Gilded Serpent Danielle Jensen (i can read with my eyes shut .TXT) 📖

Another soldier caught at her elbow. “General Calorian gave orders that we bring you to the barracks to rest, Marked One.”

“Call me Lydia, please.” She’d be glad to be gone from the Rowenes lands if for no other reason than to be free of that ridiculous honorific. “I’ll travel with the wounded, then remain with them.”

“He suggested you’d say as much,” the man answered, still holding her elbow as though she might topple over at any moment. “He asked that I inform you that there are others waiting who are more than capable of helping the injured.”

Extracting her elbow from his grip, she crossed her arms. “But no one marked.”

The soldier sighed, looking as though he wished he were anywhere other than here, having this conversation. “General Calorian implied you’d say that, too. He said, and pardon my words, Marked One, for I’m merely repeating him, but: ‘Tell her if she doesn’t listen that I’ll come find her myself, haul her back to camp, and lock her in a bedroom until she gets proper rest.’”

There was an aspect of the threat that was undeniably enticing, but Lydia only sniffed and said, “He’s welcome to try,” then started down the path, following the lantern light of those carrying the injured.

It took over an hour for them to reach the barracks, which were a flurry of activity, but she was greeted by a familiar face.

“Finn!” Closing the distance between them, she wrapped her arms around his skinny shoulders, holding him tight. Though the length of time it had been since she’d seen him could be measured in weeks, it seemed as though he’d grown taller, perhaps slightly broader of shoulder. But the greatest change was his expression, a seriousness to him that hadn’t been there back in Mudaire.

“It’s good to see you,” he said, squeezing her hard enough that her ribs ached. “Things will be better with you here, they always are.”

Her skin crawled with unease. Less for his words than for the relief in his voice, making her question what precisely had gone so wrong in her absence.

Then Finn stepped back. “I’ll take you to get cleaned up. Arrange for some clothes and whatnot—can’t have you walking about a camp full of soldiers wearing that. Especially not with old lady legs.”

Lydia curbed the urge to kick him in the shins, instead twitching her borrowed cloak more tightly around her body. A quick glance at her braid revealed a mixture of black and silver. The years she’d given up to save the wounded soldiers were coming back to her, though not nearly as quickly as she liked.

She followed Finn through the heavily fortified camp. He led her to a large stone building, pulling open the heavy doors to reveal two narrow rooms to either side full of weapons and gear. Beyond was a large room with several tables littered with maps and papers, and on the far side, a corridor. “This is the officers’ barracks,” Finn explained. “You can use Killian’s rooms to get cleaned up. He won’t mind.”

Lydia’s heart skipped, her skin flushing ever so slightly, but she only nodded as Finn took her to the room at the end, unlatched the door, and pulled it open.

To reveal an absolute disaster of a mess.

There were clothes on the floor and hanging across the backs of chairs, as though they’d been pulled off, tossed aside, then forgotten. The table had no fewer than eight dirty glasses, three empty wine bottles, and a stack of dirty dishes, at least one of which was starting to grow mold. The bedclothes were in total disarray, the wardrobe doors were open, and every which way she looked were bits of armor and weapons, the blades the only things in the entire mess that didn’t appear in need of a good cleaning.

Finn hesitated, then an apologetic grimace rose on his face. “Umm, sorry for the mess. I haven’t had much time to do any cleaning.”

Lydia stepped over a muddy pair of boots in the middle of the floor. “Why are you responsible for cleaning up after him?”

The grimace turned to a grin. “Because he made me his squire! He’s teaching me how to fight, but in exchange, I’m supposed to clean up and whatnot.”

From the looks of it, the whatnot had taken extreme priority over the cleaning up, but the boy seemed so pleased with his circumstances that she held her tongue.

“I’ll get you some wash water,” Finn said. “I’ll be back in a minute.” Then gathering up an armload of filthy dishes, he disappeared out the door. Moments later, he returned with a pitcher of water and a clean basin, the washing of said things obviously someone else’s responsibility, for which she was deeply grateful.

“Make yourself at home,” he said. “I’ll see about getting you something to eat.” Then, his arms now full of empty bottles and glasses, he departed, kicking the door shut behind him.

Leaving her alone in Killian’s room.

Looking down at her garments, Lydia sighed, seeing that her shift was drenched with blood as well as smeared with mud, as were her bare legs. Circling the room, she eventually found a shirt that appeared clean enough. She set it across the back of a chair while she removed her filthy garments and set to work washing the gore from her skin, making liberal use of the bar of soap on the washstand. Only once she was through did she glance at the mirror, noting that her face had returned to its usual eighteen-year-old self, her damp hair dark again.

Her skin dry, she pulled Killian’s shirt over her head. The costly fabric fell nearly to her knees, the arms long enough she had to roll the cuffs, but the garment covered far more of her than her shift had. Finn still hadn’t returned with food, so she went to the bed, righting the linens and furs and pillows before sitting on the edge of it.

She was so tired.

So painfully and exhaustingly tired, and