by Sharon Shinn
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” he said.
“What? That I’m unhappy?”
“No,” he said, laughing. “That you find yourself missing friends. Maybe you’ll find yourself making more of them.”
She sighed. “And what about you? Do you find yourself happy now that you’re back at the palace, back among your fellow Riders?”
He chose his words carefully. “Justin seems to be feeling much the way you are,” he said. “I told him that the end of every mission brings with it just such a sense of—disorientation. Of malaise.”
“Even for you?” she said, as if she didn’t believe it.
“Even for me. This time, at least. But I also told him the feeling would pass.”
“Yes,” she said. “You would tell him that, I suppose.”
He did not mention that he was pretty sure it was a lie. “I cannot imagine you will give yourself much time to brood about it,” he said. “You’re a restless woman. You must already be planning your next journey.”
A twist of the mouth for that. “In fact, I expect to be leaving in a day or two,” she said.
“And where will you be going this time?”
She came a few steps nearer, and now she was close enough to touch if he had courage to reach for her. On her face was a mix of emotions it was hard to sort out: irritation, resignation, amusement, and something that might be hope. “Brassenthwaite.”
“Ah.”
“Under duress.”
He smiled. “At the king’s behest?”
“Yes. He wants to see me reconciled with my brothers.”
“Well, he’s a smart old man. He knows what’s best for the kingdom. And it might be best for you, too. You’ll see.”
She hesitated a moment. She was toying with some of the lacy edges of her dress and seemed to be reviewing some past thought or experience. “I have fought in sea battles and land battles,” she said at last, slowly. “I’ve faced down angry soldiers and predators with no thought but to kill me. I’ve been sick. I’ve been solitary. I’ve been hungry. I’ve been afraid more times than I can count. But I’ve never been as afraid of anything as I am to walk back into Brassenthwaite to face my brothers alone.”
The words were out before he could stop them. “Take a friend,” he suggested.
She stilled her hands by flattening them on the front of her gown. “Will you come?” she asked.
He stared at her a moment in the dark. There was so little moonlight that she was only visible because of the color of her dress and the candlewick of her hair. Yet he could see the tautness of her face, the apprehension in her gray eyes. He could tell that she was afraid of one more thing, and that was the answer he might give. And that knowledge undid him, cut through all his careful bindings of class and caste and calling; that anxious expression turned him soft.
“I will,” he said in a quiet voice. “I will accompany you to Brassenthwaite, and from there to any other region in Gillengaria, and from there to any country across the sea, named or unnamed. I will protect you with my weapons and with my skill and with my life. Neither your brothers nor your enemies nor strangers upon the road will offer you harm while I am living.”
“I want more from you than that,” she whispered.
“I know,” he replied.
Now she lifted her hands, hesitantly, and the gesture was full of such uncertainty and such supplication that he could not endure it. He closed the short distance between them. He wrapped her in his arms as if she was a child who needed succor and he was the only avenger for miles. Fire flashed between them; he thought for a moment the flimsy gown had gone up in flames, but it was just the heat of her body, or the excitement of his, or the reveling of the night around them, and nothing to be concerned about. He kissed her, and that was the end of it. No more pretending, no more holding back. Life changed by love, life sparkling now with its own peculiar magic. He tightened his hold and let the transformation take over. When he lifted his mouth from hers, he knew, he would be a different man.
He kissed her until the world was changed, and even that was not long enough.
