Chapter 8: The Hot Spring

On the eve of the solstice, no wagon had come.

Eleven nights had passed since the Moot, and Elior had slept in his own bed for none of them.

Tonight the road south was empty, and the keep was quiet in the particular way of a place waiting.

"Come with me," Teodric said, after midnight.

He took a lantern and a folded towel.

He led Elior down a stone stair he had never seen, past the kitchens and the cellars, into the roots of the rock.

The air grew warm.

Then it grew wet, and heavy with a smell like struck flint.

The stair opened on a cave of dark stone, and in the middle of it lay a pool, steaming gently, lit gold by the lantern.

"The spring runs under the whole keep," Teodric said.

"My grandfather built the hall over it.

"It never freezes."

Elior stood with his mouth open.

Steam curled up from the black water into the roof, and the walls shone wet.

"You've been keeping this from me."

"I was saving it."

"For what?"

"For when you could not sleep."

Elior's throat tightened, because it was exactly true.

He had been lying in the dark with his heart going, counting hours until dawn.

Teodric set the lantern on a ledge and began to unbutton his coat, calmly.

Elior watched the broad chest come bare, and the white scar, and the long muscle of his back.

His own fingers had gone clumsy on his laces.

They went down into the water together.

It was hot enough to make Elior gasp, and then it closed around him, and every muscle he owned let go.

He sank to his chin on a stone shelf.

Across the pool, Teodric sat with his arms on the rim and his head tipped back, eyes closed.

His wet hair had darkened to the color of old wheat.

The lantern lit the drops on his throat.

Elior waded over.

"They won't take me," he said quietly.

"No."

"Rolf wants the head of a southern prince on a pole.

"If the wagon does not come, Rolf gets his vote.

"I'm not afraid."

"Yes, you are."

"A little."

"No one will take you from this house," said Teodric.

He had not opened his eyes.

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