Cristobal tipped his chin. “What?”
“Trouble.” His deep voice rose on a wave of magic, making Cristobal’s skin prickle in warning. Massive shoulders rolling, Garren broke eye contact and jogged across the inner bailey. His destination: the blacksmith’s shop. Or more precisely, the bedchamber hidden behind it. “I will rouse Xavian. Find Razvan. We fly for White Temple as soon as all are assembled in the courtyard.”
Ah hell. White Temple.
The location could only mean one thing. Henrik and the others were in danger. Which meant Tareek was in the thick of it. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. No wonder Garren smelled of unease and moved like the wind.
Urgency pumped through him.
Putting his boots to good use, Cristobal ran the length of the walkway. Footfalls hammering stone, he reached the door at his end, yanked it open, and crossed into a large chamber. Sprinting across Afina’s healing room, he skirted the huge table at its center and made for the double doors on the other side. The keep proper lay beyond, and his comrade’s chamber along the first corridor. He must move fast. No time to waste. The quicker he hauled Razvan out of bed, the sooner Henrik would have the help he needed.
Candlelight flickered, casting odd patterns across the white walls. Alone in the weaving room, sitting in front of her favorite loom, Nairobi Brue watched the eerie shadows dance and listened for the telltale creak of wooden floorboards. Naught yet. No low rumble of male voices. No scrape of footfalls or the soft rattle of weaponry. Naught but the chill of midnight and blessed silence. Thank goodness. She needed the extra time. Enough to find her courage and settle her nerves. She couldn’t afford any mistakes. Not tonight. Everything rested on the next few minutes.
On her ability to forge ahead and make something out of nothing.
Hands moving at a furious pace, she tied another knot in the makeshift cloth rope. Another few lengths of wool, and she would be on her way. A hop, skip, and a jump from tying one end to the window frame, climbing down to the pathway below, and running hard for the garden gate, but . . . not yet. She needed every advantage. Must wait a while longer even though fear circled, making her palms sweat and her want to flee now.
Sooner than now would be better.
Nairobi shook her head and finished knotting the last woolen strip.
“Patience,” she murmured. “’Tis a virtue for a reason.”
The whispered words made her lips twitch. Such sentiment. So much old-fashioned faith. Kind of ridiculous when she thought about it, but for some reason, hope didn’t seem out of place tonight. She’d made it this far, hadn’t she? Was due for some good luck, wasn’t she? Nairobi nodded. Without a doubt. ’Twas her turn, but as chance rolled the dice and she tugged on the cloth, testing the rope, nerves got the best of her. Shoving the makeshift cord beneath a pile of yarn, she glanced toward the arched entryway into the room. With the double doors folded open, she had a clear view into the hallway.
Usually her favorite spot. Too bad it afforded little comfort tonight. Any moment now, the whisper of footsteps would fall and the quiet creak would come, heralding the guard’s approach and . . .
Her eviction from the weaving room.
Not that she didn’t belong. She did. More than most, anyway. But the owner of Saul’s Silk Emporium liked rules as much as she enjoyed breaking them. Which meant it wouldn’t be long now. Hardly any time at all before Adam, head guard and colossal pain in her backside, rounded the corner and saw her sitting where she wasn’t allowed to be at night. In front of her loom. Colorful yarn bobbing on multiple spools along the top crosspiece.
Inhaling a calming breath, Nairobi exhaled in a rush, then reached out and picked up the threads. Under. Over. Weave, knot, cut, brush it down—start all over again. The familiar rhythm settled her, untangling tight muscles as she fell into the tried and true. Fingers working as hard as her mind, furious in the fray, one weaving a Persian rug, the other searching for an adequate excuse. She needed one in order to remain in front of her loom. And by extension, next to the long run of windows that made a home along one side chamber.
A lie spiked with the truth would work best.
It always did. And she should know. She’d spent the last two years lying . . . about everything. Who she was. Where she’d come from. Why she was alone in the world. Lies, lies, and more lies. Untruth stacked upon untruth. Curious thing, though, no one ever called her on it. Or investigated her sudden appearance in the town of Ismal. Fortuitous or disastrous? Nairobi couldn’t tell. Being found out—called a fraud and made to pay—would be easier than maintaining the front. And as moonlight spilled into the chamber, casting shadows across piles of yarn and tables littered with embroidery tools, she almost wished someone would grow a brain and get a clue.
Almost, but not quite.
Danger, after all, lived inside her truth. The kind of knowledge others coveted. A secret so profound she would go to her grave to protect it. Knotting another thread, Nairobi bit down on her bottom lip. Death . . . a distinct possibility tonight. Especially if she escaped as planned. Not that anyone would agree she was a prisoner. She was paid, after all—given room and board along with a few coins each month for her efforts inside the silk house. Most would call that employment, not prison.
The truth was far more sinister.
She’d been trapped the moment she stepped inside the Emporium. Now she played the pawn in a ruthless game enjoyed by the rich and greedy.
Nairobi shook her head. Goddess be swift and merciful. Creativity could be a curse sometimes. Combine it, however, with supreme talent and the effect multiplied, setting her apart from the others. Her employer—or rather jailer—loved her for it. The other women she worked alongside each day? Not so much. Like venomous green thread, jealousy ran deep inside the silk house, individual weavers in constant competition to win the master’s favor. A pity, really, particularly since she didn’t want the distinction.
Or to be noticed by Saul.
Nairobi huffed. Good luck with that. ’Twas far too late to change course and go unnoticed. Her designs ensured his attention. Her skill at the loom cinched it. More fool her. She never should’ve shown her true colors . . . or revealed the extent of her talent. Now she couldn’t move without drawing notice.
Guarded by day. Watched at night. Followed everywhere.
A steep price to pay for the skills she possessed.
Brows drawn together, Nairobi shifted on the low stool. Wooden legs scraped over greying floorboards. The ragged sound echoed inside the empty chamber, knotting the muscles between her shoulder blades as she fingered the wool threads, testing her loom for tension. Taut. Strong. Evenly spaced. Sheer perfection to a master weaver with a love of design and an eye for detail. Half-done, the Persian rug took shape and form, individual knots, each color, the repetitive motion of her hands carrying the one-of-a-kind motif ever upward, toward the wooden rail anchoring the whole. Another month and she would finish. Would lay the enormous carpet flat and see it in its entirety for the first time. After weeks of planning. After months of toiling. After years spent dreaming.
Her creation would be called a masterpiece.
Those who called Ismal—the marketplace nestled at the foot of the Carpathian Mountain Range—home would gather, hoping for a chance to see it. Wealthy merchants and celebrated noblemen would bid for the privilege of taking it home. The other weavers would sneer behind her back while Saul boasted of her talent . . . then locked her away. Put her under heavy guard. Again. Like always. For fear another silk house would view her work and attempt to steal her.
Just like the last time.
Which meant the Persian would never see completion.
Regret invaded her heart. As it tugged at her artist’s soul, Nairobi sighed and paused mid-knot. Hands hovering above the weft, she debated a moment, then gave in, and traced the colorful pattern with her fingertip. Soft wool brushed against her calloused skin. An ache bloomed in the center of her chest. ’Twas a crying shame. A terrible tragedy
to leave something so beautiful unfinished. But no matter how difficult, she would leave the rug behind and never look back.
The Goddess of All Things commanded it.
Aye, she’d heard the call. The cosmic thread held on hard, tugging at her heart, collecting in her soul, relaying the message . . . loud and clear. Now all she wanted to do was go home to White Temple. Tears stung the corners of her eyes. Goddess, she could hardly believe it. She’d prayed every day for so long—from the moment she’d been forced to flee the holy city. Two years spent struggling. Two years of uncertainty, of not knowing who to trust or where to turn. Two years adrift in the wilds of mankind, awaiting the day the goddess recalled the Blessed and reclaimed her own.
Two years.
And now—finally, after all this time—’twas safe to return home.
The mark between her shoulder blades tingled. Burned into her skin, the moon-star gave her strength. Enough to believe she could do it. Gods, she had done it. Or at least, started down the path to freedom.
Along with the rope, she’d spent an hour sneaking from room to room, gathering what she needed, preparing her getaway bag one item at a time. Her gaze cut to the wooden box beside her loom. Piled high with yarn, no one would ever guess her satchel lay hidden beneath the colorful wool. Tying another knot, she wove another line of thread and took inventory of her supplies. Two knives. A tin cup. Wire for setting rabbit snarls. A flint for starting a fire. Enough food for three days . . . if she rationed and was careful. A warm cloak, good boots, and fur-lined gloves. Nairobi frowned. It wasn’t enough. Five days’ worth of food would’ve been better. But with time ticking down, she couldn’t delay to gather more.
She must leave. Now. Tonight.
Before the buyers arrived to view her design. Before Saul locked her behind closed doors. Before she lost all hope of escape and—
Floorboards creaked in the hallway.
Nairobi flinched, then forced herself to settle down. ’Twas all right. She needed the guard to show up. Her plan hinged on her catch and release. All knew she loved to work late, when the night grew quiet and the other weavers slept. Even though Saul forbade it, Nairobi still slipped out of bed to sneak into the weaving room after hours. The guards had caught her often enough to know ’twas a running theme with her.
All part of her plan. Familiarity, after all, lessened vigilance.
Pretending absorption in her work, Nairobi bent over the threads. Any moment now, Adam would—
Footfalls thudded to a stop on the threshold. “For the love of God, Nairobi.”
She jerked, feigning surprise as she looked his way. Dark eyes met hers. She blinked like an astonished owl. He sighed, the heavy sound full of exasperation. The urge to laugh bubbled up, tightening her chest. Nairobi quelled the inclination. Finding his expression amusing was all fine and good. Showing it, however, was not.
“Oh, good eve, Adam.”
“Good eve,” he grumbled, throwing her a look of extreme irritation. “’Tis the middle of the night, Nairobi. All are abed, and well you know it. You are not to be here at this hour.”
Uh-oh. Grumpier than usual. Not a good sign, but . . . no help for it. Time to play the innocent card. She bit down on her bottom lip and shrugged. “I know, but—”
“But naught.” His eyes narrowed on her. “Go on with ye. Back to bed.”
“Just a bit longer?”
He scowled at her.
“An hour . . . not a moment more, I promise.”
“Nairobi, you cannot continue—”
“Please?” Placing her hands in a prayer position, she pleaded with her eyes. His expression softened a second before he huffed. Thank God. Both were excellent signs. Adam might be a stickler for the rules, but he wasn’t heartless. A good thing too. A soft heart would give her the added leverage she needed to get him to agree. “I won’t cause trouble. You know I won’t. ’Tis just . . . I’m almost done, so very close to finishing and . . .”
As she trailed off, Adam shook his head. She made another pleading sound. He treated her to another sigh, then held up a finger. “One more round. I’ll walk one more, Nairobi. When I get back, I want you gone. Back in bed . . . understood?”
“Aye.” Relief made her smile at him. His lips twitched in response and . . . oh bother. Just what she didn’t need: her conscience rearing its ugly head. Lord love her, it wasn’t fair. She didn’t want to get Adam in trouble, but that was exactly what would happen the instant Saul realized she was missing. Awful in every way. Especially since Adam had always been, well . . . all right. Not kind to her. That was stretching it a bit. The guard, after all, worked for the silk house. One of his duties included ensuring she stayed put. But that didn’t change the facts. Adam, for all his gruffness, had always been halfway decent to her. “Thank you, Adam.”
He made a rough sound, gave her another stern look, then turned into the corridor. A second before he disappeared from view, he glanced over his shoulder and wagged his finger at her. “One more round.”
“Right. Got it.”
And she did. Had gotten precisely what she needed—what she’d waited beside her loom in the hopes of acquiring: time. A whole quarter of an hour’s worth if Adam stuck to his usual route and his pace stayed true. Which meant . . .
Time to go.
Senses keen, Nairobi listened hard, tracking Adam as he walked away. The second he reached the end of the corridor, she grabbed the cloth rope and spun off her stool. The work of seconds, she unearthed her satchel from beneath the yarn pile. Leather strap in her hand, she dipped her chin, and with a quick toss, looped the bag over her shoulder. As it settled, she turned toward the closest window. Heart beating triple time, she glanced at the door one last time, then forced herself to move.
One guard distracted. A not-so-easy fifty-foot drop left to accomplish.
’Twas now or never. Do or die. Two options that offered no comfort and little choice. But as she wove the cloth rope through the ironwork next to the window and pushed the coiled bundle off the ledge, Nairobi refused to turn back. Or remain frozen in fear. No matter the risk, she must break free and leave the silk house behind. Opportunity knocked. Providence provided the key, gifting her with a narrow slice of time. Now all she needed to do was stick to the plan and stay alive long enough to disappear for good.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was official. The whole being carried thing stunk . . . in serious ways.
Still slung over Henrik’s shoulder, Cosmina lifted her head and cracked her eyes open. Dense shadow expanded, then contracted, leaving naught but shades of grey. She squinted, trying to force her eyes into focus. Henrik dodged right, then pivoted around a corner. The visual grey-out lengthened into a blur. She bit back a groan. Terrific. Just her luck. Little to no improvement. So much for believing her vision was returning. Or that self-reliance rested a blink away. Goddess, she couldn’t stand it—the weakness along with the vulnerability that fostered it. Such inadequacy. So much insecurity. Way too much guilt. If she were as strong as she thought, she wouldn’t be here.
Again. Like always. Prey to circumstance and her stupid gift.
The realization pushed tears into her eyes. Cosmina blinked them away. No way. Not happening. No matter how deficient, she refused to give in and tumble into the death trap of self-pity. Feeing sorry for herself wouldn’t help. It never did, which meant she needed to buck up and hold on hard. Cosmina huffed. Such a lovely thought. An even tougher sell to her battered senses. Blind as a bat. Sick to her stomach. Hurting like the devil and—oh right, let’s not forget bottom up and head down over Henrik’s shoulder while he navigated what felt like a steep slope, feet moving at a fast clip.
The word undignified came to mind.
She could hardly argue the point. Thank God pragmatism saved her from it, dragging pride into the rescue effort and sending folly spinning into the background. It could be so much worse. The Druinguari could’ve killed her—aimed well and shot true, putting the arrow through her
heart instead of her arm. She could’ve failed in her mission, disappointing the goddess, but had succeeded instead. Henrik could’ve left her to die—cold and alone in the place of her birth. He hadn’t, and despite everything, she was grateful. So, complain about her position? Not on her life. Whining about the rough hold and rapid pace wouldn’t change anything. Neither would throwing up, but . . .
Blast and damn, that didn’t mean she wasn’t thinking about it.
Henrik swung around a tight bend. Rock crunched beneath his feet. Her stomach sloshed, throwing bile up her throat as her hips bounced on his shoulder. His grip on her legs slipped. She lurched sideways a second before he caught her, big hand settling on the curve of her bottom. Modesty murmured, but Cosmina ignored it. She didn’t care where his hands wandered. Touch her. Don’t touch her. It didn’t matter anymore. He could do whatever he wanted—strip her bare, lay her down, kiss her with as much heat as before. She wouldn’t complain, just as long as her head stopped spinning.
Wishful thinking?
Absolutely.
From their pace, she surmised the Druinguari were down, but not out. Which meant Henrik couldn’t stop. Not until he knew for certain. Not until he received the all clear from Tareek. Knowing it, however, brought little solace and no relief. Desperate now, trying to hang on, Cosmina sent a prayer heavenward, asking for deliverance. From everything: chilly wind gusts, the mind-torque of fatigue, and . . . ah hell. Who was she kidding? She was beyond asking. Now she begged in silence, pleading to whatever god wanted to listen. But as the litany of please make it stop lit off inside her head, she didn’t hold out much hope.
Despite Tareek’s interference, the Druinguari wouldn’t stay down long. The second the dragon took flight, the enemy would be back on their feet—hunting, tracking, chasing them across the frozen landscape. So aye, as far as luck went, she was plum out. No reprieve in sight. No rest either. At least, not for a while. Except . . .
Knight Avenged (Circle of Seven #2) Page 17
