by Trudie Skies
Garr opened his mouth to argue, then frowned. Defeated at last. “Fine. I’ll do it your way, Sword Dancer. But I won’t take the markings.”
“The older Fire Walkers use red paint to touch up their tattoos. Use that.”
“You want me to paint myself?”
“You said you were dedicated to the Fire Walkers.” She placed a hand on her hip. “Prove it.”
“I don’t know what the chest markings are supposed to look like. Care to show me yours?” He leaned closer, and his amber eyes twinkled. “I’d need to get a good look to accurately copy the patterns.”
“Nice try.” She rummaged beside one of the beds and tossed a loincloth into his hands. “Put this on.”
“This is supposed to cover all of me?” He waved the flimsy cloth.
“Do you need something smaller?”
He muttered and pulled off his shirt, tossing it to one side. She swallowed thick saliva. His bare torso was all chiseled muscle—the toned body of a warrior. Strong biceps. Broad shoulders. And dark hair covered his chest in a thick fluff. She’d seen plenty of men shirtless before, men like Talin and Salasar who’d been shaped by the sword, and even Alistar with his fascinating tattoos, but Garr… gods, he was the living depiction of Rahn in all his glory.
She averted her eyes and searched the dormitory for paint. Sure enough, she found a small jar. She approached Garr as he sat on one of the beds to remove his boots. “Here. Uh, you might want to shave your chest first.”
He gawked up at her. “You want me to shave my chest?”
“So the markings are visible.” She handed him the jar. “Use it sparingly. The designs don’t need to be large or fancy, just noticeable.”
“Your markings aren’t visible.”
“That’s because I’m the High Priestess.”
“So you’re ashamed of them?”
“I was, once. But they’re part of me, just as fire is a part of my blood. I won’t hide either.” She rolled up her sleeves and rubbed the silver patterns Samira had once inked into her skin. “I won’t force Fire Walkers to accept the markings if they don’t want them. But the Council will. They want us seen.”
Garr kicked off his boots and stood. He opened the jar and gave it a sniff. “I’m supposed to rub this over my chest?” He scooped a small glob of paint onto his finger.
“Yes. If you—”
He smeared the paint across her nose.
She stared at him dumbfounded. He hadn’t just…? She touched her nose and got red on her fingers.
“You’re too serious, Sword Dancer. When was the last time you laughed?”
“What have I got to laugh about?”
“That settles it, then. I’ll have to paint your entire face red.”
She took a step back. “Don’t you dare.”
He grinned and leaped at her.
Mina squealed and dove behind one of the stone beds. “Get away from me!”
Garr scooped a handful of the red paint and chased her. She picked up a cushion and threw it at him, but he dodged with surprising finesse.
They zigzagged between the beds as she threw cushion after cushion. One smacked him square in the face. He looked stunned for a heartbeat, then threw it back.
She swerved and danced away from cushions and swipes of his paint-covered fingers. It was just like her days training with Talin and Iman in Arlent. Invigorating. Exhausting. She laughed as she caught a cushion and prepared to throw it back, but her arm struck the wall. She’d run out of space. He’d trapped her in the corner.
How had she dropped her guard enough for him to win this advantage? She backed against hard stone as he stalked toward her, a glop of paint in one hand and a predatory smile across his face.
“I’ll burn you!” She brandished her cushion. “You touch me and I’ll burn your hand clean off.”
His playful smile vanished. “Do I scare you, Tamina?”
The way Garr said her name with his odd accent… Like the rolling storms of Lune’s Shadow. She swallowed a breath. There was much she didn’t know about him, and much she didn’t understand—who he was, what games he played.
Her inner embers sparked and heat raced through her veins.
What was it about Garr that made her want to burn? Was it his amber eyes, so eerily like Prince Ravel’s?
Garr was…
An Ash Maker. That’s who he was.
The tales of the Ash Makers stalked her nightmares as a child. They’d hunted her tribe to near extinction. They were the reason she had no one save Leila to explain her connection with the Shadows. They were a perversion of everything the Lunei stood for. They didn’t even burn their dead, but left them for the sands—to become Shadows forever.
Garr was one of them. So why didn’t she hate him?
Footsteps approached the door. “I heard a scream,” Jonan said. He had a hand on his sword, half-drawn from its scabbard.
Garr hurriedly stepped back.
She placed the cushion down. “Everything’s fine. I was, uh, giving orders to my Fire Walker.”
On cue, Garr fell into a deep bow. “Your command will be carried out, High Priestess.”
Jonan looked wearily between her and Garr, but he nodded and stepped out of the room. She hurried after him.
“I’ll play your games, Sword Dancer,” Garr called as she reached the entrance. “But watch your back with these Hartnords. You can’t trust them.”
She turned around to address him and swallowed a gasp. Garr sat on one of the stone beds, his back to her. Multiple scars ran down his back and cut through his body hair in thick jagged lines.
How did he get those scars?
Mina opened her mouth to ask and paused. It was none of her business and it didn’t change anything. He was still her Fire Walker.
Still an Ash Maker.
And they had work to do.
44
THE EMBASSY
The Neu Bosan embassy was Myryn itself plucked from Gaisland’s shores and hidden amid Solus’s docks. Its green tiled walls, wooden roof, and glass lanterns were unmistakably Neu Bosan. The Sword of Solus had already blocked off the major streets leading into the docks, and more guards would patrol the alleyways to chase off any loiterers. A handful would remain outside the embassy. Enough to escort the Hartnords, but not too many to scare them away.
Mina waited outside the embassy walls with her Fire Walker acolytes: Dahn, the grumpy Duslander who eyed everyone that walked by with suspicion; Bahri, the cheerful Solander fisherman; Qareem, the former Gaislander cook; and the two lovers, the Solander setar player Amin and his Duslander husband Marek.
All five stood with their tattoos proudly displayed. That’s what she wanted Prince Wulfhart to see—normal men whose lives meant more than the fire in their blood.
Dahn squinted into the distance. “Who invited that fool?”
The sixth man of their group arrived late.
“What did you do?” she blurted out.
Garr puffed out his chest and flexed his muscles. “What you asked, Sword Dancer. My markings represent strength.” He’d shaved his head, chin, and torso bare and painted what she supposed were meant to be swords on his chest, but his clumsy attempt at art looked more… phallic. It made her face burn hot.
Even if it were an attempt to embarrass her, she couldn’t help but be drawn to the curve of his biceps and the sharp dip of his collar bone. Without the thick fluff of hair to mask them, his muscles were truly defined. Her gaze dipped down. The loincloth covered his hips, but his thighs were as sculpted as the rest of him. He’s just a foolish Ash Maker, remember?
Shouts echoed across the docks. Salasar’s men were on the march. The Hartnords had landed.
“If we’re fighting Hartnords, they better cut him down first,” Dahn muttered.
“We’re not here to fight.” Gods, she hoped not. “Stay behind and follow my lead. No one summons their fire without my command. And if
they offer you food or drink, politely decline. Garr, you’re with me.”
“Why do I have to take point?”
“Because your markings represent strength.”
Garr grumbled but came to her side. Together, they strode for the embassy doors. He walked awkwardly and adjusted the cord that kept his loincloth in place. “I feel like the biggest fool of this god-damn city,” he whispered.
“That’s because you are.”
Gareth waited by the embassy gates. He’d come without guard and completely unarmed. How much faith did he have in her abilities?
She signaled for her Fire Walkers to stop and approached Gareth alone.
Gareth inclined his head. “They’re moving this way.” He tapped the side of his eye. “I see them.”
A contingent of guards approached with both the royal red and gold banners of the Bright Solara and the silver and blue of Prince Wulfhart. This was why they needed Gareth: to check the Hartnords’ words were true, assuming she could even trust Gareth to relay the truth. “How does your Sight work?”
“The Sight allows me to see in color.”
In color? “Sandarians can see color.”
“We see colors you cannot. Each person has a color belonging to their soul, but those colors change depending on their emotions or actions. We see those emotions.”
“Like a House bond?”
“I hear it is similar, yes. Sandarians feel each other’s emotions. We see it.”
“Does every Hartnord sees the world that way?”
“Not all. The Sight is a skill which must be trained, though some bloodlines are more naturally gifted than others. My Sight is stronger than most. As is Wulf’s. He’ll know I’m here. We share… similar colors.”
It didn’t make any sense to her. “And these colors help you see the truth?”
“I see the emotion behind your actions. An intent to deceive is apparent in the mix of fear, caution, and hope you feel while speaking. A master of the Sight will know the intentions behind every word and action you are planning before you speak or act. Sandarians exercise little restraint on their emotions. Their colors are more vivid than Hartnords’.”
“Sandarians have been suppressing our emotions for generations. It’s the first thing a Fire Walker learns.”
“But not you? You are a rainbow of emotion. A Hartnord with good Sight can read you like a book.”
Her cheeks burned. “I can control my emotions. If you’re so good at reading people, then why haven’t you discovered who killed the Queen?”
“Whoever killed the Queen must have worn a guard.”
“A what?”
“There are ways to guard against the Sight—by suppressing emotions. My Sight is useless on Wulf. He knows how to guard himself against it.”
“But that’s why you’re here. To uncover the truth with your Sight.” How could he do that if Prince Wulfhart were immune?
“The Council believes I am leading this negotiation, but this is down to you.”
“To me?”
“Wulf doesn’t trust me, but he’ll trust someone untrained in the Sight and unable to guard against it. If anyone can convince them that Fire Walkers are no threat, it’s you.”
She was no politician or negotiator. Her entire life was proof of that. “You’ve chosen the wrong person for this.”
“You’re exactly the right person. You cannot lie.”
“I’ve lied plenty.” And gotten away with it for the most part.
“Sandarians see what they want to see. Wulf will read the truth of your conviction.”
“I can’t even speak properly in Council meetings—”
“I’ve watched you, Tamina Hawker. Since you first came into the Keep. I know your heart. I have since the moment my eyes first fell upon you. I’ve witnessed all of your plotting and secrets and machinations, and said nothing. But you… you’re not afraid to speak. Words mean more to a Hartnord than blood. You will tell Wulf exactly what he needs to hear.”
She wrung her hands. “And if I can’t? If I can’t convince Prince Wulf—”
“You will. Your Fire Walkers need you to.”
This was too much. A duel or a dance she could do, but this? “And if I can’t?”
“Then I will do what must be done. One way or another, we will stop this war before it begins.”
She studied him as he no doubt studied her. A man who knew a thousand secrets. Possibly more. He’d known her greatest secrets from the moment she stepped foot in Bloodstone Keep, yet he’d kept them hidden for a blood debt owed to Talin.
There is another Hartnord prince, he’d said. Is that why Salasar wanted her Fire Walkers here? To murder Prince Wulfhart if it came to it? Would Gareth have the guts to assassinate his own nephew?
She had to convince the Hartnord prince to stand down. She had no choice. Too many lives were depending on her, and not just Sandarian ones.
She steadied her breathing. I am the master of my own self.
“Don’t,” Gareth murmured. “Don’t try to suppress your emotions. Show them everything you are. Your colors are brightest when you speak from your heart.”
“What color am I now?”
“Muddy yellow.” He smirked in an oddly familiar way. “It means anxiety.”
The embassy gates opened with a loud clang. Neu Bosan guards exited the gates and formed a line against the wall. Their master followed and wore an uneasy smile.
Mina bowed. “Lord Hiram.”
Hiram returned the courtesy. “We meet again, High Priestess, in similar circumstances.”
“Have you heard any news of Ali—Alistar? Is he well?”
Hiram stiffened. “He is in much pain and cannot walk. The Green Hands tell me he’ll require weeks of rest. I’ve brought him home to Myryn. I wished to stay by his side, but events have forced me here. Why didn’t you remain in Grenai?” A darkness fell across Hiram’s face. “You’re his master. His life was your responsibility, yet you abandoned him?”
Her heart ached. “I left him in good hands, Lord Hiram.” And truth was, she regretted leaving him behind. It pained her to think of Alistar suffering and alone in Myryn. As soon as this business with the Hartnords was concluded, she’d find a way to visit him.
“Now is not the time,” Gareth said.
Hiram smoothed down his robes. “Of course.” He gestured to the embassy gates. “We are ready, if you’ll join us. We ask you leave your weapons and Fire Walkers behind.”
Her hand curled around Hawk’s hilt. She’d expected to remove her sword, but not leave her Fire Walkers. “They’re my personal guard.”
“You won’t require them in the embassy. My own men will be on guard.” He raised an eyebrow. “The point of this meeting is to speak on neutral ground, and we cannot do that if our guests feel threatened.”
“My Fire Walkers are no threat. They’re here to prove that.”
“With all respect, High Priestess, it was a Fire Walker who killed the Hartnord king and attacked my son. They will remain outside these walls, or this meeting will not go ahead.”
Gareth leaned close. “Allow this concession.”
What if this were all some elaborate plot to trick her into walking into Prince Wulfhart’s hands? What if Gareth and Hiram had been working against her all this time? The embassy walls didn’t contain any braziers, and the glass lanterns weren’t lit. She couldn’t summon her flame in front of them and ask her mother to confirm if any of these fools could be trusted. “Fine. But they stay at the gate.”
Hiram inclined his head in thanks.
Mina took another steadying breath—no matter Gareth’s advice—and returned to her Fire Walkers to relay the news.
“You’re going in there alone?” Garr said aghast. “With Hartnords?”
“I’ll have Gareth—”
“Another Hartnord.” He steered her out of earshot of the other Fire Walkers. “You can’t trust them, Sword Dancer
. They have this ability where they can see—”
“The Sight. I know of it.”
“Do you? They can see your emotions and intent, which means they can manipulate you into doing whatever they want.”
“Trust me. No man can make me do what I don’t want to.”
“You think you can out stubborn a Hartnord? They’re practically made of stone.”
“And I’m made of sand.” She cringed at her own poor analogy. “Keep the Fire Walkers safe. If there’s trouble, take them back to the temple and find Jonan.”
“And leave you at their mercy?”
Hiram called her name. The Hartnords had already entered the embassy and were waiting on her. She unbuckled her scabbard and shoved Hawk into his hands. “Take it.”
“Fire Walkers aren’t supposed to be armed—”
“Fire Walkers aren’t supposed to argue with their High Priestess either, and yet here we are. If you damage it, I’ll have your head, do you hear me?” She turned to the embassy.
“Tamina,” Garr called. “If danger comes, get the hell out of there.”
Hell? Was that an Ash Maker word? She didn’t have time to ask about it. She jogged to Gareth’s side, and he looked at her with an odd expression.
“Who is that?” he asked.
The doubt in his voice made her pause. “One of my Fire Walkers. What do you see?”
“He’s wearing a guard. Sandarians rarely know how. He either has incredible control of his emotions or someone taught him how to do that. A Hartnord.”
Garr did name himself the most powerful Fire Walker in Solus. Controlling blood fire required emotional mastery. It was possible he had that level of control.
But Garr had belittled her position as High Priestess and only turned to her side after she’d revealed her somewhat treasonous stance. Could his warnings of Prince Wulfhart’s manipulation be a deflection? Garr certainly had knowledge of the Hartnords, and the Neu Bosan as well. But even without her mother’s flame to guide her, there was something about him that felt… safe.
Or Mina was turning into the biggest fool of the temple.
