Shadows in the Trees: Book 1

Chapter 46

Freya stood with Malik in the dark, watching the rest of their companions disappear into the grass. He sighed and looked at her. 

"Well, I don't know about you, but I don't know how to navigate by the stars. We should make camp for the night, set out in the morning." 

"Jentsi use landmarks and memories, not stars," Freya said. "Camp would be a good idea. We could use the clearing Cerridwen made." Malik swallowed. "I'll wipe away the markings. It should be safe." 

He nodded. "I'll try and find some thick grass to use as firewood." 

A little while later, they were settled into their bedrolls next to a small fire fed by the thickest stalks of the grass that surrounded them. They had camped at the furthest edge of the circle, the terror of what Cerridwen did earlier still fresh in their minds. Malik hadn't spoken to her the entire time they were setting up camp. 

"I should check your bandage," Malik said. 

He pushed his blankets aside and crawled over to her. He took her slender wrist in his hands, his touch surprisingly gentle. She looked away to avoid seeing her own blood. She winced as he unwound the makeshift gauze, the fabric sticking to the wound. 

"Sorry," he said, grimacing. "It looks much better. And it's not swollen, thankfully." 

He reached back for his canteen and dumped some water on a clean square of fabric, gently wiping away the dried blood. His eyes widened. 

"What is it?" Freya asked. Was it infected? Were her bones broken, as he had suspected? 

Malik shook is head. "It's . . . it's nearly healed. Look." 

The mangled mass of skin was nearly smoothed over, only the deepest puncture wounds still oozing a little dark blood. The gashes were scabbed over, and her wrist lay straight. 

"Wow," she breathed, turning her wrist over. The skin was still tender, but she could touch her wrist without writhing in pain. 

"Do you always heal this fast?" Malik asked, looking at her with wide eyes. 

"I don't know. I've never really been injured like this before," Freya said. 

"Oh, come now. You never had a scraped knee, or fell out of a tree or something?" 

"I've had scrapes and bruises before, but . . . I don't know. I guess I never paid attention." 

Malik frowned, studying her forearm. Finally, he shrugged and began to wrap clean bandages around the wounds. He kept his eyes down, saying nothing.

She stared intently at his face, willing him to look at her. He had been acting so strange ever since the party decided to go to Thrael. She had waited all day for him to tell her what Cerridwen had whispered to her, or to explain why he insisted on going with her, even though he wasn't supposed to. 

She knew he was born in Thrael, and that he left. But from what she knew of Thrael, it was a relatively benign place; isolated, but benign. She had heard they had some sort of council rather than just one king and queen, which intrigued her. She thought that sounded more fair, and that was how the Jentsi usually decided things -- well, the rare times they did decide things as a group. 

She frowned. She had shared her home with him, told him everything. She thought he would have run after seeing the Jentsi and knowing that she had been raised by them, that she was one of them. Yet here he was, next to her. 

What was he not telling her? 

"You really didn't have to come with me. You know I can take care of myself," Freya said, breaking the thick silence. She watched his expression carefully. She knew his face so well, but lately it was unreadable to her.