Loyal and True

by Laura Strickland

  “Stupidity?” Barta yelped.

  No one heeded her outburst. Essa spoke at last. “Yet, Son, he understands our laws and knows the important role she may one day play among us.”

  Wick paled. “You speak of a time in the far distant future, when you and Father are gone.”

  “Son, we cannot say what will happen, or when.” For an instant, darkness clouded Essa’s eyes, and Barta’s backbone tingled.

  Wick burst out, “I do not like speaking of death—it is an invitation.”

  “You are as tangled in magic as the rest of your family,” Brude accused. “We must make practical plans to guard our future against the westerners, and root out any among us who may have been sent to betray.”

  “So…” Wick threw his head back. “You despise all in the chief’s house as you do his daughter.”

  Brude grew heated. “I do not say that. But sacrifices must be made for the good of all.”

  Barta forced words past the lump in her throat. “And so he would legitimize his claim on the place through marriage to one he despises. I will not be party to it. Father, I refuse.”

  Brude spoke to Wick now and not to Barta. “Wake up, man. Our backs are to the stone. The Gaels keep coming, and we do little but fall back and lose men. Now this stranger arrives, full of suspicious motives. I do not trust him and will act as I must to protect the tribe—even if it means marriage to a woman I do not admire.”

  Wick, looking taken aback, said nothing, and Brude hurried on. “She is just foolish enough to fall for this True’s deception and give him the place. She must be taken in hand—do you not see that she, with him, has become a danger? If you are not willing to do it or if you as a family cannot bridle her, I will.”

  Wick now stared at Barta. “What does he say of you and the newcomer? You do not see him that way, do you?”

  “It is not as he implies. We have but become friends.”

  “So swiftly?”

  “He has slept across your father’s door,” Brude said coldly, “the better to pay her suit.”

  “I had heard that and dismissed it as fancy. Barta?”

  “He did that but once, when he had newly come and felt strange and uncertain among us.”

  “Uncertain?” Brude leaped upon it. “One who won at combat as he did? Wick, you must feel it—there is something uncanny about him.”

  Wick shot a telling look at his mother before he replied, “And now who is it bowing to the power of magic?”

  “There is magic, and magic. I believe the incomer possesses the most dangerous kind.”

  “That is not so.” Barta too looked at her mother. “Tell him.”

  But Radoc spoke first. “The gods decided the outcome of that contest—whether they lent magic to any of the participants, I cannot say.”

  Brude flared, “Just remember, Chief Radoc, the Gaels too have gods to whom they pray.”

  Radoc sat like a stone, but Wick shook his head uneasily. Barta tensed and turned to Essa. “Mother, tell him he is mistaken about True.”

  “True.” Brude’s lips twisted. “I declare it again, he can be anything but.” Not waiting for Essa’s response, he spat at Radoc, “I tell you, Chief, you must banish him—do it now before he can cause any harm. If you do not…”

  Radoc’s eyes bulged; he pushed himself up by his arms. “Is it as my daughter says? Do you challenge me for my place?”

  Brude did not reply for several moments while a pulse jumped in his jaw and Barta’s heart pounded in her chest.

  “No, Chief, I do not. Not yet. But I declare I will if things are not taken in hand, if the welfare of this tribe is not put first.”

  Radoc exploded. “I have lived my life putting the tribe first. I have spent everything I have—everything I am—for this tribe, even as you see me now!”

  Brude drew himself up also. “Then I bid you speak well with your children; choose what is best for the Epidii once again.”

  He went out, and a terrible silence fell. Radoc subsided back onto his rug, his face contorted with pain, and Essa placed her hand on his shoulder.

  “Father,” Barta began.

  “Be silent. Let me think. Leave us for now.”

  The reprimand and banishment stung. Barta looked at her mother, who shook her head, and shot one glance at Wick, who stood like a man struck, before she made for the door.

  Her father’s voice reached after her. “And, Daughter, you will keep away from the newcomer, understand?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Night spun down through the trees and covered the settlement like a silent spell. True usually loved this time of day when his body tired and his spirit calmed, when he instinctively sought peace. He could remember countless such evenings spent at his mistress’s side, drowsing while she sat at prayers with her mother or in the company of her friends, always the young warriors.

  Several of those friends remained with them no longer. Through memory thick with pain and defiance he recalled them falling one by one in the battle that had also stolen his life.

  And his mistress now possessed no peace in her heart. She’d spoken of missing her hound, but what of her fallen companions? Did she worry about the Gaels even now encroaching upon them, so close he could almost smell their watch fires? Had she become upset during the meeting with her father from which he, True, had been barred?

  He wished she would speak to him, but she did not. She’d come out from her parents’ hut and almost crashed into him, unseeing. Even now, face bone white and body tense, she barely looked at him, though they sat alone together back under the trees.

  He longed for her to touch him, to place her hand on his head as she had in days gone by. Then he would place his muzzle in her lap, inhale her beloved scent, and give in to the deep sense of rightness that came upon him in her presence.

  But he could find no rightness now, just disharmony in her spirit—to which he remained attached—and this strange reluctance on her part to speak.

  Not adept yet with the use of words, he pondered the problem as the dark deepened around them. All his life he had known her but could not remember her like this, not ever.

  He placed his hand on her arm. Startled, she looked at his fingers, traced her way up his arm, and found his eyes with hers. Ah, this he understood—this connection with but a look, spirit to spirit.

  They gazed at one another long before he said, “You are rarely so silent, Mistress.”

  “Oh?”

  He smiled. “And I find I like the sound of your voice in my ears.”

  She drew a deep breath and broke her gaze from his. “I’ve had a number of things pointed out to me this day, things I should have realized before now.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I am not sure I dare. You might turn from me also, like the rest of my family.”

  Family? Was that how she saw him? But of course, so he was—close at the heart.

  “You must know I will never turn from you.”

  She looked at him again, a searching glance. “I do feel that, yet it makes no sense, does it? I barely know you—nor should I trust you the way I do.”

  “Is that what they say of me, your family? That you should not trust me?”

  “Not all of them. But Brude…” She broke off, and he felt her disquiet boil upward.

  “Master Brude is not part of your family.”

  “No?” She waved her hands. “This tribe is all part of me, no? A greater family.”

  “I suppose that is so.”

  “Yet he despises me. And I am not certain but my father and Wick agree with him.”

  “Eh?” That baffled True. Was she not the most wondrous being ever to walk upon the face of the world?

  “How did I fail to see, all this while, how they regarded me? Not womanly enough, not accepting of my role in the tribe, a risk—a danger. I supposed I must be admired for taking a place among the warriors. But that is not so.”

  True drew breath to speak, to object, but she rushed
on.

  “And now the raid—that which I precipitated—has only fueled their condemnation of me. My friends, lost. And Loyal…”

  She began to weep, something he’d rarely seen her do. Big, ugly sobs tore from her, rending the night.

  Helpless, longing to push his face into hers yet not quite daring to, he said, “What of your friend Gant? Surely he does not regard you so harshly.”

  That made her lift her head. “I do not know what Gant thinks. He has acted so strangely since the raid. He makes excuses to be elsewhere, and I have barely spoken with him. Now that I consider it, I wonder if he does not blame me also, and is just too kind to say so.”

  “How could he blame you?” True honestly could not imagine finding fault with her, no matter what she did.

  “The men we lost that night were all his friends. My decision cost their lives. It is something with which I must live each day forward.”

  But I am here, he wanted to say. I see no fault in you. Instead he told her, “People make decisions all the time, bad ones as well as good. Your family must understand that. Does your father feel he must pay for the decision that put him in the way of those raiders who crippled him and took the life of his hound?”

  Once more she met his eyes. “How did you know about that?”

  Ah—pitfalls everywhere! “You must have told me.” No lie, for so she had, back when it happened.

  “This is different. That just happened; I overstepped myself and chose to launch that raid. I can’t blame them for hating me now. In truth, I hate myself. And Gant, who is so honorable and good, must follow his heart even if that dictates that he reject me.”

  True could not imagine rejecting her. Had he not crossed an ocean of the unknown to be with her?

  “You need to see Gant, to ask him where his heart lies.”

  “No—what I need to do is stop sniveling and feeling sorry for myself, shoulder the burdens I’ve acquired, and prove my strength—if I have any.” She stared away through the trees. “Funny how my strength has deserted me since I lost Loyal. Perhaps he was my courage—and I just never knew it.”

  True possessed no answer to that. Together they had been strong and were yet.

  She palmed her cheeks, scrubbing away the tears. “That, True, is the last of my weeping—I promise it. I must become the woman Loyal believed me to be—the one he gave his life defending.”

  “Yes?”

  She nodded. “I will speak with Gant as you suggest. I can scarcely claim to be afraid of approaching my best friend. But there is a more immediate complication.”

  He did not like complications. He wanted it to be just her and him, together. But he hazarded to guess, “The westerners at our threshold?”

  “Even more immediate than that. Brude has decided he should take me to wife.”

  “Eh?” True’s heart sank violently, and he blinked, not liking the way that made him feel—not at all.

  “Oh, yes. He declares since Father and Wick can’t make me obedient, he will take me in hand. Plus, it will put him in a favorable position to assume my father’s place if need be—if only acting in my son’s stead.”

  “Your son?” Worse and worse. Was that what she wanted? A child? And would she be willing to accept Brude to get one? Desperately he objected, “But you do not love him.”

  Barta laughed harshly. “Nor he me.”

  “Do you not believe feelings of affection should accompany marriage?” He knew she did; in the past he’d heard her declare as much to Gant while discussing the tribe’s expectations for them. True understood she loved Gant, but she had not given him her heart.

  Now, though, he sensed her heart lay in tatters. She believed she’d lost everything, unable to see she had him, still.

  “What will you do, Mistress?”

  “Well, I will not accept Brude’s suit if I can help it.”

  That reassured him a bit. “And if you cannot help it, if your father orders it?” He could, True knew.

  “I will place my hope in Wick. He stands to inherit the place of chief, and has been acting it all this while since Father’s injury. If everything else fails, I suppose I must turn to Gant after all.”

  “Turn to Gant?”

  She cast another look at True. “Brude cannot wed with me if I wed with Gant first.”

  Sickness once more roiled in True’s gut. He liked Master Gant, truly. But this prospect sat no better with him than the other. People, so the goddess had said, were complicated—unlike hounds. He almost wished he were a hound again. Right now, he knew only what he knew: he needed to be with Barta at any cost.

  And he adored her.

  How could he make her understand that?

  “Speak to Master Gant, if wedding him will make you feel protected.”

  “Being with Loyal made me feel protected.” She fastened her gaze once more on his. “As does being with you, though I don’t understand why that should be. Can you explain it, True? Why does my heart find the same peace in your company?”

  He reached out and captured her hands, unsatisfying when what he truly wanted was to lick her cheek. “Listen to me, Mistress. I came here solely for your comfort. How can it be strange if that is what I bring you now? As for Master Brude, it does not matter what he or anyone else says of you. You are perfect as you are. That is how I see you. Understand?”

  Her eyes widened. She shook her head.

  His fingers tightened on hers. “You must believe that, if nothing—”

  He got no further; Barta swallowed his words when she leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his.

  Ah, and he had been so hungry for another taste of her. Just as when they’d kissed before, her flavor swiftly possessed him, sharp and intense. His heart began to pound up in his ears and still more emotions—none of which he could readily comprehend—leaped to life in his mind.

  This, somehow, made an answer to all his longing, his desire to be close to her and closer still. Better than lying with her on her bed or with his muzzle in her lap—more intimate and far more thrilling.

  She whimpered and parted her lips beneath his, which further excited him. She slid her hands up his shoulders and fastened them around his neck, just the way she used to hug him when he was still a hound. Instincts he did not recognize arose and threatened to overwhelm him. He might not know how to react, but this new body of his did.

  He drew her onto his knees and gave in to the impulse to lick her as he had so often in the past. Only this time his tongue had access to the inside of her mouth and he took full advantage. She tasted stronger and more alluring, far better than he could have imagined. Her flavor made him feel powerful and determined, almost as he had during his trial—as if he could do anything for her sake.

  Was kissing her a kind of magic, a gift from the goddess? If so, he surely should not refuse what came offered so sweetly.

  Barta seemed to agree. She wiggled nearer, so she rested against his shoulder, and began to lick him in return, her tongue sliding and tangling with his.

  Amazing. Enflaming. Unparalleled in his experience. Those words came to him at last, but not possibly from his own mind. From hers? He could feel wild emotions streaming from her, hot and demanding. She wanted something.

  So did he.

  He liked this far better than licking her hands or her cheek. He wanted to keep doing it all the night long. Except something interesting had begun happening to him down below—just between his legs and where her thighs rested. Familiar yet ever so different—could this be akin to what had beset him when he followed those bitches in heat on abandoned afternoons?

  Perhaps, but ever so much more complicated.

  Barta broke the kiss abruptly, and her hands slid from his neck to cup his face.

  “True, oh, True—look at me.”

  He already stared into her eyes with a fixedness that argued she made up his world. He wanted desperately to taste her again—wanted more, truth told—but would be held by her will, as always.

&nb
sp; “My father wants me to stay away from you. But how can I possibly do that now?” She laughed unsteadily. “You, not Gant, are the answer. There will be no need for me to wed poor Gant. Not if I wed you instead.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Gant, can you spare me a moment? We need to speak together.”

  Barta’s best friend turned his head and stared into her eyes. Having just returned with a number of the other warriors from a night patrol, he still carried his spear on his shoulder.

  He halted and waited for the others to pass before he spoke. “Do we so, Barta? And why now?” He looked behind her pointedly. “Strange to see you without your new favorite companion.”

  “You mean True?”

  “To be sure, I mean True.” Gant glared at her; she could scarcely remember seeing his expression so hard.

  She drew a breath. “You don’t like him.”

  “I don’t know him, do I? Nor do you, when it comes to it, but that has not kept you from shifting all your allegiance to him.”

  “I have done no such thing.”

  “I say you have. Ever since that accursed contest you have been able to see no one else. I do not deny he gave an impressive show of himself. Nor do I overlook the fact that you are grieving for Loyal.” Gant, so rarely harsh with anyone and never one to speak hastily, relented a bit in his fierce stance. “I can only imagine how hard it must be for you.”

  She met his eyes miserably. “There is the grief, the guilt, and the blame. Do you also blame me for what happened that night, Gant?”

  He glanced around. “We cannot speak here. Let me shed my weapons. Our old place?”

  Their old place—the edge of the woods where she had lately taken to sitting with True. She dared not tell Gant that, so she merely nodded.

  “Give me a few moments. And come alone.”

  “I will.” As far as she knew, True remained with Pith, helping the old man to bed.

  She went by the brewer’s hut and picked up two cups of heather ale before retreating to the trees. Gant soon joined her, and she handed him one. He drank gratefully.