Katerin had spent a lot of her time the previous night in the infirmary thinking. She had fought in a battle that was not her own, one she did not truly understand. Were ore and sap, even as rare as they claimed, worth all this bloodshed? She could not decide if she was proud of her actions or not, and she wondered if she should have stayed out of it, should have left the bloody, rampant desires for war to take their course without her.
She was no part of Sahn-Raidar and was sure she would not agree with their standards and methods, but she supposed helping them defend themselves had saved some lives. She was unsure if they were the right lives to save, however, and that doubt had pulled at her throughout the night.
Both Fykes and Jon had been quiet ever since the fight. Fykes' sadness seemed an impermeable aura. He had walked them to the infirmary, muttered something about finding a healer tomorrow, and limped away before she could say anything. She had wondered about him, too—until the herbs took effect and knocked her into a deep and dreamless sleep.
He was annoyingly confident, positive, idiotically brave, and infuriatingly close lipped about himself. He had a natural, alluring charm, and she despised him for it, but she could not get him off her mind. He did not fit in any category her mind tried to shove him, and that bothered her. It was something she hardly ever found in people. Their motives always made sense, even if it was in such a way you did not want to see or had to dig deeper to understand.
He acted as if he could get whatever he wanted, though he did not seem likely to abuse it. She supposed he had to have some skill to survive here, and she had seen some of that already. Still, his personality and annoying eccentricities nagged at her.
Sometime in the early afternoon, she left her bunk and made her way to the fort's kitchen, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Her wounds still ached, and a large yellow and purple bruise decorated her jaw. Healing had made her well enough to move around, but it could not fix everything, and she still sported a good amount of swelling and small cuts, including a rather immobile hand, wrapped as it was in bandages. The kitchen was busier than she expected, so late in the day. She instantly picked two people out of the crowd, lavender hair on one, and a purple coat on the other.
They were talking in quiet tones, heads bent low. Both their faces looked tired and pale. Bruised, cut, and gaunt from the stresses of the previous night. It seemed no one had made it through the night without a scratch, for all around the kitchen she saw bandages and bruises and bloodstained armor.
She lined up behind three soldiers and waited for her food. It was simple, but more than filling—bread and a bowl of thick, savory-smelling venison stew. She thought to find a seat to herself and leave Fykes and Jon to their discussion, but as she searched for a quiet corner, Jon's loud voice caught her ears.
"There's our battle mage! How is she this fine afternoon?" His voice was hoarse, but his eyes were bright as he beckoned her to their table.
She sat across from them with only a hint of reluctance, and a quick glance at Fykes' expression told her nothing of his preference. "I'm sore... your beds really aren't what they could be," she said, stretching her arms over her head with a wince.
Jon laughed, his mustache blowing out about his face, and winked at her. "My bed is very nice, if you ever get too uncomfortable."
"No, no. I think I'd rather take the floor," she said, her eyes wide as she shook her head at his joke.
Jon gave her a mock frown and passed her a bottle of rum. She looked at it skeptically, before shrugging and pouring a little in her cup. The healers had taken care of the worst of her injuries, but fatigue and thought remained, and a sip of rum never hurt anything. She almost chuckled as she wondered what her father and Imeiza might think of her now. She was sitting in a fort filled with nothing but men and drinking with her breakfast.
"How're you feeling? You were both pretty battered last night."
Fykes was clean, and his wounds appeared to have been tended, but he had dark shadows under his eyes, and a bruise that made his porcelain skin look even paler than normal.
"I'm doing just fine!" Jon said, with an exuberance that only ever came from alcohol. His cheeks were flushed and smiling like a buffoon. His coat was clean now, its silver buttons shining once again.
She looked to Fykes with eyebrows raised.
He tried a smile, though it did not reach his eyes. "I'm fine. Just a couple scratches." His tone was quiet, deeper. No longer did a mischievous hint of humor linger there.
She frowned, the image of his injuries from the night before replaying in her mind. They had not been so terrible. Was it Jon putting that haunted look in his eyes? Had she said something? Or was it something else entirely?
"Alright," she said, skepticism heavy in her tone. "You think we can make any good progress if we leave today?"
He looked at her with his own skepticism, eyes trailing the bruises on her face and arms. "Are you okay to travel? You can take some time to rest here. It won't hurt anything, and I'm sure Jon would love to keep us."
She rolled her eyes. If he wanted to act as if nothing was wrong, she could do the same. "It's nothing. Just a scratch," she said, with a sardonic smile. In truth, her injuries still hurt, but she would be damned if she was going to let that stop her, and she certainly was not going to whine to anyone about it.
She was not here to have people fawn over her.
His eyes flashed—with what, she could not tell—and he shook his head. "I'll ready the horses, then." With that, he cleared his plate, drained his coffee mug, stood up, and left the table in one fluid motion.
Katerin stared after him, the slightest tinge of anger flushing her cheeks. She chewed on her lip and turned to Jon, wondering why Fykes was in such a bitter mood. Everything was fine, wasn't it? They had survived, and now they would continue onto Anklestrap.
Jon took another drink from his mug, as if trying to hide his expression.
"Is he alright? Did he get hit in the head too hard?" she asked, looking towards the door.
Jon gave her an amused look and shook his head. "Ask him yourself. I won't talk behind his back."
She sighed as she stood and straightened her blouse before pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. "It's a nice place you've got here," she said, outstretching her hand.
Jon stood, and shook her hand gently. "Take care of him. He's got a penchant for getting himself into trouble on occasion."
She frowned at him. It was not her job to take care of him. If he needed a hand, he could come out and say it. "Wait," she called as Jon turned to leave. "I had a question for you."
He paused, eyebrows raised, purple coat settling around him.
"Why are the lizards and the uhma'zarhins trying to run you out of here?"
"I don't bloody know!" His shoulders sagged and he huffed out a breath, his mustache puffing once again. "I really don't know..."
She held up her hands, "It can't be the building itself... and they don't need your resources or armaments."
Jon crossed his arms and frowned. "I don't have any idea. All I know is that it's my job to not let them have it."
"You can't think of any reason? Something about this isn't right... it doesn't make sense, Jon." She knew of many tribal societies; most were not violent—or they had a reason for their violence. She knew of a few tribes that were fierce protectors of their lands, but from the histories, there was always an attempted peace. Usually followed by war, but there was always a chance. These people were intelligent enough to wage small-scale wars, but would not negotiate peace?
"No, it doesn't," he agreed. "But I've got to protect my post..." He gave her a sad smile that showed deep wrinkles around his eyes and washed away the last traces of his confident bluster. "If you figure it out, be sure to let me know."
"I will. Be careful here," she said, patting his shoulder before turning to follow her sulking guide. She sighed as she left, she knew she had no right to be getting involved in this. She was only here for her mother. Only here for her own answers and to solve her own mystery, but this place was strange—pulling her in when it had no right to. She wanted to find out what was happening, why it was happening, and maybe even how to stop it.
When she found the courtyard, Fykes was nearly finished readying the horses. He refused to look at her. She glared at him for a moment and cleared her throat. He did not even glance her way until he finished refilling the water skins he carried for the horses. Her nerves bristled as he ignored her. Traveling with a sulking man might prove to be even more annoying than an overly cheery one.
She mounted her horse, and they rode into the evening in almost complete silence. She watched the road carefully and eyed Fykes on occasion, trying to be patient and let him be the first to speak. She might be annoyed, but it was courteous, and she had no need to anger the only aid she had.