Chapter 7: Hands on a God

Saren's burns stopped smoking by midnight, but they did not heal.

They ran silver down his arms and across his chest in branching lines.

When Ellory touched one with a fingertip, the skin underneath was hot enough to make him pull his hand back.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes," Saren said.

"You could have said so," Ellory said.

"I am saying so now."

They had left the eleven in Gwenith's cave, fed and asleep in a heap on the floor, with Lowen snoring across the doorway.

Ellory had taken Saren out to the spring behind the hill, where a small black pool lay under the birches.

He had a jar of Gwenith's salve, a rag, and no idea what he was doing.

"Sit," he said.

Saren sat on the flat rock by the water and took off the shirt.

Ellory made himself look at the burns, because he had no other reason to look.

He started with the forearms, which he had touched before.

The skin was scarred there in old white seams, from some long-gone fight.

He rubbed the salve in with his thumbs, slow and careful.

Saren watched his hands.

"You broke rule two," Ellory said.

"I did."

"You didn't ask," Ellory said.

"You would have said no," Saren said.

"I would have said yes," Ellory said. "Eventually. I'd have said it after I'd got Lowen to the trees."

Saren said nothing.

"You scared me. The ward almost ate you."

"It did not," Saren said.

"It had your whole arm," Ellory said.

"It is a small ward."

"It's a three-hundred-year-old ward made by a witch, and I wouldn't call that small."

Saren turned his head. "You are angry."

"I'm not angry, I'm... yes. A bit."

Ellory rubbed salve onto his shoulder, then the curve of the collarbone, and heard the god's breath change.

"Turn around," he said. "I can't reach your back."

Saren turned.

Down his spine ran a ridge of fine dark scales, each one the size of a lentil.

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