Sword's Call

by C. A. Szarek

  Cera flashed a brilliant smile that took his breath away. She leaned up and pressed her lips to his.

  Jorrin groaned as his body responded to her quickly and desperately, as though he was starved for her. His erection was instantly taut and throbbing, trapped pleasantly between their bodies.

  The intensity of his need for her jolted him, tingling his magic to alertness.

  His body warmed to Cera’s desire as well.

  She wanted him just as badly as he needed her.

  Love wrapped them both like an aura, and Jorrin shook as she held him tighter.

  I love you. Blessed Spirit, I love you so damned much, he thought-sent. Kissing her deeply, Jorrin pressed her into the bed. Shivering, he parted her thighs and settled his body on top of hers.

  Her hands slid down his back, landing on his rear end and pulling him flush against her sex. She broke the kiss, and their gazes collided. “Again?” Cera whispered against his lips.

  “If you’re not too sore.”

  She answered by lifting her hips in an invitation Jorrin didn’t refuse.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Riding with a small army was a bit different from what Jorrin was used to.

  Riding with the king’s small army was something he’d never even fathomed.

  Cera rode next to him on Ash. Her expression was pensive; Jorrin relaxed in his saddle.

  They’d left Tarvis the previous morning and though their pace wasn’t exhausting, he’d be glad when they arrived at Terraquist. Jorrin had never been to court and definitely wasn’t looking forward to it. Nerves flipped his stomach.

  The large group rode until sunset, setting up camp in a sizable clearing for the second night.

  Jorrin groaned.

  A second night of no privacy, sleeping in a large tent with a group of other men. A second night with no chance to be alone with Cera.

  He ached to hold her and make love to her again. A few stolen kisses behind the tents the previous evening was all they’d managed. Jorrin wanted to fall asleep with her in his arms, like the night at the ruins, like they’d gotten used to in Tarvis. If nothing else, he’d learned how to be an excellent sneak.

  After they’d endured the evening meal under the scrutiny of her family and the king in the great hall, Jorrin had snuck into her room, made love to her again and held her all night long. The first of the best nights of his life. The three following, the same. Making love and sleeping in each other’s arms.

  Cera would be in the same tent she’d been in the previous night with the few women travelling to Terraquist: her aunt and several maids.

  Jorrin looked up from his seat on a log when someone called his name.

  Tristan Dagget smiled as he strode over. No longer dressed in the total black of a shade, the young lord wore the colors of his Province, browns and greens. Tristan handed him a skin of water.

  “Thanks,” Jorrin said, taking a deep drink and flashing a smile. “How much longer do you think it’ll be until we get there?”

  “Another day or two, I’d imagine. In a hurry?” Tristan arched one dark eyebrow. Amusement made Jorrin’s magic tingle as the lord followed his gaze to Cera.

  She was talking to Braedon and Lucan, not far from them.

  Around them, soldiers were starting fires and caring for horses. Everyone had worked together to pitch the large tents and, the last having gone up only moments ago.

  Jorrin quirked a half-smile when he met Tristan’s hazel eyes. “Privacy wouldn’t be something I’d complain about.”

  “I’m also missing someone at the moment, though I haven’t seen her in months.” Tristan’s expression sobered.

  Guilt rushed Jorrin. He couldn’t imagine being away from Cera for months. “Is she in Terraquist?”

  “Aye.”

  “So, you’re as eager as I am to get there?” Jorrin asked.

  Tristan chuckled.

  “Hopefully you’ll be with her soon,” Jorrin added.

  “It’ll be good to get back. I tend to spend more time in Terraquist than I do Berat, honestly.”

  Jorrin felt eyes burn him, and looked to his right.

  Rory Leodin watched him, curiosity etched in his expression.

  The other half-elf’s sister was now with Cera, Lucan, and Braedon.

  The lord once again followed his gaze. “They mean no harm. They’re very curious because you’re like them. I’ve known them for several turns, good mages and loyal to a fault.”

  Standing, Jorrin stretched and smiled. “Oh, it doesn’t bother me. I’m probably just as curious about them.”

  Cocking his head to the side, Tristan nodded. The lord’s demeanor was generally pensive and observant, but Jorrin liked the young man.

  Did Tristan ever loosen up?

  What type of girl could have captured the stoic young man’s heart?

  Then again, Jorrin could imagine long months with Varthan would traumatize anyone. Hopefully, Tristan wasn’t damaged from the experience.

  Their conversation was cut short by the king’s bellow for a hunt.

  Cera jogged over to them, her bow in hand and her cheeks flushed pink with excitement. “Are you coming?” she asked, and hastily bid Tristan a hello.

  The lord inclined his head and smiled.

  “You’re much better with a bow than I, love. I think I’ll sit this one out.”

  “But your father’s going,” Cera said, crestfallen. “You said he hunts with magic.”

  “Oh.”

  So Cera wanted to see what Braedon could do.

  Jorrin took one of her hands in his and smiled. “You can go without me. It’s all right, love. What do you think, Lord Dagget?”

  ****

  “Just Tristan,” he told Jorrin. “Hunting with magic is a sight to see, for sure.”

  Lady Ryhan grinned.

  Jorrin said something that made her laugh, but Tristan’s mind slipped away.

  Aimil’s dark eyes and her smiling face took command, and his companions’ voices faded, giving his heart a pang. He hadn’t seen her in so long.

  Tristan missed his love more than he could put into words.

  During his time with Varthan, he’d suppressed his feelings and memories in order to protect her.

  If Tristan closed his eyes, he could see her telling him she loved him and would wait for him, the night of the spring ball.

  The night before he’d joined Varthan’s shade compound.

  Tristan had held her close, wishing he didn’t have to rush into danger, at the time not knowing if he’d see her again, or see the day she’d finally become his wife.

  He’d had to do the same with his family and the king, blocking his affection for them. Tristan couldn’t let Varthan have any suspicions about him.

  Using memory charms and spells on the mages Varthan had in his service, he’d been able to convince them his alias, Dagonet, had been training as a shade for a number of turns. He’d had them report to Varthan how he’d steadily risen through the ranks. Soon, after only a matter of sevendays really, Tristan had been considered one of Varthan’s elite.

  Now it was over.

  He sighed.

  King Nathal promised Tristan as soon as the rest of Varthan’s followers were apprehended and dealt with, he’d be free of it all. He could get on with his life.

  Tristan had been in the personal service of the king for the better part of the last turn, from the time Lord Ryhan had first suspected Varthan was really after the throne. He’d done several secret missions.

  Right now, Tristan wanted to go home.

  Home was his rooms in Castle Rowan in Terraquist, not with his family in Berat. And home was Aimil, who also resided in Terraquist, a Senior King’s Rider like Lady Ryhan.

  Being the third son, he wasn’t the heir, so Berat held little for him.

  His father had always provided well for him and he loved his family very much, but Tristan had been away fro
m Berat more than he’d been at Castle Dagget, at least since he was about nine turns old.

  He’d started honing his magic in Terraquist then, and a few turns after that, in Greenwald with Lord Falor Ryhan.

  Lord Dugald Dagget provided well for all five of his sons and daughters, and Tristan would always be grateful for his father. He’d made good marriage arrangements for them all, even for his two youngest sisters, who were only eight and ten at the moment.

  Tristan had no qualms about marrying Aimil, and he thanked his father and the Blessed Spirit for her every day. He’d been told from the time he was very young she would be his wife. He’d always accepted it as his duty as a son of Berat.

  Tristan had never thought much about love, but spending time with Aimil was more than just pleasant. Even when they were small, Tristan had liked her, but he’d not seen much of her until he’d settled in Terraquist and made it a point to speak with her. Soon after, they spent as much time together as either of them could spare.

  Exactly when he’d fallen in love with her was a mystery, but loving Aimil was as natural as breathing.

  Tristan couldn’t wait to hold her again.

  It was safe to think about her, safe to love her, talk about her.

  Jorrin had lifted his spirits.

  “Lord Dagget?” Lady Ryhan called. From the concern in her tone, he didn’t think it was the first time.

  “Tristan,” he corrected again.

  She nodded, flashing a smile. “All right . . . Tristan. Are you coming?”

  “No. I’ll stay here as well.”

  Lady Ryhan frowned and looked back at Jorrin.

  Was she going to pout?

  Tristan hid a grin.

  “Suit yourselves, I suppose.” She said, held up her bow. “I’ll put this to use, then.”

  “Cera, stay close to my father, all right? I won’t worry about you so much then.”

  She cocked her head to the side. “You’re worried about me?”

  “Not if you stay close to Braedon.” Jorrin winked.

  Tristan chuckled.

  Jorrin glanced at him, wearing a lopsided grin.

  “I can take care of myself,” Cera said, taking step toward him.

  “That’s what I am afraid of,” the half-elf said, tweaking her nose.

  Tristan grinned as he watched a blush settle on her cheeks.

  “Go catch me something to eat,” Jorrin said.

  She glared, and Tristan let out another laugh.

  “If you’re going to be that way, I won’t share with you.”

  Jorrin laughed and shook his head. “Did you hear that, Tristan? She said she wouldn’t share her catch with us.”

  “Oh, no. Don’t drag me down with you.” Tristan raised his palms in surrender.

  “Coward,” the other man muttered.

  Freezing, he stared at the half-elf, contentment washing over him, as if he’d known Jorrin Aldern for turns.

  Since when had Tristan felt that level of comfort with someone he’d just met?

  “I never said I wouldn’t share with him. Just you.” Lady Ryhan winked at Tristan.

  “Come on, love. That’s not nice.”

  She shook her head. “Who said I was nice?”

  Jorrin laughed again.

  Tristan hadn’t laughed in more months than he could count. More weight lifted from his shoulders. “Thank you, Lady Ryhan,” he whispered.

  She glanced at him, her brows drawing tight. “Call me Cera, Tristan. What’re you thanking me for?”

  Smiling, Tristan shook his head. Heat crept up his neck.

  Jorrin shot him a meaningful look before turning back to Cera. “Have a good hunt, love.” He kissed her knuckles and pulled her into his arms.

  Tristan turned away when their mouths came together, but he didn’t miss Jorrin whispering something in her ear afterward, or her answering nod.

  “See you later, Jorrin, Tristan.” Cera jogged over to where she’d left Jorrin’s father when the king had made his call.

  “Are you all right?” Jorrin asked.

  Tristan looked into his blue eyes. The other man’s father was an empath; it would make sense that Jorrin’s magic was the same. Tristan would have to remember to build walls in his mind. “Aye. Thanks for asking.”

  “Anytime.” Jorrin flashed a smile. His eyes tracked Cera as she readied her horse, alongside the other gathering hunters.

  “She’s lovely.”

  “Yes, she is,” Jorrin said, his eyes shining.

  Tristan smiled, thinking of Aimil again.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Cera didn’t withhold her gasp of pleasure as she sank into the large tub of hot water in the luxurious sleeping room.

  King Nathal’s steward had put her in the vast guest wing at Castle Rowan, his palace in the capital city of Terraquist. The rooms were twice the size of her suite at home in Greenwald.

  The scent of sweet flowers tickled her nose and she closed her eyes, resting her head against the edge of the tub.

  “Is there anything else you need, Lady Ryhan?” the young maid asked her.

  Cera smiled as she looked up at her.

  Petite with dark hair and eyes, the girl was very pretty and couldn’t have been a day over fifteen turns. In a way, she reminded Cera of Kait, but she didn’t let that sadden her.

  It’s over.

  Varthan was dead, and her family could rest in peace.

  “No, thank you . . .”

  “Petra, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Petra, I’m fine.”

  “Shall I wash your hair?”

  “No, I’ll do it. You can go.”

  Trikser gave a soft wuff from where he lay by the hearth.

  A friendly fire warmed the room.

  “If you insist, Lady Ryhan,” Petra said, eyeing her bond warily.

  Cera stifled a chuckle, lest she hurt Petra’s feelings. “He won’t hurt you.”

  The girl looked back, cheeks pink as she nodded. “The queen has given you a gown for the feast. I will leave it on your bed.”

  “Thank you, Petra. I’ll call you when I’m through.”

  The young maid curtsied, her striped uniform skirt billowing.

  Desperation settled over Cera.

  She wanted to be alone.

  Half-wished for sleeping furs, a brisk night, and even the hard ground. Sleeping under the stars . . . Jorrin’s arms around her.

  Sighing as Petra took her leave, Cera could breathe again when the chamber shut door quietly.

  Jorrin.

  What would happen now?

  She wanted to remain with him, marry him and have him come back to Greenwald with her.

  The seriousness of that idea smacked her and a gasp fell from her lips.

  Marriage?

  Cera had never given it much thought; it was the event that would happen someday, but now . . . Jorrin was the only man she wanted to call husband.

  Would he marry her?

  She’d seen his expression of unease even before they had entered Castle Rowan.

  People cheered the king’s return as their group had ridden through the main courtyard.

  Her lover had sunk into his saddle even before they’d made it inside.

  Hadn’t he said he had no use for nobles?

  Did he love her enough to stay with her now that she was back in her station? Before they’d defeated Varthan, Cera would’ve answered yes, but what now?

  Had coming to the capital changed that?

  What if their time together faded into memories?

  Cera’s heart pounded and her eyes stung.

  I can’t lose Jorrin.

  Trikser caught her painful thoughts and wuffed. He left the warmth of the hearth and came to the edge of the tub, hitting her hand with his long muzzle; a demand of comfort and affection.

  Despite her thoughts, she laughed. “Well, Trik, I’ll always have you, huh?
”

  Her wolf licked her hand as if answering in the affirmative and Cera scratched behind his ear.

  “Wretch,” she teased when he groaned in pleasure and leaned into her hand.

  Begging her bondmate’s forgiveness with a final pat and scratch, she reached for the rose-scented soap Petra had left her, scrubbing her hair vigorously and smiling as she inhaled the pleasant aroma.

  It was good to feel clean again and even somewhat all right to feel like a lady again. She’d never admit it aloud, though.

  Cera exited her bath shortly, wrapping herself in the soft bathing sheet and padding over to the oversized four poster bed in the chamber.

  She frowned at the gorgeous rust colored gown lying on the wide bed. She’d never been fond of lavish gowns or spending time at court.

  Even though she had grown up in a rich environment like Castle Rowan, she wasn’t comfortable most of the time.

  It was no surprise someone like Jorrin felt like a fish out of water in the palace.

  Although her parents had been quite wealthy, Cera had never had a gown quite as splendid as what lay before her now.

  Low-corseted bodice, intricate silver flowers stitched at every edge as well as along the hem. It was long, billowy and would flow when she walked. Made of the softest fabric she’d ever come into contact with.

  Beautiful, but she didn’t want to wear it.

  Perhaps she should don her worn black breeches and torn brown leather jerkin for the feast. She’d have to find a new tunic to wear under it; hers was ruined. Cera had borrowed one from Avery for the ride to Terraquist, but Petra had taken it for laundering.

  Shaking her head, she touched the fabric of the dress.

  After a heavy sigh, Cera resigned herself to it. “Petra!”

  As much as she hated it, she’d need assistance to get dressed. She couldn’t get into the petticoats or tighten the corset by herself.

  Groaning at the thought of tight lacings, Cera made a face. She hadn’t worn a corset in turns.

  “Yes, milady?”

  “I’m ready to be trussed up,” she muttered after pulling on undergarments. She donned the sheer chemise that had been folded next to the gown.