Two Cats

Chapter 23

I realized that hot, pungent tea was being pushed into my hands, and I looked up from the section of floor I'd been staring at in order to acknowledge the gift.

“Thanks,” I said, wrapping both hands around the sides of the mug, concluding from how pleasant the warmth was that my fingers had somehow become cold during the time I'd been sitting there in my chair. Odd, I thought, since my sitting room had a fireplace that was burning away merrily.

Talia gave me a slow nod, looking concerned. I suppose I looked a wreck, still garbed in my blood-soaked clothing. The chair I was sitting on would never be the same after this night, I suspected.

Nor would I.

I stared into my tea for a moment. I was in the middle of debating whether or not to take a sip, how much of a sip to take, if throwing the cup I held across the room might make me feel any better, and whether any thoughts concerning tea even mattered at all ... when I felt a gentle touch on my still bloodied left shoulder.

Looking, I saw Talia's hand squeezing a message of unspoken sympathy, a gesture that was oddly comforting. I put my hand over hers and gave her a wan smile and grateful look, which she returned before quietly leaving me in the room with my thoughts.

I sighed softly.

Dead. Redforne had tried to kill me even as he lay dying - even as I tried to stop his life's blood from spilling onto my stone floor. Unable to see, barely conscious near the end, he'd still tried to lash out with his bare hands in an attempt to do me in. He had hated me that much.

I couldn't hate him though. Mere hours ago I might have been capable of such a thing ... possibly even going so far as to be celebrating news of Redforne's death. It was staggering just how wildly your perceptions could shift in the span of a few hours.

As I'd seen Redforne standing there bleeding from a mortal wound I'd inflicted, I'd had a flash of insight ... saw very clearly how his own situation seemed to mirror my own. Watching him, I thought of my own pain, my own sudden burning need for revenge and retribution. I imagined what it might be like to feel yourself fading away, your sword hand unfinished inches away from the objective you'd molded your whole life around.

Having only had the span of a couple of hours to come to terms with what the Prince had told me, I could likely only understand the barest fraction of what had been going through his head. It was enough.

Additionally, with Redforne's death I knew that any potential to negotiate with the Prince for information about my family's murder had slipped through my fingers. That was almost as bad as every-thing else.

I attempted to run my fingers through my hair only to re-discover the bandage there, preventing me from doing so. It was wrapped tight enough that I shouldn't have been able to ignore it. The cut to my head was substantial and scary, despite the fact that most head wounds look far worse than they actually are.

Mine had made Cyrus nervous enough to have his fellow house knights go into the streets at a truly ungodly hour, offering a hundred gold marks for any healer who might be persuaded to come into my keep to treat me.

They found one rather quickly too, one who seemed to share Cyrus's sense of urgency upon seeing me. Never before had I heard 'thick-headed' used in such complimentary terms, or accompanied by such a look of frank astonishment. Generally speaking, if some-one has cause to look at any part of your head and comment on the condition of the bone they're able to see, you've been hurt rather badly.

“Lord Tucat?” an unsympathetic voice I didn't recognize called out from the hall.

I looked to the doorway and saw yet another Crown Knight I didn't recognize standing there, regarding me.