Drothiker

12.

As night fell, Vendrik had been in the pool behind the fortress, busting a gut to rest his pain-in-the-ass fire when Azryle returned from his training session with Syrene Alpenstride, looking exhausted enough to suggest he'd been constructing buildings all day.

Vendrik sighed. "Did someone bite off your favorite parts?"

Azryle narrowed his eyes as he leaned against the stone wall across. "Have you been drinking?"

Vendrik had indeed had a drink to take his mind off the constant, unnerving sweltering in himself, half hoping it'd soothe, but it seemed to have burned out all the all the alcoholic particles instead, leaving him utterly sober. Either way, it was not like Azryle at all to not have a smug retort to a comment.

Vendrik leaned against the bank of swimming pool, propping his elbows on it; warm water whispered with his movements. "I take it the session went unexplainedly fantastic?"

Azryle shook his head, exhaustion laying heavy on his friend. "It's fruitless. The woman is desolated. She has no hope, no life in herself. She's already accepted her defeat."

That was new. All those they'd trained had either been too smug or too proud or too eager to impress, or wholly ill at ease. But they'd never trained someone ... desolated. "What happened?"

The prince ran a hand through his dark hair, hauling spilled strands of his half-bun, back. "She's too weak; first of all. I've had her chopping wood all day, to get her muscles to strengthen. But then someone from old days came attacking her." A sigh. "He said shit that had her turning to a wraith."

"That bad?"

"Worse."

Vendrik knew Azryle's brutishness during trainings well, could almost imagine what Alpenstride's hands must look like. "I hope you sent her ointments? Or a healer?"

Ryle narrowed his eyes. "If she would need one, she'd ask."

Vendrik shook his head in exasperation.

"What."

"She's a Grestel. She wouldn't heal overnight, you prick."

Azryle shook his head, rubbing at his temple. "Fine, I'll send a healer." He crossed his arms. "Though I don't think she'll see Ferouzeh—or anyone, for that matter."

That had Vendrik blinking. Azryle only knew that because he'd had to take care of Vendrik himself when Lilith had died. He'd never thanked his friend for that ... for being there when each trace of life had drained from Vendrik.

"Felset is out of her mind."

"Oh?" Vendrik lifted his brow. "What was her command, exactly?"

"Mend her." Azryle blew out a breath. "I supposed she'd meant physically, but apparently ..."

The thought of the Pall Moira being nice at all, let alone mending someone had Vendrik choking out a laugh. But when Azryle gave him a look that promised a slow death, he asked, "How are you going to prompt that?"

His brows furrowed. "Saqa if I know. Felset wants me to prepare her, not for the Pensnial Duel, but so she can break Alpenstride later."

Vendrik flinched. "What do you mean?"

"She wants to know how Syrene made the Plunge, and the cub is ready to be tortured only to stow that information to herself." Queen Felset had usually preferred physical torture, but this ... this was low even for his queen. "I've broken bones and torn muscles, Rik ... literally. But I've never done this before. To mend a broken person, just to crumple them later ..." Indeed, the ripper was rubbing at his face.