Carefully, she slipped the miniature into the folds of the clothing in Oben’s pack to ensure its safety and jumped as a wolf howl cut the night. Snow tossed her head and shuffled her hooves. The stallion nickered as another howl echoed in the darkness. This one was from the opposite direction. Betrice stood and held her breath. Her heart hammered as she looked into the darkened forest for signs of the animals that had made the sounds.
Her father always said wolves preferred to avoid humans, especially in summer when hares and red squirrels abounded and made for easier prey. Rock wolves, however, attacked anything that strayed into their path. Oben must think the vicious animals were nearby to have insisted on returning to camp near Devil’s Moth. Rock wolves would not venture near areas where the purple-flowered plant grew.
Unfortunately, cuttings of the plant did not seem to have the same effect. Whatever properties chased away the wolves only worked when the plant was whole. If Betrice was to run now, she would have to brave the darkness and whatever roamed it without the protection of the plants—or Oben.
Quickly she washed her own cuts in the stream and changed out of her ruined gown into one of her seer gowns of flowing white. She reached for her bag and flinched as something screeched in the night. Oben moaned.
That’s when she noticed his scars. The lines were long and lighter in color than the rest of his skin. She ran her finger gently over the one on his shoulder. The scars were long healed. How old was he when he got the first of them? Surely younger than she had been when her uncle had come into her room flanked by his men and ordered her maid to leave. She placed her hand on her throat remembering the nick of the knife on her skin. The mark was barely visible, but she felt it every day. What did Oben feel after getting these?
I’ve been hurt worse, he had told her.
Yes. He had.
I am my own man, he also swore to her.
Deep inside, she longed for those words to be true. Clearly, as a boy he had endured great pain. As a man, he had pushed himself to exhaustion to see she remained untouched by those who were charged to see to her safety. None of her uncle’s other men had been concerned about her as more than a means to an end. Yet, Oben seemed to be. He was the first one in a very long time who wanted to shield her from harm.
She thought of the woman in the miniature, the flames etched on the opposite side and Betrice’s breath caught in her throat.
Fire.
Her heart leapt as she knelt next to Oben and stared at his face that even relaxed in sleep looked both hard and strong. In her vision, Kiara said there was fire. What if Oben was that fire? And even if not, surely the boy who received these scars would understand why she could not return to her uncle. It was clear he had been in her uncle’s service at Charity Keep long enough to know the truth of what she would face. A man with these scars who went sleepless for her would not want to deliver her to someone who would do her harm. And maybe, just maybe, if he was the man she hoped she wouldn’t have to face the rock wolves prowling the night alone.
Oben moaned again and she put her hand on his shoulder. He relaxed immediately under her touch. Heat spread from her stomach through the rest of her. A wolf howl sounded and this time when she shivered it was with yearning instead of fear.
She retrieved Captain Tarak’s knife and returned to her place beside Oben’s sleeping form. She would stay with Oben for now and protect him through the night as he had protected her. If the fire meant nothing, she could always get Oben to drink from the bottle again and slip away.
The breeze fluttered her hair. The water trickled in the stream as she stared into the shadows fighting the urge to sleep. She would not give in to the pull. She would not—
Faces appeared in the darkness.
A man with a beard screamed at her. Blood oozed from a hole in his stomach. Another man clutched his throat as blood streamed out. Then behind him others appeared. An army of wounded and dead coming through the trees. Arms extended. Weapons dripping with blood.
The bearded man lunged.
A blade caught the light as it plunged toward her, and she scrambled backward and screamed.
4
Betrice bolted upright and struck out with the knife in her hand. “Stay away from me. Get away!”
The blade raked across flesh. She slashed out again as a hand clamped over her wrist and pushed her arm down to the ground.
“Let go of the knife,” a man said quietly even as his hand squeezed hers hard. “Lady Betrice, it was just a dream.”
A dream.
She blinked and the face in front of her changed. No more beard, no rictus of anger and blood.
Instead, there was Oben, outlined by early-morning light. She hadn’t had the nightmare in over a year. Not since mastering the seers’ meditation technique. The men . . . the blood . . . her knife striking flesh had felt real.
“Oh Gods.” She saw the streak of red running down Oben’s arm. The blade she’d been holding dropped with a thud to the ground. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking for something to stop the bleeding. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
She trembled and pulled her eyes away from the blood as the nightmare played inside her head.
“It’s just a nick.” Oben put his hand on her arm and looked into her eyes. “Your scream, however, nearly killed me. I thought you were being attacked.”
“I was. In my dream.” She shook her head. “You must think me simple for waking you for nothing more than a nightmare. I’m no better than a small child.”
“Children have nightmares about what they fear, but have never seen.” He reached out and brushed a finger against her wet cheek, wiping away a tear she hadn’t even known she’d shed. “Our dreams echo those things we have witnessed. The evil that we know exists. The attack yesterday, on the road, was not an easy thing for one who is not a swordsman to see and live through. It would be a wonder if those images didn’t invade your sleep.”
Betrice shook her head. “It wasn’t that.” She paused. “I’ve had the same nightmare ever since I can remember. The seers taught me how to keep it at bay. The dream was the reason my uncle allowed me to go to the Village of Night in the first place. I was trying to keep watch last night to make sure you were safe and—I must not have focused my thoughts properly.”
“You were keeping watch for me?”
Gods, how asinine that must sound to a man trained to kill. A girl pretending as though she could fight off real-life attackers in the night with nothing but a knife and her ability to scream. She pulled her legs up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and looked down at the ground.
“You have my thanks, Lady Betrice.”
“I don’t know what you have to thank me for. It’s obvious I didn’t do a very good job.”
Oben’s fingers cupped her chin and gently tilted her head up. “It’s been a long time since anyone felt the inclination to stand between me and harm’s way.” His eyes were no longer stony. There was a softness and warmth there she hadn’t seen before. And in his voice a kind of wonder. The same she felt when she realized he had forewent sleep to make sure the other escorts didn’t forget their manners.
“You didn’t lie to me when you said you have received worse injuries,” she said quietly “Last night, I saw the marks you bear.”
He dropped his hand. “I don’t regret the marks I wear, but I will cover them if you find them repulsive. Many ladies do.” When she didn’t answer immediately, Oben struggled to get to his feet.
“No,” she blurted, realizing she had been staring instead of answering his concern. “You don’t have to cover your scars.”
The moonlight had only given her a small glimpse of the ones on his back. But looking up at him now in the early light of day, she saw that those weren’t the only ones Oben bore. Raised marks decorated the front of his shoulders and his muscular chest.
Tears burned the back of her eyes. So many wounds. They no longer bled, but how so many could ever heal was beyond her. But it exp
lained the taut, defined strength of the rest of his body. Anyone who had been that injured would certainly find a way to prevent injury again—to himself or any he allied himself with.
Quietly she said, “My father once told me that scars are symbols of braveries large and small. A body without scars belongs to someone too scared to live.” She glanced down at the line of blood on his arm. “I’m just sorry that I have added to your wounds, and that I woke you so rudely. I promise I won’t fall asleep on my watch again.” Standing, she added, “I’ll find something to eat before we break camp.”
Snow nickered as Betrice dug through her bag and came up with some dried beef and two apples and a small swath of the blanket she’d used to bind the gash on Oben’s leg. She filled a waterskin at the stream. By the time she was done, Oben had already stowed her bedroll and pack on Snow and was starting to stow his own.
He turned toward her and winced. “Those who might look for us will be searching near the roads leading northeast toward Derio, so we will ride to the west before turning north. I want to put distance between us and anyone from yesterday’s attack. Hopefully, we’ll find somewhere to get supplies. I’d rather not waste time hunting unless we need to. The fewer delays we have, the faster I can get you back to Charity Keep.”
The hope that had bloomed inside her when she remembered Kiara’s vision faded. Oben was still taking her back to her uncle. Scars and lack of sleep did not make him any less her uncle’s man, even if he was different from the rest. She had to keep that in mind and find a way to use it to get what she wanted: a life where she had control—of what she did and where she went and what people did to her. That determination burned like a fire within her.
She took the waterskin from Oben and drank. Oben turned to grab the last of his packs and grimaced.
“Do you want the bottle that helped you sleep last night?” Betrice asked.
“That won’t be necessary,” he said.“The pain is manageable.”
She frowned. “But if you have something that stops pain, why would you choose to suffer at all?” Did this mean he wouldn’t take it again? If not, she might have to find another way to gain an opportunity to flee.
Oben hefted the last of the packs onto the stallion. “Because pain that is hidden sometimes causes more harm than good.”
“That sounds like something Seer Zachar would say if he didn’t know the answer. Rubbish.”
Oben looked down at her and laughed. “You are not as you seem, are you Lady Betrice.”
She stiffened.
“I mean no offense, my lady.”
“I am not your lady,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “And I find being mocked with laughter always offends, do you not?”
“That was not my intent.” He took a step toward her and she fought the urge to step back. “I only meant that when we started this journey you were more like a rabbit—quiet and seemingly afraid of your own shadow. Only now . . .”
Oben stopped and considered her again. She straightened her shoulders in the silence to make her feel as if she was not so small next to him. On the inside, she cringed. After fleeing the attack and with Oben injured she’d forgotten all about the ruse she’d been playing at to make her escort let his guard down.
“And now what?”
He smiled. “And now, Lady Betrice, I am thinking you are less of a rabbit and more of a fox.”
If she were more foxlike, she would have left last night. Now she could either retreat into her ruse, or test whether Oben was the fire in Kiara’s vision after all.
Straightening her shoulders, Betrice said, “I cannot return to Charity Keep.”
“Where will you go? Back to the seers?”
She pictured the Village of Night as it would be right now. Peaceful. Without fear. Gates open to all with talent. And she . . . she was not talented enough to belong. “No.” Her heart hurt to admit, “I am of no use to them.”
He frowned. “So where did you plan to go?”
“Adderton,” she admitted. “I heard some of the men mention Prince Ulron’s betrothal to one of their princesses. I thought since . . .”
“Adderton is no place for you, Lady Betrice.” Oben tightened the straps holding the packs. “Prince Ulron is not married yet, and until the wedding takes place Adderton still has a bounty on the head of anyone from Eden who strays inside their border. If someone in Adderton discovers who you are, you’ll either be dead or lucky enough to be ransomed back to your uncle.”
“Lucky? You have no idea what awaits me there!” Betrice snapped, but Oben interrupted.
“There are many in Adderton who have vowed to help the Bastians retake Eden’s throne. Capture of a High Lord’s niece would be a great victory for their cause.”
“Then I’ll go somewhere else.”
“Where, Lady Betrice? Anyplace you go you will be ransomed back to your uncle once you are discovered.”
“Then I won’t be discovered.”
“Are you that good a hunter with simply a knife? Or do you plan to steal weapons and whatever else you need to survive? You do know the punishment they mete out for convicted thieves?”
She clutched her wrist. “If I lose a hand, then so be it. I won’t return to Charity Keep.” She started toward her horse and found Oben blocking her way.
“I have to take you back to your uncle.”
“And if you do, I’ll end up dead.”
“Your uncle does not wish to kill you.”
“No. He wants to force himself on me in ways worse than before I left his castle. No one will stop him because he is a High Lord and I am in his charge. He has already put a knife to my throat in front of his men to demonstrate that I am powerless and to warn me that I would have no choice but to submit to him when I became a woman.”
The memories of the moment washed over her. The blade had pricked her neck. A drop of blood had run down her skin as her uncle slid a hand under her skirts. His fingers on her inner thigh. Inside, she screamed for help. But the only ones watching were her uncle’s men.
And they had laughed.
They had egged her uncle on.
But her uncle had stopped. He leaned close to her ear and whispered that she wasn’t yet ripe. He would wait because it was far better to pick fruit when the time was right.
Oben’s striking face blurred as she fought to keep the tears from falling. “My uncle doesn’t wish me dead, but if he has his way, I give my oath to you that I will kill myself. Remaining with him would be a fate worse than death.”
Oben stepped toward her and she had to tilt her head up to see his face. It was filled with emotions she did not understand. “Lady Betrice,” he said quietly. “Death is never the answer. Where there is death there can be no vengeance.”
“I don’t want vengeance.” Betrice turned on her heel. “I want you to let me go.”
“I can’t!” He grabbed her hand and held it, but it was the anguish in his voice that made her listen. “I gave my oath to your uncle, but even if I hadn’t I would still return you to his keep. Because I do want vengeance. Now, it is all that I want.”
The anger in his voice made her turn and stare at him, transfixed by the power he radiated.
“I have made only one other oath in my life—to my grandmother. I promised her that I would avenge my parents’ death and bring down those who had a hand in it. I cannot let those who destroyed my family go unpunished.”
She looked down at the strong hand that held hers and thought of her own parents. The king had already arrested and put to death those who had killed her father. Her mother had died in childbirth not long after, along with Betrice’s brother. Whatever vengeance and justice Betrice could hope for had been delivered.
Still. “I don’t understand how presenting me to my uncle will help your cause. Do you think he’ll give you money? If so, you are mistaken. Gold is not something my uncle parts with willingly.”
“No amount of gold could buy my loyalty.”
“The
n what could you possibly think you will get?” she asked.
“The King. He will be at Charity Keep when we arrive.” His fingers tightened on hers. “He has requested that several of the best trained of your uncle’s guard be gifted to his service. According to Captain Tarak, any who escorted you safely across the districts to Grace City would be among that number. It was the reason so many volunteered to ride.”
“You plan on leaving Charity Keep.” Oben would escape her uncle’s authority and she would be trapped in hell.
She tugged to free her hand, but Oben held fast. A storm of emotions swirled in his eyes.
“My mother was beaten and killed in front of my father because he refused to tell the guards how members of the deposed royal family escaped Garden City. My father was then beheaded at the top of the stairs leading to the Palace of Winds, while my grandmother fled with me in her arms.” His face went stony and cold. “The people who killed my parents are in Garden City. If I am going to uphold the oath I took to my grandmother, I have to be in Garden City, too.”
“Then why not just ride there? Today! I’ll go with you.” She had blurted out the idea without thinking it through, but it made sense. “No one will expect me to flee to Garden City. After yesterday’s ambush, my uncle might even think that I am dead. No one will be looking for either of us.”
“I cannot.” There was regret in his voice, but conviction on his face.” I will become a member of the King’s Guard. I will be trusted by he who sits on the Throne of Light and I will get justice. It is what I have dedicated my life to. It is what I have to do.”
Regicide. That was what Oben meant. His plan was to kill the king. She heard resolve in Oben’s voice, and in his eyes she saw something more. Fire. One she not only understood, but was drawn to like a moth. He was an orphan like she was. He had faced tragedy and pain and instead of running from it, he used the flames of his agony to forge himself into a weapon.
Into the Garden Page 4
