He left Harruq lying there, dazed, exhausted, and furious.
“Tell Delysia your brother needs more healing,” the assassin said as he walked past Qurrah, not at all surprised by his presence.
“Will he learn, or will you merely increase his scars?” Qurrah asked, his words dripping with sarcasm.
“You know him better than I,” Haern said, gesturing back to his protege. “Why ask me?”
Qurrah glanced at his brother, who was an ugly mess. A grin spread over his face.
“Because you’re conscious and he’s not,” he said before retrieving the priestess.
4
T hroughout the rest of the day, Harruq nursed his injuries and sulked in silence. Even Aurelia’s attempts to cheer him up were ineffective.
“I have never seen him like this,” she said to Qurrah, who, in an uncharacteristically kind act, had asked the elf to cheer him up in the first place.
“His pride has been broken more than his face,” Qurrah said. “He’s never lost a fight, not that I know of. He will meet this challenge. I trust him.”
There were no contracts or assignments so the day passed uneventfully. Dinner was quiet. Qurrah expected a fight when Brug made a joke about Harruq’s nose, yet his brother let it pass. They exchanged no words as they settled in their bedrolls, Tarlak promising them beds by the following night.
Qurrah looked over Harruq, who lay with his back to him. Several bruises lined his bare skin. A few inexperienced words of comfort died in his ruined throat. He rolled the other way, closed his eyes, and dreamt of the girl with the black hair, and of a knife dripping with the lifeblood that flowed through her veins.