by Inez Kelley
Salome reached toward the bird, stroking one finger over the downy feathers in a gentle greeting. Had she been human, the bird would have flown but it merely regarded her with cautious eyes. She left the mother to her nesting and returned to the small stack of fresh-cut wood. How simple life was at its basic form. The bird’s only task was survival and raising her young. She was free to fly to any tree she wished, glide along any current that tickled her belly. Food and babies were the only thoughts she held.
Bryton’s daughter leaped to her mind. The sweetly protective tone that infused his voice when he spoke of Jana had spread warmth through her. She could not imagine his large hands cradling an infant, tending to a tiny helpless being. But he had. He’d laughingly told her of walking the floor of his chambers, soothing her with song and motion during her first teething. The nurse would have done it but he’d stepped in, taking his child so she could sleep and handle her care the next day. Again, such selflessness and concern for those around him deepened her love.
A length of wood stilled in her hand. Bryton walked with his child because she had no mother. He would have had no need of a nurse had his wife lived. Salome’s gaze returned to the quiet sparrow, content on her seat. Four little eggs. Bryton had one child, would never have another if his destiny did not alter. Her lips firmed. She’d been called to help change that course. If he found full peace before facing the Skullmen, he might choose to do things differently. If not, she would be with him as his life slipped away.
She did not fear death, knew that it was simply a passage to another realm. A realm she could not venture into. Once he had no more use for her, she would return to the shadowy place of color and light. Her vow would hold her here no longer. There was no praise or punishment for her duty. A hand dropped to her belly. Young. A stirring in her body welled a sadness from deep within her. She was not human, could never give him a child if he desired one.
The bark in her hand scratched and she looked to find small drops of blood, broken blisters that oozed red liquid. She could bleed but not breed. The little sparrow with its four oblong eggs was life personified—feed, mate, procreate.
Salome was just a spell, a being called from afar who fell in love. She could not be with him in death and they had no future. All she could have was now, this brief stolen time to spend with him. Like a bird, she fed from the crumbs of his table, stealing bits of care and compassion to warm her.
The wood weighed less than her spirit as she trudged up the stone steps.
Chapter Seven
Pepper, cinnamon and the pungent odors of sulfur watered his eyes, but Bryton blinked the sting away. The apothecary’s skull shone bright pink through thinning hair as he hunkered over his pestle, grinding and grating. The mixture Bryton waited on was common enough but his purpose was darker than medicinal. When blended with the berry of the wert bush, the toxin turned deadly. If he steeped the berry juice for a week with the herbs, they’d make a deadly poison, one that could come in quite useful if his arrows struck but didn’t kill. It also burned like a bitch on contact, which the Skullmen deserved.
He bounced his leg in impatience. Jester had thrown a shoe halfway down the mountain, forcing his first stop to be the farrier. Leaving the animal in the farrier’s care, he’d been to the armory and had two more stops yet to make. Daylight wasted and the aged apothecary moved like frozen mud. Bryton paced the shop, reading labels and spinning jars. His mind filled with thoughts of the cliffside cavern, of the not-quite-real woman waiting there.
He thrust a jar back onto the shelf with a snort. He’d once cautioned Taric about playing with fire. Myla wasn’t real, he’d said. Taric had smirked and replied she felt real. Bryton knew exactly what he meant now. Salome felt real. The reaction he had to her was real. The lust gathering between them was real.
He fought it but knew eventually he’d take Salome to his bed. Her flirting was comical at times, other times completely unintentional. The first time she’d crawled on his lap before the campfire, he’d nearly bolted upright and dropped her to the ground. Where the hell she’d learned that trick was beyond him. He’d grown used to her touch, but every so often her fingers would slow and tickle some part of his body that had a direct current to his balls. How could a single finger drawn down his neck make him harder than a whore on her knees could?
It was when she wasn’t flirting that he found her most alluring. The way the sun caught her hair as she tilted her head back to watch a bird’s flight, the subtle shift of her legs as she sat by the brook cooling her feet, the delicate shell of her ear shining pink in the spring light—those were the images that plagued him. That honey scent was driving him mad. He dreamed about thick golden liquid on creamy bare skin and woke with a throbbing ache. It was nearly as powerful as the nightmares.
He turned just as the apothecary tied the small pouch tight. He tucked the potential poison inside his tunic and retrieved Jester. The goldsmith he sought was on the other edge of town. Domic Gerog had given him a start and a few names. He planned to make the most of that, along with Taric’s purse.
Zenor Umon had eyes like a rat, beady dark things that darted left and right. He scrutinized the five jewels on his mat with avarice, licking his thin lips with a too-red tongue. Caralic, Bryton guessed. Many injured soldiers used the medicine but some grew too attached, seeking the mind-numbing bliss of the herb. Soon nothing but the caralic mattered. Their bodies aged and teeth rotted, their tongues turning raspberry red and their skin yellowing. Even then they craved the bliss so much, they’d do nearly anything for it. It made Zenor the perfect choice.
Bryton allowed him to weigh and measure the stones. Knobby fingers caressed the robin’s-egg-size ruby with a palpable lust.
“Five each,” he underbid. Bryton scoffed and slid the stones back into his palm. Zenor’s hand shot out, gripped his wrist and spat, “Twelve then.”
Bryton shook his head. “If I wanted to give the damn things away, I’d find a whore and at least get blown before I got screwed. I’ll just check with a few of your guild members. Someone has to know what they’re doing and the value o—”
“Twenty for the ruby alone.”
Deliberately taking his time, Bryton pocketed the jewels, keeping the ruby in his hand. “I noticed you favored that one. Tell me this, what if I gave you the ruby, no charge? What could you do for me?”
Zenor looked around the empty shop as if expecting listeners. He leaned over the counter. “What do you want? Women? Whiskey? Caralic? Your wife to disappear? Your father?”
“And you can make all that happen?”
“No, but I know those who can. They don’t come cheap. The ruby with the others, and I’ll arrange for the king to kneel at your feet.”
He already has, you greedy little prick. If Zenor only knew the riches Bryton had seen. The royal vault wasn’t opened often, but when it was, rainbows of jewels sparkled like mirrors. This wasn’t the largest ruby he’d ever held. The one in Taric’s scepter was three times this size. Bryton hid his disgust behind a mask of marble and held the raw stone up to catch the light. The bloody color sparkled grotesquely over Zenor’s face.
“I don’t give two shits about the king. I want Karok.”
Greed vanished and fear seeped over the rat-like eyes. “That I cannot help you with.”
“I think you can.” Bryton laid the jewel in the center of the mat, a drop of dark blood against a creamy span of bleached leather. “Friday, the Bridge Troll, an hour after dark. Tell him an old friend is looking for him. I have something of his to return.”
Face blanched as white as his hair, Zenor nonetheless snagged the ruby with viper-like speed. “I’ll see if I can find someone who can deliver that message.”
“You do that.” Bryton rapped his knuckles in the mat and stood with a smile. “Pleasure doing business with you, Zenor. You can be sure I’ll not forget your name.”
Blood buzzing with adrenaline, Bryton paused by the entrance long enough to send Zenor an evil smile
. The goldsmith gulped and clutched the ruby tighter, his knobby knuckles growing white. The bells above the door jangled like dry bones in the wind, the latch catching behind him with a soft snick.
Karok would know someone was hunting him now. Bryton had no intention of being at the Bridge Troll come Friday. He’d be at the base of the mountain, waiting, watching. If Karok was any type of warrior, he’d not be there, either, sensing the ambush. No, he’d send his men to scout. One Skullman was all Bryton needed. One trail to follow to the viper’s nest. Then he’d meet Karok on his own turf.
Bryton tugged Jester to a merchant’s hitch and stomped inside. The merchant was a tall man with rolls of melting fat layered around his frame. One milky eye stared straight ahead. The other hazel one narrowed at him. “Help ya?”
Bryton outlined a list of supplies and the man nodded. He began gathering things before Bryton was finished. A rack along the back wall produced flour and salt, beans and dried fruits. Sea lanterns and oil were preciously expensive but well worth the light in a dark cavern so he added three. An open bin of black beans raised his brow and he pointed to it, adding a small bag to his tally.
“Got a strain pot?” The strange question shook Bryton’s head. The merchant thunked a dull metal pitcher on the counter. The lid rattled. “Gotta grind the beans, dump ’em in the basket, boil the water. Want one?”
“Yeah, and give me another blanket, too. And flatware, plate and cup.”
The merchant stopped. “Show me the coin first.”
Bryton tossed the small heavy pouch on the counter with a glare. The merchant didn’t touch it but nodded and went to gather his requests.
Bryton tucked the purse back in his belt and grunted. What the hell was he doing? He didn’t need another blanket or another fork. He was buying them for Salome, which made no sense. She ate because he hated to eat alone, left him at night so she needed no mantle. He justified the purchases as courtesy. He was tired of using his dagger as a fork and the cave could be damp in mornings or evenings. It was polite, that was all.
He didn’t even believe his own lies. He wanted to take care of her.
No, he wanted to get his ass up the mountain. She might be magic, but Katina had had her power and she’d still fallen prey to Karok’s evil. Salome could shift to wind or to a bird, but what if she wasn’t conscious? One blow to the head and she could be caught, hurt. The nagging urgency chewed on his stomach like an animal. He wanted, needed, to see her, make sure she was safe. He should have insisted she come with him or stayed with her. Running a hand through his hair, he glanced out the window and ice jammed into his gut.
Skullmen. Rather, one Skullman stood in broad daylight in front of the alehouse. As though he were a rabid dog, people scurried away to the other side of the street and inside stores. Bryton’s grasp on his sword tightened. Here was his chance, delivered early and unexpected. His lips parted to tell the merchant he’d be back tomorrow when Salome’s face flashed before him.
If he trailed the Skullman, she would be alone. She expected him back by nightfall. If he didn’t show up, she’d be worried. In her naive impetuousness, there was no telling what she would do. The grip of his sword grew sticky and he fisted it over and over. Part of him ached to follow the trail. The other firmly fixed his feet to the floor.
Fuck.
The merchant noticed his stare and grunted. “Best leave trouble be, boy. Scum like that like to slit your throat for lookin’ at ’em.”
“They come often?”
“Yep, bold as brass and evil as the night is long.”
Then he’d be back as well. Bryton gritted his teeth and lined an invisible target on the back of the Skullman. If he had his bow, he’d drop the fucker like a bag of rocks.
As if feeling his gaze, the Skullman turned and headed toward the building. Bryton forced his eyes down, biding time and not drawing attention. His ears perked to attentiveness and he watched from the corner of his eye. A silent snarl twitched his lip. He knew this bastard. The Skullman’s face was peppered with healed burn scars around his eyes beneath a black leather eye patch.
An accented growl grated on his nerves. “That boat be in yet?”
The merchant fixed a dull blank look on his face and shrugged. “Nope. You talk to the wind. She brings the ships in, you’ll have your stuff. I can’t control the tides.”
“Bah!” He knocked the bag of salt Bryton ordered off the counter with a frustrated swipe. Dusty crystals sprinkled over the blanket and plate. The merchant didn’t twitch. Topaz flashed and the Skullman leaned over the counter, an oily grin splitting his mouth. “How’s that pretty daughter of yours, Warnon?”
The merchant began sweeping salt into his shaking hand. “Went north with my wife’s people.”
“Did she now? Crying shame when a man sends his kin away.”
The merchant said nothing. A malevolent chortle prickled the hair on Bryton’s neck but he held his tongue until the dog left the store, openly stealing a bag of roasted nuts.
Bryton had to force his stiff jaw open to speak. “What did you order for them?”
“Brined meat.” He looked at Bryton with a disgusted curl on his mouth. “Some lizard from Gillum. They all act like it’s some delicacy but it smells like my mother-in-law’s feet. They don’t cook it. I saw one of them slice off a piece and start chomping on it.”
“Raw lizard?” Bile rose in Bryton’s gut. He’d eaten some questionable things in his life but the lizards of Gillum were near twelve feet long with scales and barbed tails. He’d rather eat dirt. “Did you really send your daughter north?”
“Yesterday,” the man sighed. “That one, One-eye, he started looking at her. She’s only twelve. I wanted her to reach thirteen.”
He went back to gathering supplies and Bryton closed his eyes. How many families had these animals torn apart? How long would the damage take to repair, if it ever could be? For the millionth time, he cursed Emerto Marchen and his hatred. He wished the maggot were alive just so he could wring his neck. During the reign of Taric’s father, Marchen’s jealous wrath had led him to wage a three-decade-long war against Eldwyn. Later he turned his mercenaries-turned-brigands loose to wreak further devastation on the war-ravaged country.
There were fewer than twenty Skullmen left out of over two hundred. A few died in battle, others were killed by their own kind. The Royal Guard had hunted the rest, Bryton leading the pack. The law forbade killing in revenge, made it punishable by death, so Taric had declared all the Skullmen guilty of mass treason and sentenced them in absentia, legally clearing the way for Bryton and his guards to kill every last one without reprisal. They weren’t simply mass murderers or rapists. They were plagues with no conscience. Each of them had been sentenced to die for their vicious crimes before Marchen even brought them to Eldwyn. Bryton was merely their predestined judgment, delivered too late to spare his own family.
“Think that’s it. Anything else?”
Bryton turned back to the counter and shook his head. His hand halted, fingers tucked in his pouch. He’d bought the necessities. He had enough coin for ten times that without touching Taric’s purse, but what he really wanted was a smile. He wanted to see Salome smile in pleasure. “You have anything…for a woman? Like a gift?”
The merchant scratched his chin. “Let’s see, I got a few things. Lightskirt or wife?”
“Neither,” he barked. What was Salome to him? How do you explain a magic peacemaker to a merchant? “More like…a friend.” A friend who has eyes like early morning and tastes of rain-soaked honeysuckle. A friend who laughs like a trilling bird but has a temper like a snapping thunderstorm. A friend who makes me forget to remember.
Humming, the merchant rummaged in boxes, pawed through containers and searched shelves. He laid several items on the flat table and waved his hand. Bryton drew a breath and held it. Dresses? No, Salome had no need. Jewelry? He couldn’t imagine any adornment adding to her face. None of the trinkets seemed right. Katina had loved it when
he brought her those jeweled pins for her hair. There must be hundreds of the tiny clips scattered around his chambers, tucked into corners, left behind as a reminder. He’d step on one even now, after the maids had cleaned and the floors had been swept clear. But Salome? She didn’t know any of those things. What would make her happy?
A knowing laugh warmed his throat. He raised his head and grinned at the clerk. “I know what I want. Maybe you can help me.”
The sun had set and the sky took on the bruised colors of twilight as he untied Jester’s pack. No light streamed from the cavern, though he hadn’t expected any. She’d found a good spot, sheltered but accessible. He loaded his arms and climbed the steps, the dusk just bright enough to see where to place his feet. The smell reached him before he entered the cave.
Salome crouched by a small fire, stirring a pot, her bottom lip caught under her teeth. Her face was dirty. Mussed and tumbled around her head, wild tendrils escaped into the air, and the gold tie at her nape hung loose. Her arms were red with raised scratches from armpit to wrist. The beautiful sunrise silk of her chiton was dulled and torn at the knee. He’d never seen anything so alluring.
Wide eyes leaped to him and her smile reached into his chest, gripped his heart and squeezed. “It’s late. I began to worry. I started some food. It’s just the last of the beans with some salted pork. I found wild onions. I know you like those.” She looked down at the pot and shrugged. “It doesn’t smell too bad.”
“Jester threw a shoe. That put me behind. The food smells good.”
He looked around the space in awe. His bedding was perfect, the neat row of supplies aligned, and fresh water hung in the skins. Two new torches burned low in the wall cracks. No dirt or dust lined the floors or walls. She’d gathered rocks, built a ring and started a fire, which meant she’d had to cut the wood. Quickly he counted. All ten fingers in place. She cooked. And it didn’t smell burned. Though far from luxurious, the cavern wasn’t so alien now. It had a homey quality that he never seemed to be able to reproduce. Maybe it took a woman’s touch.
