Free Waterborne Exile by Susan Murray Page A

above him. He could be anywhere. Had the storeroom had a vaulted ceiling or flat? He couldn’t recall. This place was lighter though, for sure. He thought he heard a movement nearby and twisted his head. Was that a door? Everything pitched dizzyingly from the unguarded motion. He pressed his eyes shut again.
    “Does it hurt?” The voice was a young woman’s, sweet, perhaps too sweet to be true. A Marches accent. She may even have been from the same small town as his wife…
    Where was the crazy boy? How had he come here? He opened his mouth to speak, but no sounds emerged beyond a harsh croak. He closed his mouth again, opening his eyes a slit to see if he could see the speaker. The room pitched less violently now, but it was still enough to turn his stomach. He closed his eyes again.
    A hand pressed on his shoulder, oddly insistent. Sharp, prodding at him. “It does hurt, doesn’t it? Are you even awake?” Not so sweet now.
    He eased his eyelids open once more and could see a figure moving around. Too close to focus, nothing but a blur. Then his other senses stirred, bringing him a familiar flowery scent. Soap? His… wife? She had used soap with that scent.
    “Erian?” He forced the syllables between parched lips.
    The hand pinched the flesh of his shoulder. “No, you fool. I have no name here.”
    This made no sense. Weaver took another inward breath, more hasty, and his chest rattled. A cough escaped. And having coughed once, he had to cough again and again, each more painful and gut-rending than the last. Finally, exhausted, the coughing stopped. It was silent in the room again. The daylight remained steady, as before. The young woman, whoever she was, seemed to have gone. Good. He hadn’t liked her.
    This time the dizziness had faded, but the pain in his chest weighed down on him like a boulder. He could remember now, being dragged along between two priests, face down, feet trailing. The one on the right had stunk of sweat. They’d brought him here, dropped him on this – bed? – without ceremony. Then they’d forced liquid of some kind between his lips. That was it. They had fed him something. He could recall much more clearly. But Goddess, the pain…
    “You’re awake.” The young woman’s voice. The rustling of skirts as she crossed over to his side. She must have been watching him this whole time – he had no idea how long, but guessed it might have been as much as an hour. “Does it hurt again?”
    Weaver nodded minutely, a tiny gesture, wary of setting the room spinning once more. For now the room held its peace.
    “It’ll hurt worse by the end.” Her tone was indifferent. “But they want you alive, so until then I’ve to physic you.” When she bent over him, holding out a deep-sided spoon, her eyes were cold as a shadow on winter snow – the palest grey. He’d seen those eyes before, somewhere. She pressed the spoon against his lips, pouring syrupy fluid over them. Some ran down his chin, before he twisted his head away and the rest spilled over his neck. He wanted nothing from this creature.
    “Don’t be stupid. Or would you rather die in agony?”
    He might, before he accepted anything from her.
    There was a rustle of skirts as she turned away, the clink of a glass stopper. She was refilling the spoon.
    “This will make you feel better.” The saccharine note had returned to her voice. A hand clamped over his nose, thumb and forefinger digging into his jaw muscles. He tried to struggle, but he hadn’t the strength to shake off her grip. The instant he parted his lips to draw breath, she jammed the spoon between his teeth and he had to swallow the fluid or choke on it.
    She leaned close to him. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? Next time, don’t be so difficult.” Her words were all sweet reason, but her smile chilled him.
    The room about Weaver seemed to fade, taking with it the pain. He could no longer focus on those cold eyes, which was a blessing. He could imagine himself