A Strange and Stubborn Endurance (The Tithenai Chronicles #1)

by Foz Meadows

The saints, it seemed, had a perverse sense of humour, but what else could be expected from a pageant of mortals elevated to a nebulous immortality by divine whim?

“Can I hold you? Do you want that, or—?” “Please,” Velasin whispered, and as Cae pulled him close, he clung to him and sobbed, his shoulders shaking violently. Cae soothed him as he might a grieving soldier, by breathing in deep and out again, the rhythm steadying both of them. Later, he could be angry, but right now, he was calm, calm, calm, and little by little, Velasin came back to himself, until his sobs were nothing but breath, and the only tears left were cold.

Very badly, I wanted to cry—and moons, but I hated the impulse; I felt as though I’d scarcely stopped weeping in weeks. I wasn’t moved by fear or grief or pain, nor even relief, but had rather been scraped so thin by their recent excesses that tears, it seemed, had now become my first response to any strong emotion.

Laecia seethed like a boiled-over pot at the utter Ralian barbarity (as she termed it) of putting poison on a punch-knife. “It’s insulting!” she said, gesturing wildly with her wine. “To Caethari and to whatever-his-name-was. Honestly! If you’re going to poison someone, poison them; if you’re going to stab them, stab them. Don’t go mixing and matching like an urchin at a rag-cart!”

“Stop patting me,” Velasin mumbled. Cae made a pained noise and cupped his face in his hands. “Where are you hit? I need to know, I need to stop the bleeding—” “’m not hit.” “—pain can put you into shock, you might not feel it at first, but—” “Caethari.” With enormous effort, Velasin lifted his head and looked weakly up at him with eyes whose lids were heavier than usual. “I’m not hit.” And then, as Cae opened his mouth to protest this, “I fainted.” Cae looked at Velasin’s too-pale face, and remembered the last thought he’d had before Ren Adan had fired. Swallowing hard, he said, “You fainted?” “Only a little.” “You fainted.” “Yes.” “Out of the way of a crossbow bolt?” “I am a man,” croaked Velasin, with as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances, “of many talents.”