“Where is she?” Treyose yells, his muscles bulging against his sleeves as he fights to control himself, fights to keep his hands from suffocating me. I take a step closer, daring him to lose control. Daring him to raise a hand against me so I have the right to hang him. It takes him several long moments before he reins in his anger, and when he does, my smile slips the slightest bit. Of all my offspring, this young man, who hates war, who loves a single woman, scares me more than any of my ferocious, warmongering sons and grandsons. But they are all dead. I sigh a bored sigh. “Will you lead the army against King Marrkul, or have your wife killed before your eyes? And I promise you, it will not be a fast death.”
“Fine,” Treyose whispers, his entire body trembling. “But if you hurt her…”
I stumble back a step and look at Treyose. “He killed your wife because you couldn’t defeat the horse clan.”
Treyose recoils and looks to Golmarr. “Does she also possess the sight?”
Golmarr studies me and shakes his head. “No. At least, not in the way you imagine.”
Treyose stares at the floor. “He killed her,” he confirms, his voice rough with emotion. “And from that day forward I have done everything in my power to put a stop to his madness, while at the same time doing everything he asked. And now his madness is over.” He falls to his knees at my feet and takes my hand again. “Thank you, Sorrowlynn of Faodara. You have rid the world of an evil man. I swear on my life, that from this day forward, I will strive to undo all the evil he has worked.”
Chills spread down my entire body as I recognize the truth and passion behind his words. This famed warrior kneeling at my feet, with his scarred body, broken heart, and missing finger, is going to make a good king.
* * *
Because of the terror and damaged wreaked by the two-headed dragon, Treyose, who is dressed in mourning black instead of Trevonan purple, keeps his kingship ceremony short and quiet. He stands on a raised dais, the setting sun shining orange against his somber clothes and gold crown, and swears before the gathered nobility and peasants to earn their trust and respect, and put an end to all war. Whether his people will support him in his quest for peace is yet to be seen, but they cheer at his declaration. Golmarr stands at his side and the two men pledge peace between their neighboring kingdoms. When they shake hands to seal their promise, Golmarr fills the air with shining blue stars. The Trevonans gasp, some weep, and as the sun dips down behind the horizon, it silhouettes something perched on the black city wall. The two-headed dragon is watching.
We ride out as the very last light of dusk frames the horizon, and right before we pass beneath the black wall of the city, I see the two-headed dragon perched on the westernmost end of the wall. I pull my hood up and peer at Golmarr. He nods. “It is watching to see if we leave. Take your hood off. Hopefully it will follow us.”
I pull my hood down and study the deserted road. When I look back, the wall is empty. “I think the beast is following.”
Enzio cranes his neck, searching the dark sky. “We should ride faster,” he says. “I do not want to meet that creature in the dark.”
All three of us coax our horses into a steady trot. The air is bitterly cold and filled with the dusty remnants of battle and destruction. I cough on the dense air and think, I am breathing in the ancient bell tower. I am breathing history.
Icy wind whips against my back and tugs on my clean, tightly braided hair. I am wearing men’s wool leggings and a brown tunic beneath a plate armor shirt. Golmarr’s reforged sword hangs from my new sword belt, and I have been given a wrist strap for my black blade. Sturdy leather boots are laced up to my knees, and in the top of one boot is a second knife—a parting gift from Treyose. Once again, I am wearing Treyose’s deep purple, fur-lined cloak, the back of it draping the hind quarters of my Trevonan horse.
Golmarr rides on my right, Enzio on my left, both of them outfitted similarly to me—wearing thick, dark cloaks with the hoods pulled low around their faces. My steel-tipped staff is attached to Golmarr’s saddle. Every few minutes, he reaches out and grips the wood in his hand, clenching and releasing it as he studies the black sky, looking for the dragon.
I guide my horse until I am riding right beside him, my knee bumping his. He looks from my knee to my face, and his eyes are heavy with an emotion I cannot name. Maybe sorrow, maybe suspicion, maybe fear. “How is your shoulder?” I ask, raising my voice above the howling wind. “I could use fire to heal it.”
“I already told you, I barely have a scratch.” He swings his left arm in a wide circle, proving there is no pain.
“How is that possible? I watched King Vaunn plunge his sword into your chest with the entire force of his body!”
He lifts one eyebrow. “There was hardly anything left of his body besides skin and bones.” His gaze lowers from mine, and his hand shoots out and cinches around the staff, kneading the wood. “Sorrowlynn, I…”
My stomach drops into my hips at the tone of his voice. “You what?” I reach out and cover his hand with mine, stilling the constant movement on the staff.
“Lord Damar severed our betrothal. You are free of me.”
His words take me so off guard, I am struck mute. Free of him? As if I can simply tell my heart to stop loving something? As if I can tell my mind to cancel all thoughts of him—tell my body to stop craving his touch, and my soul to stop longing for his friendship? I shake my head. “I don’t wish to be free of you.”
He looks at our touching hands and his face hardens. Pulling his hand away, he says, “You don’t know everything about me.” His words are so soft they almost get lost in the wind.
I sit taller and glare at the road, a straight line of black that slowly blends into the darker world ahead. “You are right. I do not know everything about you, but I know me, and I have the knowledge of hundreds of men and women infused in my brain—maybe even thousands. I know what love is. I know it hundreds of times over, from hundreds of different people, from hundreds of unique perspectives!” My heart presses against my ribs as the truth of my words hits me, and I find it hard to draw breath. “I know what love is!” Anger courses through me. “And no matter what you say or do, you cannot change how I feel, Golmarr. I cannot choose for you, but for me, I choose to hold on to my love for you.”
His eyes slip shut and he takes a few deep breaths before he answers, “I am simply saying, if for any reason you do not want to spend your life with me, I will let you go with no questions asked. Because I love you, I will give you freedom to choose whatever path you want to take in life. I will never force you to stay with me. That is what love is.”
“Yes, it is,” I agree. “And with that freedom, I choose to love you.” I ride away from him, so I am once again centered between him and Enzio, and stare straight ahead, chin thrust stubbornly forward. The miles pass in cold, miserable silence.
By the time the middle of the night has come and gone, I am sagging in the saddle, and my hands are stiff and numb from the frigid air. The plate mail seems to hold the cold, and its weight is making my head and shoulders throb. “I need to sleep,” I say through chattering teeth and a stiff jaw. Without waiting to hear Golmarr’s or Enzio’s response, I guide my horse off the road to a small copse of trees and dismount. With unbending, numb fingers, I fiddle with the plate armor until I have it off and drop it to the ground. It lands with a noisy jangle.
“Wait here,” Golmarr says to Enzio. He follows me to the copse and dismounts. Moonlight glows against the planes of his jaw, and his hood shadows his eyes. The wind whips his cloak out from his body, sending it soaring behind him like midnight wings that hide the stars. He reaches back and yanks his cloak tight around his shoulders, and the smell of him and the warmth from his body envelop me. I close my eyes and take a small step closer to him; the desire to bask in his warmth is so strong I have to dig my toes into my boots to keep myself from taking anoth
er step.
“We need a safe place to sleep since the dragon is following us. The outskirts of Harborton are about five miles farther south. That is our destination.” His deep, quiet voice sends a shiver through me. He starts to fiddle with his plate armor, and by the way his fingers fumble with the metal, I know they are just as stiff and cold as mine. “We will stop at an inn there and sleep.” He removes his armor, tosses it beside mine, and shrugs his shoulders. “The lack of armor will help, too.” He turns to the road and calls, “Enzio, if you want to stay warmer, remove your armor.”
I shiver and wrap my cloak tightly around my body. “I can’t keep going, Golmarr. My hands…I can’t even feel the horse’s reins in them anymore. They’re so cold, I can hardly bend my fingers.” For a moment, he stares into my eyes, and then he reaches beneath my cloak and takes my hands in his, though his are no warmer. But his touch sends a rush of energy through me that makes the night seem far less cold. I miss him so much, miss this closeness. I pull my hands out of his and take a second step forward, wrapping my arms around his waist beneath his cloak and laying my head on his shoulder before he can protest.
His muscles stiffen, so I tighten my hold and close my eyes. The warmth from his body enfolds me, and I breathe it deep into my lungs, letting it fill me. A tentative weight settles against my back as he rests his hands there. “No sudden movements,” he whispers. A moment later, Golmarr wraps his arms and cloak around me, holding me so tightly I cannot take a full breath. Unexpected tears fill my eyes.
This feels like home—out on a dark, deserted, windy roadside in the early hours before sunrise. His arms around me, and the smell of him in my nose, with his breath in my hair and his warmth against my body, is where I belong. My home is not a place. It is a person. We stand there and let the wind whip at us with its fury, let the iciness of the night try to squeeze between us, yet warmth grows everywhere our bodies touch. Minutes pass and neither of us moves or speaks.
From the roadside, I hear the polite clearing of a throat and Golmarr loosens his hold on me. “Warmer?” he asks, his voice rough.
“You held me and didn’t hurt me,” I say. “Please don’t let me go yet.”
“I held you and didn’t hurt you,” he repeats, voice filled with awe, and he tightens his arms around me once more. I bury my face in his chest. Beneath his thick tunic, I feel something more solid than skin and muscle and bone. I frown, pull away, and press my fingers to his chest, just below his left collarbone. The fabric of his tunic slides against a hard, smooth surface. The hair at the nape of my neck stands on end.
Golmarr growls deep in his throat and spins away, his cloak flaring around him like shadow wings once more. I stare at his dark silhouette and ask, “Are you wearing armor beneath your clothing?”
“No,” he says, the word clipped.
“Are you bandaged there? From where King Vaunn stabbed you?”
“His sword barely left a scratch. Just remember what I said about not having to love me.”
“What does that have to do with your shoulder?”
“We need to keep going.” He bends to pick up his armor, so I put my foot on it. His eyes meet mine, and I expect to see anger or hatred in them. Instead, they are brimming with sorrow. He swallows and opens his mouth, as if to say something, then closes it. Finally, he says, “I choose not to answer that question right now. It is not the right time or place.”
“When will you answer it?”
“I don’t know, but definitely not when we are on the side of a cold, deserted road in the middle of the night, with a dragon chasing us.” He shakes his head, picks up his armor, and then strides to his horse, swinging up into the saddle in one swift, graceful move. I pick up my armor and follow.
* * *
We set a faster pace. Our horses’ hooves clopping on the well-worn road and the whistling wind are the only noises. For a moment, the wind shifts, surging up from the south, and carries on it the smells of wood smoke, sewage, and beneath those, brine.
Unlike the city of Arkhavan, Harborton has no wall around it, so we enter the outer fringe of dark buildings unopposed. An eerie fog is hovering above the cobblestone street, dancing when the wind sneaks through. We pass ramshackle structures with dark windows, and even darker alleys between them, and I put my hand on my sword hilt despite the cold that has made the metal like ice.
“Are we safe here?” I whisper, wondering if it was wise to remove my armor. My words get stripped away by the wind, so I guide my horse closer to Golmarr’s. He hasn’t once looked at me since our encounter on the side of the road. “Are we safe here?” I ask again. “I don’t like the feel of this place.”
He presses a finger to his lips and pointedly looks at my sword. I nod and loosen it from the scabbard. Enzio guides his horse closer to mine, his black knife in his hand. “Don’t worry, Sorrow, I will keep you safe.” Without looking away, he tosses the knife into the air and then catches it by the hilt.
Despite my heavy heart, a small smile finds its way to my lips. “I am sorry for any man who dares to come between me and your black blade.”
“There will be no need to be sorry for a dead man.” He grins and spins the blade around his fingers before it disappears up his sleeve.
After we have passed a dozen dark buildings, I hear the low sound of music. A moment later, we stop at a two-story structure with a dim, flickering light coming from its lower windows. I am fairly certain the music is coming from within.
Above the red front door, a sign is blowing in the wind, flapping back and forth and squeaking with the movement. FISH HEAD INN AND TAVERN is written on the sign, the words barely visible in the orange glow coming through the window. Golmarr dismounts, and Enzio follows suit.
“This is where we are going to stay?” I whisper, dismounting and trying to peer through the grime on the window. “I think I’d rather have frozen on the side of the road.”
The sides of Golmarr’s mouth twitch, as if he’s fighting a smile, and he looks right into my eyes. His gaze moves from my eyes to my lips, and I feel like my heart has been caught by his and it is drawing me in. Instead of fighting it, I give in to the pull and step forward so there isn’t room for the wind to move between us. I reach up to touch his face, and his eyes grow round with surprise. He stumbles away like a clumsy boy. With an audible gulp, he opens the inn’s door.
The sound of music—a lonely pipe playing a sad tune—seeps out the open door as Golmarr steps inside. He pulls the door closed behind him, and a gust of cheap ale and warm air blows out and is whisked away on the wind.
The music stops dead, replaced by the deep rumble of voices followed by silence. A minute passes, then another. A noise disturbs the night, and I pull my sword free. A dark, small shadow shuffles out of the black alley beside the inn. When it steps into the light of the window, it is a young boy with mussed hair and eyes heavy with sleep. He limps up to Enzio and holds his hand out.
“I’m to stable your horses, sirs,” the boy says, glancing at my weapon with mild interest. His accent is thick.
Enzio hesitates before putting his and Golmarr’s reins into the boy’s hand. The child holds his hand out to me, but I shake my head. “I will come with you,” I say.
The boy shrugs and stifles a yawn, then turns down the dark alley, horses in tow. I sheathe my sword and take a step to follow, but the door to the inn opens and Golmarr walks out. Without a word, he takes my reins and gives them to the boy. When I open my mouth to protest, Golmarr says, “I am paying him well to care for our horses. Let him earn his pay.” He presses his hand to the small of my back and guides me into the inn with a little too much insistence.
The warm, moist air stings my frozen cheeks and nose, and seems to leach into my clothes as we enter the inn’s common room. Tables are set up in it, the floor is strewn with fresh rushes, and the last dregs of a fire smolder in a hearth as tall a
s me. Two men sit at a table close to the hearth, sipping pints of ale. They don’t even look at us as we cross the room to the stairs.
On the second floor of the inn, Golmarr guides us to the door at the end of the hall and opens it. The room is colder than the rest of the inn, but a freshly lit fire is starting to lick at the logs in the hearth. A narrow bed is in one corner, and a bleary-eyed girl is laying out a pallet on the floor beside another, right in front of the fire. She stands from the pallet and curtsies low to Golmarr, and then she rushes out of the room. With a thought, I make the fire blaze, and the room quickly grows warm.
“Sorrowlynn, you take the bed. Enzio and I will sleep on the floor,” Golmarr says, his eyes holding mine, daring me to protest. I wish I was sharing the bed with him, even if it was only for the warmth and comfort his presence brings. I want his conversation, his smile, and his attention the same way I want food when I am hungry, or water when I am thirsty. I miss the way things were with Golmarr and me before he killed the glass dragon. But I nod to him, not giving voice to my thoughts, and sit on the side of the bed.
Keeping my cloak on for added warmth, I remove my boots and sword belt and then loosen the strings that have been holding my tunic tight all the way up to my throat. Enzio has shed his cloak and undone his tunic strings, too, but Golmarr has tied his even tighter, so the tan fabric is cinched up above his collarbone and digging into the skin at his throat. He presses on his left shoulder, but when he sees me watching, his hand drops and he busies himself with removing his boots. I narrow my eyes and stare at the neckline of his tunic. Before he was in Trevon, he wore shirts that plunged deep, showing his lean, tan chest. I want to know why he has stopped.
I climb into the bed, relieved the sheets are crisp and fresh. “Good night,” I say, pulling the covers up to my ears.
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