The wound was not as bad as she had thought.

He had been lucky; if his intestines or stomach had been punctured, she would not have been able to save him. The blade had gone into his side, tearing open skin, fat, and muscle, but just barely nicking his organs. His bloody spit had likely been courtesy of a blow to his jaw—a cut in the mouth, as far as she could tell. It had stopped bleeding already.

What kind of luck was that?

It had been difficult to sew him up alone. Usually Vaa’ti or Salu’ka would have helped, blotting the blood away so she could see and helpfully handing her whatever tool she needed when she needed it. But Vaa’ti and Salu’ka were not here; they were home.

Only Ba’an was here, because only Ba’an had been banished.

It would scar. Not only that, it would pull. She had not been able to stitch it as tightly and neatly as she could with assistance. Magic could be used to coax the flesh to mend, but everything had to be positioned manually, and this was difficult to do alone. Ba’an did not like doing subpar work, but it could not be helped. Even if she were not an exile, she would not have been able to take an outlander man into the saa-vuti vur as she pleased. They would have told her to let him die; the life of an outlander, especially one who had been wounded outside of their domain, was no problem of theirs.

It was no problem of hers, either.

But there had been something in him that had called to her. She had felt it even from a distance, a sort of heat as he lay dying like the last lingering traces of a bonfire.

The K’Avaari called it rei-tat. For good or ill, this man had an air of destiny about him. Ba’an had been trained to recognize such things, and she was not likely to be mistaken.

It was warm. His soul—it was warm, and bright. Even as she retreated to the kitchen, she could feel its heat and hear it humming, sunny and clear. It was making her…peckish. She had expended a great deal of effort today, transforming not only herself but a passenger as well. She was tired, and a little hollowed out. She would need to go hunting soon, to placate the growing hunger inside her.

Everything had a price, after all, and magic was especially expensive.

Ba’an frowned into her mortar, pulling her attention away from the clamoring hunger building inside her. No. Now was not the time. Infection control was the most important thing now. She had done everything she could to keep the wound clean, but he needed to drink peloiti to flush out any sickness that may have made its way into his blood.

Ba’an had never made peloiti without the proper tools before. Most of her things had been left in the shi-vuti for her successors. The distillation had to be made inside the hollowed-out rocks carved specifically for that purpose, else the temperature would be too hard to control.

There was no way to make peloiti properly in her…cave.

She could make peloiti-sahum, though. It was a precursor to true peloiti, and though not as potent, it would have to do.

What a bother.

The man was still sleeping. He hadn’t stirred, not even when she’d stitched him up. His breathing was even, however, and steady; he wasn’t feverish either, which was a good sign.

It took most of the day and evening to make the peloiti-sahum. In the end she had made it a thick paste, which was the best she could do. She slathered it onto his wound, then saved some for later, wrapping it in a scrap of cloth. She would have to store it somewhere dark and a little damp, but not too damp.

He would have to chew some too. Of course, he would have to be awake to do it.

A bother. That’s what this was. A bother.

Ba’an stifled a sigh and looked at her…guest.

A bother.

Ba’an woke up, disoriented as a sudden sense of unease crawled its way from her belly to her chest.

Her eyes snapped open in the dark as she listened intently. She could hear the wind blowing, whistling against the mouth of her not-vuti, but that hadn’t been what had woken her.

Other than the wind, everything was quiet. Her coat seemed to be sleeping too, lying still and silent in her clothes chest. Nothing stirred. Starlight filtered through the hole in the ceiling, bathing everything in silver.

Nothing was amiss. Nothing was--

No. She was being watched.

Ba’an rolled over onto her other side and met his stare.

The man was awake, lying in her bed with his head turned so he could look at her. It was impossible to see his expression in the dark, but she could see his eyes, reflecting what little light there was in the room.

She sat up from her little nest of rugs and blankets on the floor.

They stared at each other in the dark. It was obvious that he could not speak K’Avaari. Dolkoi’ri rarely did, and even then, they spoke it badly. Ba’an could speak some Dolkoi’ri, though. It was a trade-tongue, a pre-requisite to anyone who wanted to do business with the vast empire that stretched from sea to sea.

It wasn’t a matter of liking it, really.

“You thirst—thirsty?” The words rolled strangely in her mouth. Ba’an did not trade with outlanders much, though she did it when she had to. She listened a great deal though. Most people did not pay much mind to birds, so she had had ample opportunity to simply flutter about and listen. Even so, it was clear she should have practiced. Her mouth and tongue refused to move the right way to make the sounds, and her accent sounded thick, even to her own ears. He sat staring at her silently and she wondered if he had even understood her.

Sometimes, when she traded, the merchants did not understand her. Sometimes, she had stolen what she had needed, because they did not have any patience for her at all.

“I…yes, please. Water.” Ba’an blinked.

He spoke K’Avaari. Not well. But he spoke it.

Odd. But also oddly welcome.

His voice was hoarse. She thought he must have been terribly parched, so she got him his water before adding wood to the fire. It had burned down to embers overnight—not nearly enough light for him to see by. Ba’an, of course, knew her own home by heart. She rarely bothered with light these days, and the hole where the ceiling should have been allowed enough starlight so the room always held a dim, silvery glow. It was a poor gurti’gi, but it served well enough.

“Slowly. Do not drink too fast.” He seemed to understand K’Avaari well enough; he obeyed, watching her over the rim of his cup as he sipped.

Ba’an slept with her hair loose. It was long, and she had no patience for the strands getting here and there when she was up and about. She was going to check his wound now that he was awake, so she needed it out of the way.

She’d pinned her hair up a countless number of times. But she felt herself hesitate.

He was still looking at her. The only man who had ever watched her put herself together was Thu’rin, and she could not shake how…intrusive it felt, to have a man she did not know watching her in the dark. Briefly, she touched the necklace of cliff-cat teeth hanging around her neck, frowning. Her not-vuti was only one large room, so his presence could not be helped. It was her own fault he was here—but it was what it was.

She did not know how he noticed. It was still dark, but he somehow seemed to sense her discomfort, though she had said nothing. She had not even moved much. The man tilted his face downward and stared into his cup.

“Apology,” he said in his stumbling K’Avaari. “It rude.” He frowned into his cup and tried again. “That rude. That was rude.”

Ba’an pinned her hair up, refusing to be hurried.

He was looking around, frowning lightly when he spoke next. “Was there…others?”

Ah. Of course. Ba’an shook her head. His head drooped, though he did not look surprised. He must have been expecting it.

“Do you need the privy?” If he wished to speak K’Avaari, she would indulge him. There was a slight pause before he nodded. If Ba’an had her guess, it was probably urgent. He’d been sleeping for two days.

Ba’an helped him to his feet. He was unsteady, but he could stand, and most importantly, walk. He looked around her cave, seemingly dazed. It was likely his first time inside a K’Avaari dwelling.

Ba’an felt a little…embarrassed.

Her home wasn’t a proper vuti. This had been a temporary site that had long been abandoned by her former clansmen. It hadn’t been carved or set with waterways like a real vuti, and the walls were rough. They hadn’t been decorated or carved, so she had hung animal skins and rugs to cover their bareness. The floor too, was uneven; more rugs, even though it was laborious work to keep them clean. At least she had a fire pit, though it wasn’t properly set into the floor, and the gurti’gi served well enough, letting in plenty of sunlight in the day and starlight in the night.

Thankfully, there was a privy built outside. All vuti were carved into cliffs or mountains—the K’Avaari were rock-shapers. The dwellings extended inside the rock like an ant colony, with rooms dedicated to families or shops or even bathhouses, if an aquifer with water was available near the site.

This site had been chosen well, and Ba’an suspected the only reason why this had not boomed into a full saa-vuti vur was due to its relative isolation: It was an annoyance to go anywhere. It was an ideal location from which to explore unknown areas but travelling to and fro every day would have been taxing for those who could not grow wings. Sheer cliffs on all sides, with the surface dry as dust and nary a tree or shrub to break the dull monotony of desert reds. Before her arrival this had been used as a watering hole—a nur-vuti.

No K’Avaari dared to encroach now, of course.

There were some incomplete underground passages. Ba’an had thought it had been meant to connect to other bir-vuti eventually, but it had never been finished. Why that was would remain a mystery. No shaper remained inside the rock to tell her, and spirits simply…avoided her. Whatever beings the rock had housed before her coming had long fled before her shadow had even darkened the doorway.

They stepped out of the not-vuti, and the man’s eyes widened at the sight of the cliff walls surrounding them. He likely had not realized that they had been inside one until just now—the not-vuti had been carved right into the rock. So had the privy, which required them to cross the little courtyard of dust and sand to the next cliff face. The shaper who had created the outhouse had dug in deep, well into the cliff side with the hole extending into a seemingly endless darkness.

“Ah,” he said, when the approached the obvious seat with a hole in it, “I can…alone. Really.” She stared at him blankly. “Really. Please…wait…out?” She continued staring at him. “Ah…well…”

She decided to have some mercy, after all.

“No,” she said in Dolkoi’ri, and he blinked in what she guessed was surprise. “You will fall. You will rip stitches. Then I be very angry.” He stared at her. She stared back. Ba’an made a noise of exasperation. “You stupid?”

“My apologies,” he said finally in Dolkoi’ri. He glanced between her and the privy. “I think I can manage by myself.” Ba’an rolled her eyes and sighed. Loudly. She hustled him over to the hole in the rock that served as a toilet and held his arm.

“I will close eyes. Do not worry, I not want look at you,” she said blandly, and he looked as though he couldn’t decide how to react. “I had many, many patients. You not different.”

It was awkward.

He was clearly humiliated by the experience, though he said not a word, and Ba’an had no patience for delicate Dolkoi’ri sensibilities. In the end, they made it back to the sleeping section of the not-vuti in one piece.

He seemed interested in the layout. There really wasn’t much to see; there was only the entrance with a small space for storage, and then the hearth. The living area was built around the fireplace in a circle, with the sleeping area carved out across from the cooking area. Anything bloody had to be prepared over the stone slab outside, which was always a hassle as she had to haul water from underground to clean anything. Right in between the kitchen and the bed was a tunnel that arched downward into darkness. That was the way to the underground stream, which was where she got her water. She also bathed in one of the little pools that formed on the side, so she was always careful to draw water from upstream.

He would not be able to take the downward slope, yet. If he managed to walk without hurting himself in the next week or so, she would take him on a tour. The underground cavern would be a shock to a typical Dolkoi’ri man but based on his obvious curiosity she thought he would enjoy it.

He was very quiet, but he was looking at everything with great interest. Sometimes he raised his hand as though he wanted to touch this or that, but immediately stopped himself as though he was being incredibly rude. Knowing how obsessive Dolkoi’ri were about property, she imagined it must be ill-mannered for them to simply touch things inside another person’s home. Even so, she couldn’t help but be amused at the level of enthusiasm he was showing toward her counters. Surely they were not that fascinating.

“Duck,” she said, and he obeyed immediately. The ceiling was low near entrances, even though it opened all the way up in the central living room. He glanced up and gave a low whistle.

“It’s open.” He was staring right out of the rock and into the night sky, which was full of stars.

“Yes.” Ba’an pointed to the wall. Steps had been carved along the sides, leading to loft after loft. He looked taken aback—he likely hadn’t noticed the extra platforms in the near-darkness. “You can climb to roof. When storm, you close.” Usually with a tarp. The sand still got everywhere, though. She pointed to the first platform up. It held the herbal things she couldn’t fit inside her kitchen. “Lots space.” Well, it was all mostly storage.

“That’s beautiful.” His voice was quiet, but he sounded sincere as he stared up into the night sky. He hobbled to the stairway with her help and passed his palm across one of the steps. They were cut nearly perfectly, and smooth. A real vuti would have had carvings running along the stairs, with grips set into the rock to prevent slippage.

“No climbing,” she said, and he shocked her by laughing.

“Stop.” Ba’an was appalled—laughing would tear his stitches. She had had to do two sets: one set for his insides, one set for his outsides. It had been onerous work, especially alone.

“Ah…yes, I see.” He grimaced. “I’ll try not to be stupid.” He flashed her a smile full of white teeth. The awkwardness of the privy trip seemed to have melted away.

“Sit.” She helped him back to the bed. The frame had also been carved out of stone, though she had added soft plants and furs to make the bedding. Even so, it wasn’t the most comfortable. “I want check,” she said, and gestured to the bandages on his abdomen. He nodded.

Ba’an brought over more bandages, boiled water, and her peloiti-sahum. “You feel hot or cold?” He shook his head.

“No. I feel…I feel fine.” He looked up at her. “You saved my life. Thank you.”

Ba’an shrugged, though she felt pleased by how quickly he had thanked her. It would have been annoying if he had acted as though it were his due. K’Avaari owed outlanders nothing.

She washed her hands in her basin and unrolled the bandages to look at his wound. It was still red and slightly swollen, but it didn’t look as though infection had set in. That was good. She intended to keep it that way.

She applied more peloiti-sahum to the wound. He didn’t grimace or complain, only looked on curiously as she worked. He attempted to assist her until she snapped at him to keep his dirty hands away from everything; impressively, he obeyed immediately, with only the barest knitting of his brows.

“You not wash hands. They dirty. Touch bandage, bandage dirty. Touch wound, wound dirty. Wound dirty? Blood fever. Blood fever? You die. Understand?”

He looked at her and nodded slowly. “Yes, I think I do. So, I should not touch anything that will touch the injury unless I have washed my hands? With…that?”

Ba’an nodded. “Yes. Now shhh!”

Once she was done, she wrapped him back up and washed her hands again. She needed to give him the peloiti-sahum, but he would need a meal first. It would make him vomit if he had had no food.

“Hungry?”

“Yes.”

Ba’an nodded. She stoked the fire so that it was roaring again and set the cauldron over it. She brought him more water, though this time she stirred in some powdered saa’ri-lahi mixed with a distillate of nau’tha. It would help with the pain and discomfort.

“Lie down. I wake you when finish.” He hesitated.

“I can hel—”

“Lie. Down.” Ba’an had never met anyone who could argue with her when she used that particular tone, and the outlander was no exception. His mouth clicked shut as he obeyed. Ba’an watched him for a moment longer to ensure he would not do anything stupid as soon as her back was turned before going to the kitchen.

Ba’an began to make some soup. She did not think he could handle anything truly hearty, so she would have to make a simple meaty broth.

The only meat she had was lizard. As far as she knew, Dolkoi’ri did not eat lizards. In fact, they thought it was particularly barbaric, something desert-dwelling savages did as they scraped through the sands for a living, as though they had not been the ones to push them there in the first place.

Well, he’d have to have lizard for dinner. Lucky for him, she had some salt rocks still. Presumably, salt would make anything and everything taste good, though she doubted he would dare complain even if she fed him sandal-leather.

She could feel eyes on her back again.

“Yes?” Ba’an turned to look at him. “Thirsty?” He was lying down, head turned so he could watch her from across the room.

“I—no, no. I’m fine. I just—I would rather be useful.” Ba’an clicked her tongue.

“You are bad patient.” He stared at her. “Resting important. You lift, you rip. I will be very angry.” Perhaps it had been a mistake to give him painkiller in his water. He seemed to believe he was well when he was not.

She enunciated her words carefully, trying to impress on him the importance of not ripping himself open again. She had seen the scars all over his back, with a particularly impressive collection clustered neatly in strips between his shoulder blades. There had been a large burn mark over one shoulder as well, which must have been nasty. His kneecap had fractured at one point, leaving behind a starburst and a limp. She had a feeling that he was a very poor patient, the type that did all sorts of things they were told not to do, like getting into fights.

“…I’ll stay here then.”

She bustled around, chopping up the meat into fine, unrecognizable pieces. She had some grains from her last trip to a Dolkoi’ri city, as well as many different mushrooms from the caves below. She would have to see if she could catch some fish tomorrow. He would need the meat.

It turned out that he’d been ravenous. That was to be expected—he had slept for two days. Even so, he had followed her instructions to eat slowly, even forcing himself to stop when she told him to.

It was strange. She had expected him to be more self-important, being young, rich, and Dolkoi’ri, but he had been shockingly agreeable.

He hadn’t even questioned the peloiti-sahum.

He was chewing on it now, still looking at her. He seemed to do it reflexively whenever she entered his field of vision, which she supposed must be a natural reaction to being bored. He was bedridden after all, and she was the only moving thing in the vicinity.

He is an overgrown cat. This impression was not helped by his leonine looks: thick golden hair, a tanned complexion, and fierce-looking amber eyes. He had a very symmetrical face, with a strong jawline and high cheekbones. He was tall, broad-shouldered but lean, with a build that spoke of battlefield prowess. He smiled easily with seeming sincerity, so the corners of his eyes wrinkled. She noted he had very charming dimples. Undoubtedly, he was very popular with everyone, if only for his good looks.

Ba’an didn’t find his odd habit unnerving, but it was distracting. She could always feel it when someone was watching her, and her senses kept alerting her whenever his eyes fixed on her.

Briefly she wondered if she ought to be worried—but why should she be? He couldn’t hobble his way to the privy alone, and it wasn’t as though she had anything for him to take, not with his obviously expensive things. Aside from his clothes and weapons, which were of very high quality, he had been wearing a ring with the same insignia that had been on the carriage. Some kind of signet, if she had her guess. He’d also had a little pouch full of small coins and a finger-sized wooden carving of a man with wings on his heels. Ba’an guessed it was one of the Dolkoi’ri gods, though she did not know which one.

There was no reason for him to be malicious. Of course, it was possible he had seen her wearing the coat of feathers. Ba’an doubted that he remembered that, though—he had been busy bleeding to death.

“Finished?” Obediently, he handed the cloth that had once been filled with peloiti-sahum back to her and she dutifully trundled back down to the caves to clean the thing. It was incredibly inconvenient to not have running water inside her not-vuti, despite a source of water running right beneath it. Ba’an, for all her magic, was not a stone-shaper—and in truth, she had no desire to be—so there was no helping it at all. She would have to haul buckets of water for the rest of her miserable exiled existence.

The horror.

Once she got back, she banked the fire.

“Time to sleep,” she told him, and he obeyed, letting her help him lie back down without a word of protest.

Or at least, that’s what she thought.

Ba’an was settling into her nest on the floor when she heard him shift.

“Would you like to switch places?” It was too dark to see his face now, but she looked in his general direction all the same.

“What? Why?” There was a pause.

“I think I took your bed.”

“Yes…?”

“It seems unfair. You saved my life and fed me. And now I’m taking your bed. It’s a bit…” She saw a movement in the dark—some kind of gesture with his hands.

“That is stupid.” He fell silent again. “You are patient. Floor is cold and hard. Very stupid.”

“…See, if you hadn’t told me that the floor was cold and hard, I wouldn’t feel even worse about it.”

She made a noise of exasperation. “Stop talking. Stop thinking. Sleep. I am tired. I want sleep. Understand?”

There was a pause. “Yes. I’m sorry. Good night.”

“Sleep well. Do not die.”

He snorted in amusement, low and quiet. “Thank you.” There was a long pause. “My name is Lukios.”

“I am Ba’an. Lukios?”

“Yes?”

“Stop talking.”

“Sleep well, Ba’an.” He sounded like he was smiling.

Ba’an rolled herself inside her blanket and slept.