“This place,” I said, not knowing where to begin. “It's nothing like where I'm from. It's twisted, complex, hard. I wish you'd believe in me, I wish you could magically trust me, but that's not real life. This mess is. The things I've seen,” my voice broke. “In the past few days alone... I could never presume to understand what life must be like for you. If you needed to test me in order to trust me again, I won't be angry with you for it. I just hope you believe in me now, and that these trials are behind us.”
Rune seemed puzzled, like he didn't expect my reaction to be so generous. He was reserved, distant. I could feel the space between us. Six feet had turned into a hundred miles.
“I believe you,” he said. “It isn't easy, but I do. You know what's really strange? I believe Dylan too. He was no more ready to see what I found there than you were. I don't think he has anything to do with Hest or the Commanders.”
“But you don't trust him.”
“No,” he agreed. “I don't.”
I couldn't contradict him. “I had a pistol with me.”
“I remember,” Rune said wryly.
“I brought it from Haven. It had three special bullets. They dissolve into your body when they strike, and block your Abilities.”
“That's incredible. A weapon like that could be useful... and dangerous.”
I nodded, resting my hands in my lap. “The first shot is supposed to last one day. I used it on Dylan, and he lost the Lift and the Command for almost a week.”
“If this weapon was designed for people with multiple Abilities, Lodestones like you, we might be even more susceptible to its effects,” he pointed out.
“Maybe. That would explain it. It means that the Command is like an Ability, since he lost his control of that too. Each following shot lasts longer. For us, it should be that the first shot takes away your Abilities for a day, the second, a month and the third, forever.”
“Forever?” Rune actually blanched.
“That's what I was told.”
“If Dylan reacted this strongly to one shot, he may very well lose all Ability if he's shot a second time.”
“There are two bullets left, and one big problem.”
“What?”
“Dylan took the pistol.”
Rune laughed. I couldn't believe it. What did he find so funny?
“Odds are, I'm target number one,” Rune said, pacing around to lean against the couch across from mine. He folded his arms over his chest, blue eyes twinkling with some kind of self-deprecating amusement.
Can things get any more difficult?
I actually smirked back at him, finding the humor in it after all. “I don't know, he really hates me.”
“Should we place a wager?”
“On what?”
Rune smiled at me. “Who he shoots first.”
C hapter 33: The White Horse
“I'm sorry I didn't come back for you.” The words forced themselves through my defenses. I could hardly believe that I was really there, with him. Rune Thayer and me, in a tragically beautiful room, hidden between the first and second floors of a faraway palace. It wouldn't last forever, nothing ever did. That's why I needed to tell him. “I wanted to. It was all I could think about.”
“It would have been foolish.”
“Things weren't easy back in Rivermarch, in Haven. I thought everything would go back to normal, but it didn't. I tried so hard to soak up every moment of peace, of that light-hearted fun I used to have there. I saw it in other people, and I was happy for them, but I couldn't feel it anymore. I tried so hard to get it back, but it was like I was haunting my old life.”
“The ghost of the cave returns.” His smile was faint.
I chuckled and looked at the floor. “I guess I have.”
“Katelyn,” Rune said, drawing my attention to his face. “You don't need to be sorry. You didn't leave me behind. You couldn't because I don't exist, not the way you do. Our paths intersected for a while, impossible things happened, we parted ways. I was fortunate enough to live that dream as long as I did.”
“That's not true,” I said, flustered. I leaned forward, sitting at the edge of the couch. “You're a regular person, just like me.”
“I'm not regular,” he said, and his tone became softer. “And neither are you. Saying it doesn’t make it any more true.”
“Oh yes it does.” I couldn't let him win this argument. I had to get creative. “I'm a Historian now, remember? I'll rewrite your life.”
“Oh?” he asked, both curious and amused.
“Yes, your name will be... Rudolph, Reginald, Ronald,” I said, trying to think of something halfway decent. “I can't think of any short R names.”
“I could just be Rune.”
“Nope, I've decided. From now on, you're Rocco.”
Rune burst out laughing, the smile lighting his face and showing me the dimple that hid from all but his greatest grins. “You're ridiculous.”
“And you're Rocco. Rocco Thatcher!”
“Sounds like the name of a bad con artist.”
“He is! I mean, you are! You sell cure-all snake oils out of the back of an old wagon.”
“With pots and pans clanging on the sides. Pulled by an old grey nag,” he guessed.
“Exactly,” I beamed. “And you use your dashing charm and cunning wiles to swindle people blind.”
“Sounds like my true calling,” he said sarcastically.
I reached for the napkin bundle on the end table. “It is! And in your free time, you peddle tarts.”
“Whoa. I don't think even Rocco would involve himself in that kind of unsavory business.”
I unfolded the bundle in my hands. “What's wrong with tarts?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “A tart is a woman... of a certain character... who sells… things.”
I looked at him, completely lost. “Peddling tarts!” I burst out laughing. “No! I've never heard that term before. I meant you peddle these kinds of tarts. Desserts.”
Despite my great care, the blueberry tart had broken in half, and the crust of the raspberry was crumbling. So much for presentation. I handed him half of the blueberry.
Rune settled down to sit on the golden sofa across from me. Snapping the clasps on his forearms, he removed his leather gloves, and took the dessert from me with his bare hands.
“I've never had one of these,” he said, inspecting it. He smelled it once and crammed the whole thing in his mouth. “That's good.”
I laughed, enjoying the change I could already see within him. He was letting his walls down, relaxing. There was a part of him, buried beneath the armor of cruel training, protected by his good heart, that was still pure and natural.
We shared the other two. The custard between the fruit and light crust was made to perfection. I was too hungry to eat like a dainty lady, and Rune didn't care. It was perfect.
“Rocco the tart-peddling con man,” he said, dusting the crumbs from his hands. “Not exactly the most appealing alternate life.” He went distant again. “But I'd take it over mine.”
I smiled at him. I was going to say something else, a joke to lighten things up again, but I'd already lost him to reality.
“I know what you're doing,” he told me, and shook his head looking tired. “It's too late for me Katelyn. Events that cannot be stopped have been set into motion.” He stared at the floor between us. “I don't know what you see in me at all, or why you care.”
I was affronted. “How can you say that? I care because you're the most selfless person I've ever met.”
He pressed his lips together, and whether it was an expression of disbelief, disagreement or flattery, I'd never know.
“What happened to you?”
“We've gone over this,” he said, his tone dismissive and blunt. All the walls had returned. He exhaled through his nose, rose to his feet, and paced. “Last night, I asked you for your help.”
I nodded wondering where the conversation was going.
“The Cape has reope
ned its channel and several boats have already arrived at port. You have a ship bound for Breakwater, yes?” he asked me.
“Yes,” I said, feeling a strange excitement rise up from my middle. Was he going to come with us? Would he try to escape the life of a Dragoon? I understood that it had been a very long time since we'd seen one another, and that we were lucky to have found each other again at all, but he was so familiar to me, so important. I wanted to know him better. I wanted to know who he really was, beneath years of training and solitude. I wanted to know his hopes and dreams. Most of all, I wanted to be a part of them.
“I need the name of your vessel, and an agreement that it will ferry a load of cargo with you to Breakwater.”
My hopes plummeted. It was a stupid idea. I couldn't assume anything about Rune.
“I'm sorry to bring this to you,” he said, looking over the mural of the horse. As an artist himself, I wondered if he saw it differently than I did. “I had no other choice.”
“I don't think there's anything that could get me into any trouble bigger than I'm already in. What's the cargo?” I asked, hoping to cover my disappointment.
“Weapons.”
I blinked. “Weapons?” Call me a naive little girl from Haven Valley, but I never would have imagined anyone ever asking me to help transport weapons.
“They're for Brendon. I'd like you to see to it that he gets them.”
I stared blankly at him.
“Does that change your decision?” Rune asked, turning from the painting to look at me. Tension made him look inflexible, like a perfectly realistic statue, but he implored me with his eyes.
I'd never been taught to protect myself from real trouble. There really wasn't any to speak of back home, except from characters like Rocco Thatcher. Sometimes, at the county market, a vendor from out of town would try to sell an item for more than it was worth. On those occasions, I might feel a hint of a warning that something wasn't right. A similar sensation prodded me now.
I studied his face. His sharp, black eyebrows were furrowed, his blue eyes focused intently on me, his lips were pressed together with slight pressure, and I could see the dimple at the back of his jaw again.
The scar he'd earned by saving my life traced from his left temple down his cheek. The ragged line was a link between us, a very visible reminder of all he'd done for me.
There's no reason for a Dragoon to be pretty.
“No,” I said, gathering my resolve and ignoring the soft warning that chimed like a bell in a coat closet. I owed him much more than I could repay. More importantly, I wanted to trust him. “I'll do it.”
I could tell that he was relieved. “What is the name of your ship?”
“The... it's the Flying Fish.”
“And your captain is trustworthy?”
I nodded. “She's from the Northern Kingdom.” I don't know why I even told him. It didn't matter. I guess I just wanted to keep talking to him.
Rune tensed at my mention of her citizenship. He picked up his gloves off of the sofa and pulled them back on, securing the clasps around his forearms. “I wouldn't normally say it, but, good. If she were caught here, she'd be interrogated and executed. That should give her some motivation in wanting to keep you happy.”
“I'd never turn her in,” I said locking eyes with him. Part of me was saying that I would never betray him either.
“Thank you for doing this,” he answered. It was obvious this favor meant a lot to him. He must have intended to help his childhood friend, the Common Lord of Breakwater, by sending him weapons for protection. After the Penalty, I was certain that Breakwater needed all the support it could get.
“Of course,” I said, barely over a whisper. I was rattled, down to my bones.
“We should leave.” Standing near the mural, he looked like he belonged in the painting.
I stood from my seat, and my deep green dress straightened, brushing the floor. My eyes became round, my long, wavy black hair was a cloak at my back. I was afraid. I didn't want him to go. There were things he wasn't telling me. Something had gone horribly wrong, or he was in some sort of trouble, something more than his occupation as one of the Prince's elite soldiers. He was already moving back toward the secret door.
“I can't go back in there yet,” I blurted. I'll be honest, it was an excuse, but one that was rooted in truth. Just thinking about that little narrow passage being the only way in or out of the room gave me goose bumps.
“It bothers you to be in close spaces,” he said, putting it together.
“Yeah, it really does,” I agreed.
He turned his back to the secret passage. “Why?”
I began to pace. I'd never been asked that before. “I don't know. It's not something that I do on purpose. I guess I just like being able to know I can escape, that the world is open to me. I wish it didn't affect me so much, but it does. It's kind of embarrassing.”
I wondered if he'd drift away, leaving me in the quiet absence of his attention, but he didn't. “I've never experienced that. The world has never been open to me, there is no escape,” he said levelly. I'd meant what I'd said, in a physical sense, but he'd taken it differently. “Freedom does not exist.”
“You sound like my perfect opposite. Does the idea scare you? Being free?” I asked delicately, hoping the question wouldn't insult him. I couldn't imagine Rune being afraid of anything, aside from danger to his family.
“Yes,” he said, surprising me. “It does.”
He was standing rigid, his back to the door, with the mural of the intense white horse on his left, and the hidden memorial of dead Dragoons on his right. I don't know what made me do it, but I took a step forward and reached up. The fingers of my right hand glided over the edge of his face, tracing the smooth line of the scar he'd taken for me, and drifted down to his chin. My left hand settled on the slick, hard leather plating of his armored chest.
Trapped in the moment, I reveled in the nearness of him. He smelled faintly of sandalwood and cinnamon, just as I'd remembered. A disbelieving smile crept to my lips and warmed the corners of my eyes. I wasn't afraid of my future anymore. I may as well have had wings. I could do anything.
“Don't,” he warned, catching my right wrist in his hand. His grip was so gentle, it was nearly nonexistent. “Don't do this.”
It was a simple thing to free my hand. “Why not?”
Tenderness and restraint warred behind his perfectly blue eyes. “It won't change anything.”
I stared up at him, not understanding.
“I'm already dead.”
Rune's explanation was disturbingly grim. He was in pain. He was suffering, I could see it now, the protective internal shielding of his Dragoon training was cracking. What could I say to comfort him? Should I cry? Mourn him? Beg to know the reasons he believed something so morbid? Nope. Wasn't my style.
I reached both of my hands up, running them down the sides of his face and resting them on his shoulders. “Well, Rune Thayer, you look pretty alive to me.”
The moment I'd said the words, his shoulders relaxed, his eyes traced my face, his arms pulled me in, and he stooped to kiss me. His surrender was absolute. Our lips met and sent an explosive reaction through me, weakening my limbs. If he wasn't there to hold me up, I surely would have crumpled to the floor. His strong hands gripped my waist.
I pulled him closer to me. His leather armor was hard and cold, and I wanted so badly to free him of it, just to feel the warmth of his skin. To physically feel his humanity, the young man beneath the soldier. His mouth felt so good, moving with my own. My hands slid up to frame the muscles of his neck, bathing in the warmth of his skin. If I'd had the ability to stop time, I would have lived in that sweet, hungry kiss. It ended too soon, with the two of us looking at one another through new eyes.
“Come with me,” I whispered. “When we leave here. Come with me.”
Rune smiled at me, actually smiled. It was like he had saved the expression for me and me alone. It was like
a beam of sunlight, lancing through the clouds of a torrential storm. Then he froze, squeezing his eyes shut. The smile disappeared. He dropped his hands from my waist.
“Why do you do this to me?” he groaned, breaking away and turning toward the marble shelves.
I was cold in his wake. “What did I do?” I asked, trailing after him on wobbly legs.
“You make my life so much more difficult.”
That wasn't something I'd ever wanted to hear after a kiss... or ever. “I'm sorry.”
“I'm not,” he said, waiting for me to catch up. “And I am.”
“Why do you keep talking like that?”
“You're a Historian, for the time being. I don't want to sound melodramatic, but if all of life is a great leather book, then this is one story I'm not meant to survive.”
“Don't say that!” I said, outraged.
“If you don't want me to say it again, I won't, but that won't change anything either. It isn't even a matter of optimism or pessimism. It’s just reality.”
I frowned. “You painted that picture in the great hall, didn't you? The one of the warhorse and the Dragoon without a face.”
He cast me a sideward glance and shrugged one shoulder.
“Your night was even busier than mine,” I said. How he'd gotten so much paint in and out of the hall was a mystery to me. It must have been a massive undertaking, and done so quickly. It was also a massive display of rebellion, coming from a Dragoon. Is that why he thought he'd die?
“I'll sleep when I'm dead.”
“Not funny.”
We stood apart without speaking. I was drowning in the pool of silence.
“I'm worried about you,” I told him. “You don't have to die. You don't have to do any of this.”
He looked at me with faint amusement. “Meet me outside of the records room on the ground floor of the installment, at four thirty tomorrow morning. Shifts in the fortress switch and patrols usually run late. We'll find your mother then. We'll have to leave in a hurry, so get some rest.”
I nodded, unable to form words.
We'll find her. I devoured his positivity, discovering that I was starved for it. I hadn't heard an encouraging word in so long. I took in a shaky breath, feeling the warmth of relief relax me just a bit.
Dragoon (War of the Princes Book 2) Page 20
