The Wolf and the Sparrow

by Isabelle Adler

  But he had no business thinking about Derek at all. Tomorrow, Callan would be gone, and Derek would most likely return to his regular life in Camria, his precious treaty in hand, the sparrow flying safely back to his cozy nest away from any real peril.

  He wasn’t planning on them staying together through the night, but some appearances had to be upheld, so he led Derek to his rooms and opened the door, gesturing for him to go in.

  The sitting room, which Callan had turned into a study, was illuminated only by a fire already burning in the hearth, but in the adjacent bedroom, an assortment of lit candles gave off a sickeningly sweet scent of honey and amber. The servants must have prepared the room during the ceremony because the large bed was immaculately made, covered in pristine white sheets strewn with pale pink and yellow rose petals. A suggestive tableau of glass oil bottles and artfully folded washcloths sat on the side table. Somebody, it would seem, was optimistic regarding the progression of their wedding night.

  Derek’s eyes were immediately drawn to the bed, and he paused in the doorway, an uncertain look in his eyes. Did he really think Callan would force him into intimacy? He’d only brought him there to stop the servants from gossiping.

  Before he could voice his motives, though, Derek stepped into the room, surveying it with a sort of apprehensive interest. He ignored the opulent setting of the bed, and ran his hand over the black marble slab of the mantelpiece, bare save for a silver candlestick and a small jewelry box, which he casually picked up to inspect.

  Callan’s hands curled into fists, but he forced himself to remain calm. It was just a knickknack, nothing more. Derek could admire it as much as he wanted.

  The box was admittedly exquisite, its lid embossed with the silhouette of a mermaid, perching on a rock and lifting her face to the sun while dipping her tail into the foamy waves. When Derek opened it, a single lock of long golden hair, tied with a piece of string, lay within, resting on the red velvet padding.

  Derek raised his eyes to him in surprise, probably wondering at the incongruence of Callan’s severe persona with the ornate dainty thing and its contents.

  “That was Idona’s,” Callan felt compelled to supply by way of explanation, and seeing Derek’s blank expression, he added through his teeth, “My wife.”

  “I’m sorry.” Derek closed the box and put it back in its place. “I haven’t heard much about her, I’m afraid.”

  Callan suspected Derek had heard enough. Obviously not her name, but without a doubt all the sinister rumors that people, even those who liked Callan as their future ruler well enough, were wont to spread to add excitement to their lives. Usually, he didn’t care about them, but the wary look in Derek’s eyes stung him in a way he couldn’t quite comprehend.

  “Listen,” he said, and Derek started, his tension evident despite the mask of nonchalance. “Neither of us wanted this.” Callan showed no sign he had noticed Derek startle. “We’re in private. There’s no need to pretend here.”

  “I’m not—” Derek started carefully.

  “My father insisted on this marriage,” Callan said, ignoring the interruption, “but it doesn’t mean he can expect me to bed you against either of our wills.”

  Derek’s eyes flashed, but his voice, when he answered, was still mild.

  “Bed me? How very romantic of you. Nonetheless, I must remind you that if the marriage isn’t consummated, it might not be legal.”

  “We kissed at the ceremony,” Callan said with a hint of challenge, crossing his arms over his chest. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s consummated.”

  Derek’s eyebrows shot up. Callan wasn’t terribly well versed in matrimonial law, but even he knew this take was shaky at best. But he certainly wasn’t about to have sex with this man for the sake of legitimacy. His name and signature were splayed all over the marriage contract; it was enough.

  “We’re bound to each other on paper only,” Callan continued. Perhaps this came out a little harsh, but he wanted to make his stance on the matter perfectly clear. “After tonight, you’ll be free to return to Camria. We’re not required to spend time together save for occasional ceremonies and court functions.”

  “All right,” Derek said slowly, staring at him as if trying to decipher whether he was being tricked somehow.

  For a brief, treacherous moment Callan wondered what the man’s doe eyes would look like dark and cloudy with lust, his lips swollen with kisses. Real kisses, not like the polite peck they’d exchanged at the chapel. But it was a dangerous thought, one he wasn’t prepared to examine too closely—let alone act upon.

  He nodded to the door tucked in the corner of the room, almost abashedly out of sight.

  “Your new rooms are there. They mirror my own.”

  He knew it was the kind of thorough dismissal that could be perceived as insulting. But he stood behind his previous statement. This wedding night was something neither of them wanted. And if he was quick enough to get ready in the morning, chance was he wouldn’t see Derek again for a very long time.

  He was expecting relief, but instead, something like hurt fleeted across Derek’s features. He bowed stiffly and went through the door, closing it firmly behind him.

  It should have felt like a victory, and yet the only emotion Callan could readily identify from the jumbled tangle constricting his chest was disappointment.

  Chapter Five

  DEREK WAS WOKEN by the sound of voices and footsteps in the adjoining room.

  At first, he buried his face deeper in the pillow, refusing to be bothered by the notion of his husband entertaining people in his bedroom in the middle of the night—or early dawn, if the gray light streaming from the high windows was anything to go by. Really, if Callan wished to find more amiable company elsewhere, it was hardly Derek’s business, especially after the outright refusal to share a bed on their wedding night. He should be glad Callan was leaving him alone because Derek certainly didn’t want to be forced into physical proximity with a man who so clearly didn’t like him.

  However, the urgency of the voices, the raised tones, and the shuffling of feet soon made it apparent this wasn’t any sort of romantic dalliance. Derek sat up and pushed the covers off, shivering a little. The bedroom still bore the traces of having been a lady’s chamber with its soft furnishings and patterned draperies, but it was just as damp and chilly as the rest of the keep. The fire he’d started in the fireplace before going to sleep had been reduced to glowing embers, and the residual heat failed to warm the large, drafty room.

  The noise got only louder. What the hell was going on? If it was some sort of assassination attempt on Callan (the possibility of which, considering the nonexistent charm of the man’s personality, wouldn’t surprise Derek one bit), the assailants could at least have the decency to not do it on their so-called honeymoon.

  Trying to make as little noise as possible, Derek slid a dagger from the sheath he’d left on a chair along with his belt and pants, and very carefully turned the doorknob, nudging the door open enough to peer inside the room.

  The bedroom was empty, yesterday’s rose petals and oil assortments gone without a trace. Feeling distinctly uncomfortable venturing there alone, Derek nonetheless refused to be deterred, and crossed the room, heading for the study.

  He found Callan completely dressed in what appeared to be his riding leathers, standing beside a table that bore a napkin-covered breakfast tray. Whoever his visitors had been, they were just closing the door after them as Derek cast his gaze around the room. But as discreet as he thought himself, apparently he hadn’t been quiet enough, because Callan turned sharply in his direction before Derek could beat a hasty retreat.

  “What are you doing here?”

  His gaze bore into Derek with a strange intensity, making Derek acutely aware he was wearing nothing but a flimsy linen undershirt, which fell rather high on his hips. Callan was definitely looking, but whether he liked what he was seeing or was repulsed by it was unclear.

  Derek blus
hed and lowered the dagger he was still holding in his hand. Callan had an uncanny knack for making him feel like an utter fool even when Derek was acting on the best of intentions.

  “I heard voices. I thought you might be in some sort of trouble.”

  “In my own bedroom?” Callan raised an eyebrow, apparently unimpressed by Derek’s concern.

  “Should I expect people coming in and out of your bedroom at all hours?” Derek asked, and immediately tried not to wince at the note of testiness in his voice.

  There was a pause as Callan appeared to consider him, and Derek braced himself for a scathing retort (which, frankly, wouldn’t have been entirely unjustified).

  But all Callan said was, “I told you already. There are reports about pirates raiding the coastal settlements near the northern border. We’d have to send out a troop to meet with the Bryluen garrison to counter the threat.”

  Derek frowned. “I thought the Agiennan raiders were all but eradicated during the war.”

  Callan shook his head. “Hardly. The Outer Isles are populated by many different clans that lack a strong central leadership. Not all fought in the war, and not all who survived consider themselves bound by the treaties. The beginning of autumn is a prime season for raiding, and even with the manned outposts, we cannot control the entire coast. The raiders only used to attack the smaller, more isolated villages and farms, but now they’re getting bolder. And more vicious.”

  Derek didn’t imagine the hard lines creasing Callan’s forehead nor the steely glint in his eyes, gleaming in the low light of the early morning. Callan was clearly angered by the news—as Derek himself would be, had he received word his subjects were being harassed. He’d never witnessed the aftermath of a seafarer raid, but he’d seen the havoc organized bandits could wreak on remote homesteads in the eastern regions of Camria, where forests stretched for hundreds of miles with no human settlements large enough to offer help or protection to the farmers. Derek could well understand the rage and the feeling of helplessness in the face of failure to protect those who needed it.

  He shouldn’t have been moved by the fact that Callan actually cared about what happened to these people rather than being annoyed at having to abandon his own wedding festivities for the prospect of another bloody battle. From what he’d heard about Callan, Derek would have guessed he’d rejoice at any excuse for warmongering. But looking now at the hard line of his mouth, the rigid set of his shoulders, Derek couldn’t help but feel he was genuinely worried.

  Derek had a feeling Callan wasn’t a man to shirk his duties, their pitiful excuse of a marriage notwithstanding. Then again, they’d both gone into it out of a similar sense of obligation. Not for the first time since meeting his husband, Derek felt stirrings of something suspiciously resembling sympathy.

  He recalled the silver box on the mantelpiece in the adjoining room. Ivo had told him all about the rumors that suggested Callan had done away with his wife, but would a murderer keep sentimental mementos of his victim in his bedroom, which was otherwise pitifully bare of all personal effects? Perhaps a deranged one would, but Callan didn’t strike Derek as either unhinged or particularly bloodthirsty. Undoubtedly, there was a streak of ruthlessness in his manner, but not outward cruelty.

  There had to be a simple explanation for Callan keeping the box in his possession. He had loved his wife. The way Callan had gazed at the ornate memento yesterday, the wistfulness in his eyes, Derek wondered if he wasn’t still in love with her.

  He was uncomfortably aware that his presence was wholly foreign to this space, as if he was intruding on something deeply private, a trespasser on forbidden ground.

  “Are you going to lead the patrol, then?” Derek asked, putting the thought firmly out of his mind and nodding to Callan’s attire. He wasn’t dressed for battle, exactly, more like for a long journey—which, Derek suspected, was only par for the course if it meant traveling along the coast as far as the northern border.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  He didn’t know what he was intending to do until the words were out of his mouth. But now that they were, it felt right.

  Derek’s birth placed him in a position of great privilege, which came with only one requirement—to protect the people entrusted to his care. Marrying Callan and removing himself to Mulberny, however temporarily, did not diminish his responsibility, but rather expanded it to include his new subjects. He couldn’t stand by idly, doing nothing, while they were in danger. Perhaps it was a kind of arrogance on his part to assume as much, but Callan wasn’t the only one to know the meaning of duty.

  “No,” Callan said flatly.

  Derek drew himself up for an indignant response, but Callan forestalled him.

  “You’re injured. It’d do you no good. You’re convalescing.”

  His gaze slid pointedly to Derek’s left arm, still in a sling. Derek’s lips curved into a derisive smile, which was probably more of a rictus.

  “My comfort was hardly a consideration when your father insisted on holding a wedding with such immediacy as to deny me time to either heal or mourn,” he pointed out.

  Callan’s expression flickered at the bluntness, but Derek was not about to endure such infuriating hypocrisy to spare the man’s feelings.

  “I want to help,” he continued firmly. “Whatever you may think of me, I’m not the sort to let my spouse shoulder all the responsibilities while I idle away my days at the keep or return home without sparing a thought for their hardships. That’s not what marriage is for, and that’s not what I was brought up to do. If you don’t like it, you should have asked your father to set you up with a different groom.”

  There was another pause as Callan seemed to size him up. Derek couldn’t tell if it was his fortitude Callan was assessing, or the sincerity of his declaration.

  “Has my father spoken to you about this?”

  “What? No.”

  “Were you really worried I was being murdered in my sleep?” Callan asked with something close to genuine interest.

  “Well, I didn’t come here to stake a claim on your virtue,” Derek said.

  Callan snorted.

  “I wish it to be clear that I can’t guarantee your safety,” he said finally.

  “You don’t have to. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  For a moment, Derek was sure Callan was still going to refuse him, but finally, he gave Derek a short nod.

  “Fine. You can come.”

  “Thank you,” Derek said, matching the curtness of his tone. A less stubborn part of him wondered why he was thanking Callan for giving him a chance to endanger his life.

  “Unless you intend to come as you are, I suggest you ready yourself,” Callan said dryly. “We leave in two hours, and we have scarcely any time to lose.”

  “I’ll be there,” Derek said, turning to go back to his room.

  “Bring something warm. And don’t forget your pants,” Callan called after him as Derek closed the door behind him.

  BY THE TIME they’d reached the long, winding stretch of the coastal road leading away from the town, Derek was starting to suspect his insistence on tagging along was a mistake.

  He’d barely had any rest since arriving at Irthorg, after the long journey that had left him sore and exhausted, despite his claims to the contrary. His back ached, his thighs ached, and his wounded shoulder was a constant source of agony that dwarfed all the other aches into nonexistence. He gripped the reins so tightly his knuckles were white, and only his mare’s docile nature and lifelong familiarity with his quirks kept the poor animal from railing against such poor horsemanship.

  To distract himself from the pain and the inevitable reflection on the stupidity of his choices, Derek tried to focus on his surroundings. This region of Mulberny was beautiful in a wild sort of way, with the sea meeting the rocky shore in a flurry of wind and white foam. The road cut through wide expanses of grass and heather, running past villages, hamlets, an
d farms, which became sparser the farther they got from town. Tiny islands, most of them nothing more than tall, sharp rocks, protruded from the sea all the way to the horizon.

  The sky was overcast, and there was a definite nip in the air. Callan hadn’t been jesting, admonishing him to bring warm clothes. With nothing to stave the wind, sharp gales blew across the plains, carrying salt and occasional raindrops.

  The incessant wind didn’t seem to bother the lord and his companions. Callan rode at the head of the troop, which only numbered about a dozen people. Derek wasn’t sure what sort of reinforcement they would be for the harried folks up north, but he was still too unaccustomed to the ways of the place to offer insight. He rode behind his husband, a bit too acutely aware of being surrounded by unfamiliar armed men whose personal allegiance to him was questionable at best. For all he knew, they’d all fought against him at Laurel Falls, and judging by the side-looks he’d been getting, his marrying their liege lord was not enough to endear him to them.

  He wished he could have taken Hamlin with him. The Captain of the Guard’s quiet presence and understated competence had always been there to carry him through difficult times ever since he was a child. More often than not, Hamlin would take Derek’s side when he argued with his father—though never to great avail. But as soon as Derek had learned of Callan’s plans for departure, he’d charged Hamlin with keeping an eye on his brothers, leaving his entire entourage with them. He was hesitant about leaving them in Irthorg while he was away—not least because he didn’t trust Macon to behave himself, and the duke not to take offense at his brother’s antics—but late guests were still arriving for the wedding, and someone had to represent Camria during his absence. Derek knew Ivo would rise to the challenge, but the knowledge did little to dissuade his worry.