The Marriage Medallion

by Christine Rimmer

  They had just reached the base of a hill when Eric reined in and put up a hand. Quietly he slid to the ground. Brit followed his lead. He indicated a clump of black boulders faintly visible through the trees, perhaps fifteen feet from the trail. He took his horse by the bridle. Brit did the same.

  They moved cautiously into the trees. When they reached the black rocks, Eric signaled her in close. They held the muzzles of the horses and were silent. Waiting.

  Eric tipped his head, gesturing at a gap in the high, sloping rocks. Two quiet steps to the side and she could peer through.

  She saw four men—young, on foot, three armed with crossbows, dagger hilts visible in sheaths tied at the thigh. The third had a rifle. Two carried a rough pole between them; a slain doe, gutted, was tied to it, dangling.

  "Renegades?" She mouthed the word, careful to make no sound.

  "Perhaps," he mouthed in answer.

  She understood. No percentage in finding out. Better to just keep their heads down and their mounts quiet until the potential threat could pass on by.

  The wind rushed down the canyon, keening. Svald shifted, nervous, ready to dance. Brit laid her face to the silky muzzle and whispered very low. "Shh. Easy, my darling, easy my sweet girl." The mare quieted.

  They waited some more, as the wind whipped around them, singing eerily through the trees. Lightning flashed and booming thunder followed. The first drops of rain began to fall. Finally, after the four men were long gone, Eric led her around the stand of boulders and onto the trail where the men had passed.

  "How did you know they were there?" she asked before they mounted up again.

  He shook his head as lightning blazed in the sky above. Thunder boomed and rolled away. "Later. Now we must move on." They mounted and went in the opposite direction from the four men.

  They covered what was left of the ravine floor quickly and within minutes they were climbing again. The wind tore at them, lightning speared the sky, angry thunder booming in its wake. The sky opened up and the rain poured down—fat drops, coming harder and faster.

  They fought their way upward as the downpour intensified. In no time the trail was awash in mud. The mud turned to rivulets, then to small, rushing streams.

  "We must leave the trail. It will soon be a river," Eric called over his shoulder, shouting against the wind.

  Brit followed him into the trees, her head low against the mare's neck, smelling rain and wet horse, her beanie and the hair beneath it plastered to her skull.

  Eric led her on, through the close-growing evergreens. More than once she got whacked by low-hanging branches. And even there, in the thickness of the trees, the rain got through, whipping at their faces, driven by the relentless wind. Svald, bless her sweet heart, was a surefooted animal. They picked their way along the steep slope of the hill, moving east now, climbing as they went.

  They were practically upon the mouth of the cave before she saw it: two shelves of rock surrounded by trees, a tall, dark hole between. Eric dismounted and climbed the rest of the way on foot, leading the gelding, slipping a little on the soggy ground, but jumping at last to the lower shelf at the cave's entrance and urging the gelding up after him. There was space on the ledge for him, his horse, Brit and Svald, with room to spare.

  He waved her on. She slid from the saddle and followed, leading her horse, landing on her feet at the cave's entrance, Svald scrambling a little, but ending up at her side.

  "Stay here." Eric handed her the gelding's reins and vanished into the darkness. Brit surprised herself by letting him go without a word of protest. Truth to tell, she thought as she stood there in the mouth of the cave, dripping wet and shivering with cold, she was feeling more than a little discouraged with herself. Concerning the weather, Asta had been all too right. Maybe she should have listened.

  But she'd always been that way. When she was ready to go, there was just no stopping her. A character flaw? Well, yeah. In some circumstances.

  Like, for instance, this one.

  The horses shook the heavy, soaked braids of their manes, flinging icy water everywhere, including on her. Beyond the ledge, the rain was turning slushy—a snow and rain mix.

  Terrific. Perfect. Wonderful. Would they end up snowed in here, thanks to her pigheadedness?

  Now, wouldn't that be lovely? Way to go, Brit.

  "This way," Eric said from behind her. He stood about fifteen feet into the cave. He was carrying … a flaming torch?

  "Where did you get that?"

  "It's always wise to keep safe places, stocked and ready, for times like this one. We're fortunate. No scavengers have found this cave since last I was here." Really, the guy never ceased to amaze her. "Come," he said.

  She went, leading the horses into the darkness, toward the tall, proud man with the blazing light.

  * * *

  Chapter Ten

  « ^ »

  The cave was a tunnel for about a hundred feet. Then it opened to a wide, shadowy chamber. Eric went directly to the circle of stones at the center. Within the circle a fire was laid and waiting to be lit.

  He lowered the torch to the kindling and the fire caught. The smoke spiraled up and disappeared into the shadows above. Apparently, there were gaps in the rocks up there, a natural flue that let the smoke escape.

  Brit swiped off her wet beanie, dropped it to a nearby rock and raked her fingers back through her hair. Ugh. Dripping and tangled. She really should have taken a moment, back there when it started raining, to unzip her collar and make use of the waterproof hood built into her jacket.

  Eric stuck the torch into the dirt. He turned it until the flame went out, then dropped the heavy stick beside the ring of stones. He glanced up to find her staring at him and returned the favor with a dead-on kind of look.

  Well, okay, she thought, shrugging and raising her hands, palms out. All my fault we're here. Message received. My bad.

  He didn't seem particularly mollified by her show of meekness.

  So fine, she thought. Be that way.

  She shifted her glance to the licking, rising flames of the fire and her low spirits lifted a fraction—at the brightness and warmth and the cheery crackling sounds it made. She took a look around. Gleaming in the far shadows, near another tunnel opposite the one they had come through, she could see a small pool.

  "A spring?" she asked, and then wished she hadn't. He probably wouldn't even bother to answer.

  But he did. "The water is clear, very cold—and safe to drink." He took the reins of his horse from her. "We must see to our mounts." There were supplies stacked on a ledge of rock near the cave wall: a pile of blankets, a bag of oats, a bucket…

  From his saddlebag Eric produced a brush and a curry comb. "Put your pistol aside."

  She did as he instructed, removing her coat so she could take off her shoulder holster, setting the gun and the holster on a flat-topped rock a few feet from the fire. She was shivering, so she put her coat back on.

  They unsaddled, wiped down and brushed the longhaired horses, unbraiding and combing out their manes so they would dry. It took a while. They had to share the comb and brush. Midway through, no longer cold, she took off her coat and set it on a rock, the outside spread toward the fire to dry.

  They were silent as they worked. Eric wore a grim look the whole time. Did she blame him?

  Not really.

  "I'll feed the horses," he said when the job of getting the animals dry and groomed was done. "Take off your wet clothes. Lay them out to dry." He tossed her a blanket to wrap herself in.

  Her socks were dry, thanks to her heavy boots. But upward from there to her waist she was wet to the skin.

  On top, the news was better. Her water-repellent jacket, though damp on the outside, had protected her underneath. Water had gotten in around her neck, but not a lot. It would dry quickly if she stood near the fire.

  Her bandage was fine. Hooray for small favors.

  She retreated to a corner of the cave, where she took off her b
oots and then hopped around in her socks, getting off the clammy jeans and thermal pants. Eric never glanced her way—or if he did, she didn't catch him at it.

  Yeah, okay. It was kind of childish, to keep darting suspicious looks his way to make sure he wasn't peeking. As if it mattered if he watched her hopping around without her jeans on. He wouldn't have seen much, anyway—just her looking seriously awkward, with bare legs. And given his current mood, why would he bother?

  She wrapped her lower body in the blanket, put her boots back on and hobbled to the fire carrying her two sets of soggy pants. Once she'd spread the clothes on the rocks several feet from the flames, where they could soak up the heat without getting singed, she got her comb from her saddlebag and perched on a rock to work the tangles from her hair.

  About then Eric finished with the horses and withdrew to a corner of his own to hop around getting out of his wet things—not that she watched him. Of course she didn't. She just knew what the procedure entailed, having done it herself a few minutes ago.

  Soon enough, a blanket tied at his waist, he joined her at the fire. He was bare-chested. His thick shearling jacket didn't have a zipper. Water must have gotten through…

  She realized she was staring at him again—and no, not at the medallion, though it gleamed against his skin. She was looking at his beautiful, muscular, smooth chest.

  She blinked, jerked her glance downward and regarded her boots as she yanked at the tangles in her hair.

  He chuckled.

  She looked up, glaring, sharp words rising to her lips.

  "You have something to say?" His eyes were gleaming.

  She cleared her throat. "Uh, no. Not a thing."

  Really, why rag on him? She was grateful to him, she truly was. If she'd been on her own, she'd have ridden right up on those four mean-looking characters with that poor dead doe. And even if she'd somehow gotten past them, she'd be out in the rain right now, soaked to the skin, wondering what to do next—instead of safe in a warm, dry place, reasonably comfortable while she waited out the storm.

  "Well," she said cautiously, daring to hope they might manage to be on good terms while they were stuck here. "I guess you're not that mad at me."

  He was laying his clothes on the rocks, the lean, strong muscles of his arms and shoulders bunching and releasing as he worked. He sent her a glance.

  She realized she was doing it again—staring at his body. She jerked her gaze downward.

  "A fine pair of boots you have there."

  She couldn't help smiling. "I like 'em." She lifted her head. His eyes were waiting. "So. We're okay then—I mean, you and me? You're not totally furious with me for getting us into this jam?"

  He seemed to consider, then replied. "I confess, I was angry. But while you were looking at your boots, it occurred to me that I might as well blame the rain for falling as be angry at you for going where you think you have to go." He half sat on a steeply sloping rock.

  She worked a final stubborn knot from a damp lock of hair. "I don't just think I have to go there." He only looked at her. She read his expression and couldn't help grinning. "Determined to avoid an argument, are we?"

  "I am trying with all my might."

  The knot came free. "I can see that. And I've got to say you're doing an excellent job."

  * * *

  They had jerky in their saddlebags and dried apples and grain bars—pressed oats and nuts, sweetened with honey. They spread blankets on the floor and sat down for lunch, using their saddles for backrests.

  Brit had two sticks of jerky, several dried apple slices, a grain bar and a precious bag of M&Ms laid out on a handkerchief at her side. She took one of the jerky sticks. "So now can you tell me how you knew those men were on the trail?"

  He was chewing on a bite of grain bar. He swallowed. "The truth is, I don't know how I knew. They might have made a noise that I heard somewhere below the threshold of my conscious mind. Or maybe it was the quality of the silence."

  Silence? The wind had been blowing, making the tree branches sway and sigh. And what about the jingle of their bridles, the soft clop-clop of the horses' hooves?

  He must have seen by her expression that she didn't understand. "It's … an instinct, I suppose. An instinct one develops, over time. When we pass through the forest, the smaller creatures—all but the foolish squirrels and some of the cheekier birds—go quiet, wary of us as potential predators. Though there is the noise of our passing, there is also a circle of silence around us as we move. When those men got too close, they brought their own circle with them. I sensed it."

  She gestured with her piece of jerky. "Ah. Well. Now, that explains it."

  "You still do not follow?"

  She stared into his eyes for a moment. "Yes. I follow, at least to a degree…"

  He tore off a bite of jerky and so did she. They both chewed. Great thing about dried meat—really kept the old jaw muscles in top form.

  She swallowed. "So you've spent a lot of time here, in the Vildelund, over the years?"

  "I have."

  "Your father brought you?"

  He shook his head. "My father had his work at the king's side in the south, demanding work that left few opportunities for family trips. But my mother loved the Mystic life. She would come often to the Vildelund for lengthy visits. Much of the time I would come with her."

  She thought of her brother and wondered. Sif had said he used to come here. "And Valbrand? Did he come, too?" He sent her a look. She bristled. "What? Now I can't even ask you about him? We talked about him the other night."

  He considered for a moment, then granted, "That we did."

  She set down her half-eaten grain bar. "I just want to … know about him. Please. It means a lot—to hear how he felt about things, about how he was." She used the past tense without the slightest hesitation, though she didn't for a minute believe her brother was really dead. It only seemed to her the best way to show Eric that, right now at least, she wasn't leading him anywhere, wasn't trying to trip him up. She was only a sister longing to learn about the brother she had never had the opportunity to know. She asked again, "Did Valbrand used to come to the Vildelund with you?"

  And he answered. "Yes. Many times."

  "Did he like it here?"

  "He did."

  "Why?"

  "He liked the wildness of the land, I think, the peace that can be found in living simply."

  "The same things you like."

  "Yes."

  "He didn't think much of the life at court, then?"

  A ghost of a smile haunted Eric's fine mouth. "Ah, but he did. He loved the life at court."

  She made a small sound in her throat. "Well. Easy to please, wasn't he?"

  "You could say that, I suppose. Valbrand had a talent for living within each moment. Wherever he was, he never wished himself elsewhere. He always seemed to enjoy himself at functions of state. No matter how long or tedious the event, he would be alert and smiling, thoroughly engrossed." Eric stared into the fire as though looking into a kinder past. "That was your brother. Always interested. And seeing the good first, in every man."

  Though it was off the all-important subject of her brother, she couldn't stop herself from asking, "And what about you? Do you enjoy the life at Isenhalla?"

  "Not as much as Valbrand did." They shared a glance. He added, "But I do find it stimulating. After all, His Majesty and my father are responsible, to some extent, for the well-being of every Gullandrian. It's important work that they do. I grew to manhood knowing that the time would come when I would step forward to assume the sacred duty of helping my king—your brother—to rule this land. I was content in that knowledge. I was committed to preparing myself fully for the future I knew awaited me."

  "And now?"

  His mouth had a rueful curl to it. "Now I would say that I no longer see my future as a clear, straight road before me. There are twists and turns, corners I cannot see around."

  "You mean, since my brother was los
t at sea?" He studied her face for a moment, his eyes narrowed. And then he stuck out his right arm, wrist up. She saw the white ridge of scar tissue. He said, "Valbrand had a scar to match this one."

  "From when you were bloodbound to each other?"

  He nodded. "In the bloodbinding ceremony, each of us was bled—a copious bleeding, believe me—into the same deep bowl. Then, our wounds still open, we took turns, the blood running free down our arms, passing the bowl back and forth, drinking our mingled blood until every drop was gone." He let his arm fall to his side. "So I have drunk your brother's blood—as he drank mine. When he was lost, I lost not only my dearest friend and bloodbound brother, but also my future partner in the work of ruling this land. It was a terrible blow, a cleaving at the center of who I am. As if half of my true self was slashed away."

  She didn't know what to say, so she said nothing, only reached out and brushed her fingers down the side of his arm in a wordless acknowledgment of his loss. Though she remained certain Valbrand had returned, she had no doubt Eric had once believed him dead—and that that belief had changed him in a deep, irrevocable way.

  Eric caught her hand, clasped it briefly, then let it go. She felt a warmth all through her. A closeness to him that had nothing to do with desire. This was something else. It was what she'd sensed between them two nights ago, in Rinda's tent in the camp of the kvina soldars.

  The closeness of comrades…

  There was wood—maybe half a cord—stacked near the supplies against the cave wall. And a much smaller pile of logs nearer the fire. He rose with surprising grace, given the way the blanket was wrapped so close around his legs, and got a fresh log from the smaller pile. He crouched to add it to the flames.

  She let herself admire the fine, strong shape of his back, the play of light and shadow on the bumps of his spine, the healthy bloom on his smooth skin as he positioned the log in the fire. A few winking sparks shot up, weaving toward the darkness above for a brave, soaring moment, then surrendering to gravity and gently showering back down.

  He returned to the blanket and got comfortable against his saddle. "And what of you, oh fearless one? To whom are you bound?"