by Inez Kelley
The wind had trailed her hair over his arm and he used his guiding hand to smooth it over her shoulder, never letting go of her. She lost count of the time that they traveled. All her mind was centered on Bryton and his arms around her.
The sun ducked behind darkening clouds and a fizzle sharpened the air. With low, calming words, he drew Jester to a halt near a copse of trees. “We’ll make camp early here. Rain’s coming, I can feel it.”
They would make camp? Salome hid her smile as he slid her to the ground and dismounted, tossing Jester’s reins over a low branch. Tingles and zings shot through her legs and her knees wobbled. He gripped her arm. “Careful. Stomp your feet, get the blood moving.”
She’d never made a camp and felt silly marching in place while he untied a canvas roll. Still, feeling foolish was better than falling on her face. It also gave her time to appreciate the cut of his breeches, the way they clung to his calves and skimmed his thighs. Her gaze slid higher, over the curve of his buttocks, the tight pull of his belt at his waist and that damnable sword that blocked her view of the rest of his back.
Thunder rumbled, far away but with a rolling song that warned of a coming storm. Bryton doubled his speed. He pitched a small tent under a thick swag of branches in just a few minutes. The leather saddle, his bedroll and pack were tossed in the tent without a backward glance. His labrys and bow were handled much more gently. Salome hurried to help gather deadwood, which they piled under an oiled cloth. The first fat drops of rain struck the ground with patters and plops. A fractured thread of blue light scored the sky and the heavens opened.
Bryton pushed Salome into the tent. “Stay there. I’ll be right back.”
The canvas flap slapped down before she could protest. Rain beat on the tent, sharp rolling drumbeats that blended into a soothing tempo. Her hand rested on his pack. Although she had never camped herself, she had seen him, knew what needed to be done in the small darkened confines. The labrys was top-heavy, the rounded dual edges honed to deathly precision. Along the handle, a carved word sucked in her breath—Justice.
His axe was Justice, his sword Salvation and his dagger Mercy. Salome frowned. Could she whittle the word Peace into his soul?
She slid the axe blade down close to the tent edge and situated his bedroll beside it. He had but one blanket and she smoothed it across the top, inhaling the rich fragrance of pine and leather. His pack became a pillow and his saddle her backrest. There was nothing more to do but wait. Wait for her charge. Wait for the storm that did not carry rain but tears.
Salome lifted the flap, searching the gray forest, but saw no signs of him. Water ran off the sloped tent, streaming downhill to pool several yards away. The tree canopy held much of the downpour away. Across the field, the rain bounced in misty sprays against the ground. The cooling scents of rain and earth mingled, dotting her cheeks and dampening her lashes. A splash opened her eyes. Bryton ducked into the tent, his hair wet and his tunic plastered to his shoulders.
“It’s a cloudburst. It’ll be furious for a while but will slow soon. Still, it’ll be too dark to hunt so it’s dried beef for dinner.”
His smile did not reach his eyes and he could not hold her gaze. He scooted backward on his pallet, opening his pack then briskly rubbing his face and hair with a cloth. The leather tie hit the bedding and she reached for it, fingering the supple restraint. His belt landed across the saddle. Wool whispered on skin as he pulled the drenched tunic over his head. Salome drew a deep breath.
The small tent shrank inside. The smooth bare expanse of chest made the blackened mark more menacing, more prominent. Her fingers clenched to prevent them from stroking the raised edges. How easy it would be to trace it, allow her touch to slide down over the brawny plane and glide along the ridged muscles of his stomach. Savory lust filled her mouth. Nature’s instincts had a powerful lure, a call which hummed deep in her hips, aching with need.
He tugged a soft gray shirt on and she licked parched lips. Hunger had not been appeased. The broad lines of his shoulders beckoned her touch and she tucked tightly fisted hands beneath her legs. His bow became a clothesline in the cramped space.
“Now what do we do?”
Bryton shrugged, running his hand through damp copper and black hair. “We wait.”
Silence filled with the cadence of rain, the brush of leaves and tap of his fingers on his crossed arms. Salome said nothing. Arms loosely clasped around her knees, she stared with empathetic eyes the shade of dusk. He couldn’t handle her pity, her compassion, right now. He jerked his pack from behind him, digging into the outside flap. With sharp, precise movements, he pared the end of a charcoal stick to a point. A single creased parchment unfolded with a soft rustle.
His finger traced the letters, smudging the line. The list held hundreds of names and prison numbers of all the rabid animals the monarchy’s enemy had unleashed on Eldwyn. Most had a thick line through them. Bryton drew a single stroke through an unmarked name, number 4332.
Bryton was doing his damnedest to send them all to the pits of hell.
One name and number drew his eyes as it had daily for over a summer. Karok—2173. That son of a bitch he would enjoy killing. If he could, he was going to draw it out and make that painted bastard beg like a dog for death. Then he’d make it hurt more.
He jammed the parchment carelessly into his pack.
“Was that the hanged Skullman’s name?”
Salome’s voice soothed, as gentle as a summer breeze, but he was too raw, strung too tight, to appreciate the dulcet tone. “Yeah, that leaves less than twenty alive.”
“Penna said no man was a match against five others. How will you face so many more?”
Bryton didn’t answer. Her scrutiny blistered his skin. Could she read his thoughts? Did she know, truly know, the horrors inside him? Why had he pulled her onto Jester, onto his lap? She could have just flown away. She should have. He’d forgotten for just one brief moment she wasn’t human and allowed her embrace, sought her touch to ease the ache in his soul. Shame churned from his belly with a rancid taste. He had no right to touch her so casually.
Tension knotted behind his eyes and he rubbed at the ache. Wondering what a magic spell did or how she thought was like pounding his head into a stone wall—would give him nothing but a headache.
The shadows of the secluded tent couldn’t mask the concern in her eyes. Cool slender fingers touched his arm, pushing his sleeve up until she could better see his kill marks. He held his breath, watching her. Her fingertip traced each rough, raised point. Two different rows each held four old marks, a lone fresh point sat below, but all nine were a dark discoloration not found in nature.
“What are these?”
“Scars.”
“Manmade, not accidental.”
He didn’t want to tell her. He wanted, for one minute, to be as pure, untouched, as she was, unstained and unburdened. But he wasn’t. Snow-soft, his whisper brushed across her brow. “They’re captain’s marks. Kill marks. One point for every time I’ve done my duty as a bodyguard and lived to tell the tale.”
A lump in his throat made him swallow and her hand slid higher. He didn’t move as she stroked his shoulder, his collarbone. The tie at his neckline loosened with her tug and her fingers dipped beneath the fabric to touch his full dagger mark. A subtle trembling knocked her hand against his chest.
“This too has meaning.” Honey-brown brows arched like wings and poised over almond-shaped eyes.
“For killing an assassin.” He gripped her wrist in a gentle hold, pulling her hand from his shirt. “I told you there is ugliness in my soul. This is part of it.”
“How can valor be ugly? How can honor be ugly?”
“When you fail when it’s most important.”
He didn’t resist when she tugged her wrist away. He couldn’t move as her hand went to his hair. From the time his voice changed, women had loved to run their fingers through his hair. He’d long grown used to it. But Salome didn’t stroke
and murmur pretty compliments. She caressed the pitch-black streak, starting at the root and threading her fingers to the tip.
“And this?”
“A reminder that I’ve a debt to pay.”
“Or that you’ve had harm done to you?”
Humiliation twisted his gut. She could think what she wanted, he knew the truth, every drop of bitter, ugly truth. He turned from it, and from her, his grip tightening on his dagger. On the hilt, the word Mercy dug into his skin. It never went deep enough. There was no mercy for him in this life.
Duty could be glorious and purposeful or it could choke like the noose around the Skullman’s neck. Never, not even when his own death was a hairsbreadth away, had Bryton ever felt the strangled clutch of his vow. Now he could barely breathe for the pinch of invisible fingers. He knew what his destiny was supposed to entail. But Kat had died before they had a second child, a daughter to one day serve as queen and mate for the prince named as his godson.
Unlike his best friend, he had no mystic line above his heart, was not bound by the magic of heartmates. In theory, he could give a child to any woman. He’d learned at a tender age to use thin sheaths with each encounter unless he wanted copper-haired bastards roaming the countryside. His marriage had erased that worry and put a joyous slant on pregnancy. After Katina’s death, he’d taken risks with the barmaids, deliberately not using sheaths and shamefully wishing for conception. But whores protected themselves with herbs and powders. No child had been created to fulfill his cruel fate.
Destiny was a bitch. A snort ripped from him. He couldn’t father a queen without a woman and there was none in his life. He wanted no one but Katina. His gaze drifted to Salome. She was the first female since his wife who had stirred his desires but she wasn’t really a woman. Salome wasn’t real, or at least not of this world. Taric’s struggle had been in making Myla real to carry his heir. A king had had to die for that to happen. Salome couldn’t carry. Even if he did bed his peacemaker, there was no chance for a child.
Failure once more descended with a firestorm. Batu would be the last Segur king. Bryton tried to soothe himself with the idea that at least his enemies would be fewer and his life filled with peace. It was more than Bryton had ever had. It was the only gift of his blood he could give to his godson, poor as it might be. The final nail in his future coffin was knowing he’d condemned a child to a life of loneliness. Self-effacing irony swamped his gut in waves of nausea. It took talent to destroy a hundred generations of royalty.
Bits of charcoal clung to the knife blade and he wiped them away on his pants. He flipped the dagger, end over end, catching the hilt without looking. Twice. Three times. A fourth.
He counted twenty-seven tosses before Salome spoke. “Where are your pipes?”
“In the pack, why? Do you play?”
“No, but you do. It might fill the time and give you something to do with your hands besides flip that blade.”
“Sorry, habit. And I don’t feel like playing right now.” He tucked the dagger back into his loose belt and folded it beside him. Tensions from the events of the day heaped on stresses of the past summer and his patience grew thin. His teeth ground and his jaw shifted. A labored sigh blew out. He grabbed his pack, tossing it at the end of his pallet. “Look, I’m going to grab some sleep. It’s early but…I didn’t sleep well.”
A wide smile erupted like the sun bursting from behind a cloud. “Let me sing you to sleep.”
“Salome, I’m not a child who needs a lullaby.”
“No, but you are in need of peace.”
“Whatever,” he grumped, flopping down on top of his blanket. “Make yourself happy but don’t bitch if I snore.”
Lying as still as a wooden plank, he crossed his arms and closed his eyelids. They cracked open at a soft rustle. Salome lifted the tent flap, gazing into the violet-smudged sky, letting the blown drops cool on her face.
In the rain-drenched moonglow, her cheeks shone like alabaster. The deep green of her skirt surrounded her like a meadow and she was the single bloom on the field, a pristine lily. The brisk wind stirred her hair, blowing it back, opening her face. One long lock fluttered then settled along her shoulder and curved provocatively under her left breast. The too-thin whore’s blouse hid little and his gaze longed to slip lower, to glimpse the shadows and swells displayed. He kept his sight trained on her face. Enchanted words caressed the air in her soothing soprano.
She had a lovely voice, made for singing. Bryton tried to focus on the song. It made no sense to him. The language was foreign and the melody achingly beautiful. The knot in his chest loosened, and he sighed. Heaviness blanketed him, the pull of slumber easing his muscles until they released their rigid hold. Damp air flavored with a hint of honey tempted his nose and he breathed deeply. His head fell to the side as dreams descended.
Chapter Five
A lullaby crooned in a hushed voice. Crickets and spring peepers kept time with the humming song. The bright fire dispelled the night’s gloom and sent lively crackles and pops into the air. Contentment rumbled in his belly as he rubbed his hand down the team’s flanks. They could have pushed on, made it back to Thistlemount before nightfall, but with a nursing infant, Katina had wanted to make camp. He rounded the wagon and stopped, drinking in the sight of his family, his life, haloed by the fire’s glow.
“She eats like you do.” Katina laughed.
“Oh, and just what does that mean?” He settled beside her, nudging the yellow blanket away from her breast. Jana’s tiny fist was curled tight as she had her supper.
“It means you’d think she was starving.”
“She has a lot of growing to do.”
A golden flickering danced in Katina’s eyes. “If you grow any more, we’ll need a new bed. Your feet already reach the edge.”
“Yeah, but I wasn’t about to insult your father and not take the bed as a wedding gift. So what if my toes end up poking out of the blankets?”
“He and Mama were so happy we came. They loved seeing Jana. I don’t think Mama put her down for more than a blink all week.”
Katina’s hair was pinned, leaving fair tendrils curling around her nape. Peach-tinted skin on her cheeks flushed to apricot as his fingers stroked from her neck to the curve of her breast where their newborn fed. Her gaze was filled with the same longing that gnawed at him.
“Soon,” she whispered.
“I know. Just take care of her. I’ll wait.” He leaned close and pressed his mouth to Jana’s fuzzy hair then caught his wife’s lips. “Impatiently but gladly.”
Fussing and squirming parted their kiss. Jana kicked at the swaddling. Katina propped the infant on her shoulder and rubbed her back. A burp far too loud for her tiny body widened their eyes. “She belches like you, too.”
His laughter died in his mouth as his vision went white and enchantment burned his blood. She dies…she dies…she dies… “Oh, shit. No, please…”
“Bryton, what is it?”
“Come on, in the wagon, now.”
Katina scrambled to a stand and his body jerked. He reached for her. Sight returned with a shock, like icy water hitting him full in the face. Wide blue eyes with flecks of green and gold searched his face. “Tell me.”
She dies…
“Skullmen.”
“This close to Thistlemount?” The fear in her voice magnified his horror. Clutching the baby tight, silver pooled in her eyes. “Jana.”
She dies… But which she?
Powerless to change what he knew was coming, wishing there was something, anything, he could tell her to lessen her fear, he gripped her arms and swallowed. “Kat, listen to me. They’re almost here. Take Jana and hide.”
“Where? The trees are too far apa—”
“Magic, sweetling. Use your spells and hide, please. There are too many for me alone.”
“She’s only a few weeks old. I’m not strong enough yet.” Her mouth opened and shut. Her trembling shook one of the pins loose from her hair. Her
slim hand covered the baby’s head and she slowed her breathing by force, raising her chin. “But I can hide Jana.”
She dies…
Fuck! He nodded and pushed her toward the wheel. “All right, do it. Then get under the wagon.”
Mystic words in a soft alto whispered behind him as he grabbed the labrys from the wagon bed. The name Justice carved into the handle nearly purred beneath his touch. His sword hissed leaving the scabbard, the sound loud and deadly. The baby was gone, hidden from sight, invisible to all but Katina’s magic gaze. He spared a moment to kneel, touching Katina’s cheek. “Don’t come out, no matter what happens, do you hear me? I need to know you’re safe before I swing.”
“The border patrol? Maybe they ca—”
“They’re coming…just not soon enough.”
A crunch deep in the woods yanked him to his feet. He put his body between the wagon and the fire, shielding Katina as best he could, and waited. Pain radiated from his sternum where his heart tried to pummel through his chest wall. The taste of envisioned death lingered in a foul paste, coating his teeth and tongue. He wished he’d worn his mail. He wished they’d pushed for home. He wished…
A solitary man walked into the firelight. Five jade rings ran up one ear. Dark beard growth highlighted the painted skull outline emblazoned across his golden face. The heavily shadowed jaw played wickedly off missing teeth when he smiled. The dirty homespun shirt did not hide the etched bones on his arms. They glistened in the orange and yellow glow. Bryton memorized the numbers on the back of his hand—4332.
“Eve’n, friend. Share your fire with a traveler?”
“No.” Bryton wasn’t playing games. “I’m not in a sharing mood. Move along.”
An evil glimmer burned in yellowy eyes. “Now, that’s impolite. Rude, even. Didn’t your mother teach you any manners, boy?”
“No.” The doubleheaded axe spun loosely in his hand from long practice. “Leave.”
The topaz gaze narrowed and dropped to Bryton’s knees, to beyond him where Katina crouched behind the wooden wheel. “Pretty little thing, isn’t she?”
