hair and an open, eager face that hasn't quite finished decidingwhat it wants to look like. He knows even less of Indrie's language than Dagny does, essentially nothing, as far as Indrie can tell, but he is very good at hand gestures and charades. He mimes things with his whole body, throwing himself into each demonstration with a commitment that borders on theatrical. When he wants to convey big wave he stands on the log and swoops his arms and nearly falls into the fire. When he wants to say fast horse he gallops in a circle around them until Dagny hooks his belt and yanks him back down.

Indrie is smiling. He's been smiling for a while now and his face aches with it, the muscles unused and protesting the unfamiliar work. Dagny teaches him the word for friend in her language and then points between the three of them, and Indrie feels something loosen in his chest that he hadn't realized was knotted.

They're becoming familiar and at ease with each other, Dagny naming the constellations she can see appearing in the darkening sky, Ermin acting out what Indrie is fairly certain is a sea monster encounter, Indrie offering words in his own language that Dagny tries and fails to pronounce, when the terrifyingly handsome blond warrior from the king's chambers returns to the camp.

Indrie sees him before the others do. Something about the way the man moves commands attention, even from a distance. He walks through the camp and the warriors part for him without being asked, stepping aside with an ease that speaks of deep, ingrained respect. Not out of fear, exactly. Out of recognition. Out of deference earned rather than demanded. He stands off to the side and talks in low voices to Bohdi, their heads close together, and Indrie can't hear what they're saying but he can see the way Bohdi nods, the way the blond man's eyes sweep the camp and its occupants with the practiced assessment of a man responsible for every one of them.

Dagny leans in close, her shoulder pressing against his, and tells Indrie the man's name is Eskil.