“Wolf,” Valdrek said, selecting a card. Then, as if sensing her presence, he turned, raised a brow. “Wolves.”
She didn’t recognize any of the other men at the table, faces ranging from interested to wary. Eammon jerked his head toward the corner, turning without looking to see if Valdrek would follow. Red hovered between them, lost in unfamiliar politics.
The older man heaved a sigh, setting down his cards. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I’ve a Wolf that needs attending to.”
Eammon sat down in the back corner, running a tired hand over his face. Red moved to follow, Valdrek behind her.
“It appears you’ve worn him out, Lady.” It could’ve been lascivious, but Valdrek sounded only curious. He gave her an assessing look as he brushed past, sinking into the chair across from Eammon. Brow furrowed, Red settled between them.
Valdrek had brought his tankard with him; he took a long swallow before setting it on the table. “Drinks, anyone?” He looked archly at Eammon. “Might improve your temper.”
“Sorry to pull you away from your cards.” Eammon sat forward, bracing his forearms on his knees. “I wasn’t sure if your fellow players were aware of the . . . the situation.”
He didn’t have to clarify what situation. Immediately the bluster drained out of Valdrek, sinking his shoulders. “We’ve kept it fairly quiet.” He shrugged, but the movement was pained. “The basement needed repairs after he got . . . agitated, but we passed the damage off as a wrestling match that got out of hand. Ash’s shop is stone-built and should last longer.” His mouth thinned, a spark of determination in his eye. “Until he gets better.”
Eammon made no comment, but his clasped hands tightened between his knees.
“We’re going to try to heal him.” Red made her voice as confident as she could. “Eammon and I.”
Valdrek didn’t hide his surprise. He sat back in his seat, brow climbing. “Can you do such a thing now, Wolf?” Ragged hope in his voice. “I wasn’t going to ask, with the Wilderwood so weak, but if you’re strong enough with the Lady’s help . . .”
“We can try,” Eammon said shortly.
An assessing look darted between the two of them before Valdrek threw back the rest of his ale. “Differences abound.” He snorted. “Marriage changes a man.”
Eammon’s jaw tensed. He stood in a rush, pushing his chair in behind him. “Let’s get on with it, then.”
Outside the shop, Valdrek told Asheyla the plan in a low voice. “I’d wait there,” he told her, pointing toward the tavern. “Just in case. If you want wine, let Ari know, and tell him to skip the watered-down stuff.”
Behind Red, Eammon stood still as the stone tree. He’d given Fife’s list to Loreth, Asheyla’s shopgirl, with instructions to have their supplies waiting with Lear at the gate.
“Healing someone shadow-infected is different from healing a sentinel.” He used the same low, even tone he did at their lessons, though every line of his body was held bowstring-tight. “You have to direct power specifically to the affected places, rather than just letting it all go.”
“Humans are somewhat more complex than trees,” Red said. She held out her palm so he could check it for wounds, a now-familiar routine.
Eammon took the proffered hand but didn’t inspect it, instead giving her a stern look from under lowered brows. “Don’t touch him.”
Red frowned. “Then how am I supposed to—”
“You touch me, I touch him.” Scars brushed against her knuckles as he lightly squeezed her outstretched hand. “I told you, it’s deft work, and it could be dangerous. You let your power go into me, I’ll let it go into him.”
Her lips twisted, but after a moment, she nodded. Eammon gave her hand one more squeeze, then dropped it, turning to follow Valdrek to the basement door.
It was thrice-locked, with a board nailed over it for good measure. Eammon and Valdrek hauled the board away, and Valdrek fished a key ring from his pocket.
“Restraints?” Eammon asked.
“All four limbs. Torso, too.” Valdrek said it like it pained him, a visceral reminder they were speaking of his kin. Red thought of the name Asheyla mentioned— Elia, who must be Valdrek’s daughter, Bormain’s wife. Her eyes flicked to Eammon, still and stoic next to her, and sympathy speared through her chest.
The last lock fell away. Valdrek sighed. “It isn’t pretty. Be prepared.”