Her face crumples, and she gags. Her hand goes up, and she gestures for me to put it away. “Hmigod.Grss.”
“Eat,” I tell her sternly. She’s too weak to be picky about her food. “I’ll burn it for you later if you like, but you must eat now.” I slice another thick portion of the creature’s flank off and hand her the meat. I force her small fingers to close around it, ignoring the fact that she makes that gagging noise again. “Eat so you have strength for the rest of the day.”
She shakes her head.
I take a bite and show her, then insist she eat as well. Her stomach growls, and she gets a pained look on her face. “Hopeslikesushi.” Shorshie makes another face and then takes a bite, grimacing the entire time.
I’m pleased. She’s not, but at least I’m getting food into her. She doesn’t like the tasty organs, then. I eat them, ignoring her little sounds of distress, because a good hunter does not waste meat. I carve more tasty tidbits and feed them to her, and she protests the entire time, but at least her belly is filling. She drinks all of my water and then motions that she’s still thirsty.
I nod. One thing at a time. Caring for Shorshie in such a dangerous territory is something that must be handled carefully. The last thing I want is for her to accidentally run into a snow cat near its den . . . or worse, a pack of hunting metlaks. I must carefully guard her and not let her out of my sight. It will mean slow hunting and an even slower return to the tribal caves, but I am prepared to do whatever it takes.
“Come,” I tell Shorshie, hanging my kill from my belt so the meat can freeze in the chill weather. That will keep it until later. I offer her a hand so she can get down off the rock.
She climbs back onto my back, and I realize again just how small and fragile she is. I can carry her as if she weighs nothing. This is not good. Even the daintiest of my tribes-mates could crush her like a twig. It rouses my protective instinct, and I fight the urge to snarl at the thought.
Shorshie will be safe, no matter the cost.
We trek through the snow for some time, and I’m pleased to see that she’s quiet, observing the world around her. She doesn’t call attention to us. She doesn’t complain or demand more things in her strange language. She doesn’t ask questions when I break a tree limb from a nearby sapling and backtrack, sweeping it over our prints to hide our trail. She’s a silent observer.
But I still worry she does not even know the basics of how to fend for herself. Her request for more fire lingers in the back of my mind and worries me. I find an unfrozen stream, heated by the ground itself. It smells of rotten things, but the taste will be pleasant enough and the heat will be nice on weary muscles. It’s also a test to see how much my Shorshie knows. There are things that even the smallest of kits know about the wilds that I worry she does not.
Sure enough, she trots trustingly toward the stream, getting far too close. So much for my test. I grab her by the arm before she can step near the bank, and she hisses in pain.
I’m instantly abashed at my own strength. “Shorshie?” If I’ve hurt my mate, I will be sick with self-loathing. My khui seems to recoil in agreement.
“Sokay,” she says, breathing heavy. She winces and flexes her wrist. “Hrtfrmcrash.”
I take her small hand in mine, and she trustingly lets me examine her. She is mottled with bruises on her arm, the flesh swollen. She is hurt, and I never even realized. I am furious with myself for missing something so obvious. “I am sorry, my Shorshie. I will not be so careless again.”
I lead her away from the stream and look around for something to bind her wrist. I pat my clothing, looking for loose fabric, but she laughs and shakes her head. She jabbers something else at me and points at the water, indicating she’d rather drink than fuss with her wrist.
All right, then. I can show her how to drink. I glance around and find a broken stick at the base of a tree. I pick it up and indicate she should observe me. Then, I get as close as I dare and toss it into the water.
For a long moment, there is nothing. Then, the water boils with activity. I watch Shorshie gasp as the mud dwelling fang-fish attack. Her surprise is chilling to me. The land is not hospitable many months out of the year, but even the smallest kits know that the foul-smelling warm streams are crowded with dangerous creatures. A fang-fish can strip the flesh from a full-grown dvisti in a matter of moments. Shorshie would have been dead before I’d blinked.
The thought makes me pull her closer to me. She trembles and pushes closer, terrified.