Panic swirled. She had no talent to see into the future or call the winds. She had no family to protect her. Even if she slipped away from Oben, she would need to steal and get help from others in order to survive. The flames in his eyes told her he would follow her to the ends of the earth if he had to in order to drag her back to her uncle and fulfill the oath he’d sworn. He would see his plan through to the bitter end, even if in doing so he would upend the kingdom, become a traitor to the crown, and send her into hell.
“I am sorry, Lady Betrice.”
Was he? If so, she had to find a way to use that regret—to take his fire and turn it into a weapon for herself. “If you are truly sorry, will you answer a question?”
“I will answer whatever you desire to ask.”
She cocked her head to the side. “Do I have your oath?”
He did not hesitate for even a heartbeat before saying, “You do.”
“Then tell me, Oben—how did you come by your scars?”
Now he did hesitate. “Some of the scars I earned while training. Others like the one I will have from yesterday’s attack I gained in battle.”
“But not all of them,” she countered, walking around so that she was now facing his back. Snow nickered as Betrice placed a finger on one of the raised marks as she did last night when he was sleep. She heard him suck in air as she slowly traced it down to the small of his back. This scar was lighter than the others. Longer healed. “This scar was not earned in battle. Neither was this one.” She placed her hand on a slash of white on his left side.
Quietly, Oben said, “After we fled Garden City, my grandmother became the housekeeper for an aging Lord in Lussuria. The Lord took an interest in my education with both reading and the sword. I excelled at both, unlike his own son, who was far older and had long abandoned his studies to spend his days in taverns, waiting for his father to die. I still don’t know how the son learned that my father served the Bastians as head of the King’s Guard. Perhaps he overheard my grandmother telling me stories when she tucked me into bed at night. After his father died, the Lord’s son came to my room and told me he knew about my parentage. He threatened to tell the High Lord that we had information on the whereabouts of the Bastians if I didn’t take off my shirt and kneel against the wall. He whipped me with a scourge, then warned me that he would do the same to my grandmother if I revealed what he had done.”
A scourge.
She placed her hand on another scar. Oben had lost his family and instead of the safety he thought he had gained, found pain. She knew the ache of loss and the darkness of rejection when you thought there was no hope.
“That was not the last time he beat me,” Oben said quietly. “But after a while, he used his fists. My grandmother was helpless to do anything but discover how to make the drink for me that is in that bottle. The Tears of Midnight blocks out many things—including pain—as long as it is used carefully.”
The stream gurgled. A bird sang.
Betrice walked around to stand in front of this man who had suffered so much. A knot lodged in her throat, and everything inside her ached. “What happened to the Lord’s son,” she asked.
“I was twelve when my grandmother died,” he said, staring out into the forest. “Two days later, the Lord’s son rode with his friends to hunt. None of them ever returned.”
5
Betrice pictured Oben striking down the man who had whipped his flesh. Satisfaction chased away the fear that had gnawed at her since the minute Seer Zachar told her she was leaving the Village of Night. Because Oben had been in darkness and had made his own light. He had found a purpose and control where there had been none. He had become his own flame.
“He was a lord of the realm. Killing him was a crime.”
“His death was justice,” she snapped.
Oben nodded. “Justice and law are not necessarily the same thing. If a lord or lady were to speak of my acts to the King, their word alone would be enough to have me put to death.”
Betrice stilled. Her heart hammered hard and fast. She was a lady. And Oben had just put his life in her hands.
“You could have lied to me,” she said. “I would never have known.”
“I gave you my oath.”
And by doing so he gave her the power she desired. He could not give her control over her own future, so he gave her something else. Control over his. The heat of it flowed through her like nothing had before.
She could hardly breathe as she stepped forward and placed a hand on his warm chest. “So I will give you my oath. I will not betray your trust.”
Oben calmly nodded, but she could feel his heart as it pounded harder and faster in his chest. The power to gain vengeance wasn’t the only one she had. “High Lord Xavier will be expected to dote on the King while he and the Crown Prince are in residence,” he offered. “That gives you some time to plan.”
For what he didn’t say, but as Oben walked to her horse to hold the reins, Betrice knew if she was going to forge a future out of fire, she couldn’t rely on Oben entirely. She would have to spark the flame herself. And whether he knew it or not, she thought, climbing into the saddle, Oben had just pointed the way.
He glanced at her as they galloped, as if he expected her to steer Snow in another direction at any moment, but she kept her back straight and her eyes forward while they crossed the miles to the Derio border. They spoke of inconsequential matters when they broke from their ride, and after they finished their evening meal, Oben handed her the bottle of Tears of Midnight and suggested she drink from it.
“The cut on my face doesn’t cause me pain,” she said, even though she was curious about the drink after seeing its effect on Oben the night before.
“The Tears blocks many things—pain is only one of them. The drink quiets visions,” Oben said, pressing the bottle into her hands. “It is powerful. It should not be used often. But for tonight, it will keep your nightmares away.”
The drink was bitter and made her gag, but it did what Oben promised. No bloody faces or reaching hands plagued her during the night. The following day, her body was rested and her mind clear to think as they galloped. The pace made conversation nearly impossible, which was good. It allowed her to focus on the things she had learned on her return home—about Oben’s plan, Captain Tarak, the King’s visit to Charity Keep and the knife. She was exhausted every time Oben found a secluded area to make camp and had little energy to do more than eat before she took to her bedroll. But each night Betrice found her meditation skills less calming than the last and herself more aware of Oben’s warm body next to hers. She found herself thinking of how alike they were and more and more wondered how she could turn his strength of purpose to serve her.
After six days of hard riding, Oben climbed off his stallion at dusk and said, “We should arrive at Charity Keep late tomorrow.”
One more day until she returned to her uncle’s control. Anticipation mixed with fear.
“Are you certain the King and Crown Prince will be holding court when we arrive?”
“As certain as I can be,” Oben said.
“Do you know how long they plan to be in attendance?”
“A week. Perhaps two.”
Her heart sank. A week was not much time. If she was going to find the courage to act, she would have to do it fast.
“Tell me what you know of the Crown Prince,” she said as they prepared for sleep in the small cave Oben had found hidden in the woods. “My father and uncle both told me a great deal about the King. They both fought at his side during the war to reclaim Eden’s virtue.”
Her father said few wished to depose the old King or the Bastian descendants and disturb the stability of the throne, but the High Lords claimed they had no choice. According to the High Lords, the old King was no longer concerned with the good of the kingdom and continued to raise taxes higher and higher on the districts. People starved and the Xhelozi appeared in larger numbers while the Palace of Winds grew grander and the lig
hts brighter. The High Lords made appeals to the king to ease the taxes and to honor the virtues he was dedicated to serving. Upon their last request, the King sent the body of the messenger back to High Lord Adham with a notice of another tax increase.
Her father had neither been certain war was necessary nor that all the kingdom’s ills were the fault of the King, but he felt he had no choice and answered High Lord Adham’s call to war. Six months later most of the deposed Bastian royals were killed, and those who survived the battle fled into exile. High Lord Adham was elevated to the Throne of Light. King Adham was said to be cunning, yet fair. Betrice had heard little about either of the King’s heirs other than that they were required to train with the King’s Guard. Perhaps Oben’s desire to strike the King down should offend her, but she had little loyalty or love for anyone who rewarded a man like her uncle with power. To her, that said a great deal about the king’s judgment and virtue.
“If you think to speak of your uncle’s actions to King Adham or Prince Ulron, it will not go well for you, my lady. Your uncle is a High Lord. He is a trusted friend of the king, and you—”
“I am a woman and of little consequence,” she shot back. “I know my position, Oben—better than you may think—and I would like to understand all that I will be faced with when I arrive at my uncle’s home.”
Oben considered her request for a moment. “I have never met Crown Prince Ulron. He is rumored to be a strong swordsman, but not as sharp of mind when it comes to intricacies of court. Many say his brother is the more natural ruler and that Prince Ulron would prefer to fight his battles with steel instead of wit.”
“Which is why he and his father will be happy to have you in their guard. Your strength with steel is a weapon they will believe they can use. Until you turn it on them. Just as the swords pledged to them will surely turn on you.” As they’d rode the last few days she’d considered the path he was traveling and what it would mean. No matter how many different scenarios she envisioned, each ended in Oben’s death.
“You intend to die?” she asked. “Do you think that’s what your family would want for you?”
He spread his blankets then lowered himself onto them with his healing leg stretched in front of him. “I will have fulfilled the oath I made to my grandmother and the memory of my parents. That is all that matters.”
She pictured his eyes that stared so intently at the world going blank for eternity and everything inside her went cold. Tomorrow they would ride into Grace City. Oben would return to the barracks where no lady—especially not the ward of the High Lord—could trod. If she was to test how firmly his oaths tied him, now was the time.
Slowly, she knelt next to Oben and placed a hand just above his knee. “Is that truly all that matters to you, Oben?” Her heart jumped into her throat as she moved her hand higher—feeling the flame pulse inside her. His muscles tensed under her touch like a coiled spring. “Can you tell me that there is truly nothing more you care for or want?”
She shifted her hand higher, barely able to breathe as she stared into his eyes, daring him to accept what she was offering. Insisting he admit that there was more than duty in his heart.
His hand clamped around her wrist and squeezed tight. “Stop.” He pushed her hand off his leg. “You don’t know what you are doing, Lady Betrice.”
Yes, she did. Her uncle had taught her. She needed to fan the spark and see whether they could turn into flames.
The last of the sunlight was fading, but she didn’t need the light to see Oben’s face. She had it memorized—every strong line and imperfection. “I have lived in High Lord Xavier’s castle.” She leaned toward him, fascinated by the way Oben stared at her. “Do you honestly think I don’t know what I am doing, Oben?”
He didn’t move an inch, but he wanted her. She knew he did.
Her stomach swooped as she moved fast and shifted her right leg over his body, testing his will and what it would take to make him break his bond. “You gave me an oath, Oben. You promised to truthfully answer whatever question I asked.”
His eyes held hers. His breath came fast. As fast and harsh as her own. He was as strong as any in the kingdom, but right now he was in her power.
“Do you want me?” she whispered. She couldn’t catch her breath. Need pulsed and warred with good sense as she waited, knowing what she wanted from him.
He found her hand and placed his palm against hers. Her hand looked so small and soft next to his calloused one. Slowly, he wound his fingers through hers, then pulled their joined hands to his mouth. His lips were warm as one at a time Oben kissed the tops of her fingers, his eyes never leaving hers. He then pressed his mouth to the back of her hand.
“Yes,” he said, his breath hot against her skin. “But not like this. Not when I know I have to leave you behind.”
He let go of her fingers, shoved himself to his feet, and sent her sliding to the ground as he stalked away. Betrice shivered as the night air cooled her flesh. Then she settled onto her blankets and watched the back of Oben as he stared off into the night. Never did he look in her direction.
And for good or ill, she had the two answers she sought. She clutched the ring dangling around her neck and smiled. The flame had been lit. Now the only question was, could she be the Phoenix her father had talked about. Could she burn hot and bright enough to destroy everything that she once was? And once she did, would she be left in ashes or rise again?
Betrice took her time getting dressed while Oben paced. “Since they do not know when we are arriving, I don’t see what difference a few minutes makes,” she said after the third time he inquired as to when she would be ready.
Calmly, she looked at her reflection in the small pond. She’d brushed her dark hair until it fanned out in soft, shiny waves framing her face, giving her the appearance of innocence despite the still-healing cut on her cheek.
The innocence ended, however, where her gown began. The blue, beaded bodice of the undamaged lady’s frock she wore was so tight she could barely breathe. The swell of her breasts over the neckline was the price of her discomfort.
When she turned toward Oben, she knew by the way he clenched his fists at his side that the time she had taken on her appearance had been worth the effort. Not being able to breathe made it harder to mount Snow, though, and for the first time Oben was not there to help. He pushed the horses hard when they arrived at the wide, packed dirt road that led to Grace City. Had it been the first day of their travels, Betrice would never have been able to hang onto her seat. She had changed since being told she would leave the Village of Night. But as Grace City appeared in the distance, she wasn’t sure if she had changed enough.
Anxiety snaked through her with each passing league. Sweat dripped between her breasts and down the back of her gown. Betrice touched her father’s signet ring and forced herself to breathe in and out as the walls surrounding the city grew taller and the lake behind the seat of the High Lord of Charity glittered brightly under the heat of the summer sun. And on the walls and atop the castle far in the distance, the blue and yellow banners of the King of Eden fluttered next to her uncle’s red and gold ones in the breeze.
“King Adham is in residence,” she said as they approached the massive gray stone gates. Shouts of “Lady Betrice!” rang out. Somewhere deeper in the city, bells sounded. Betrice took as deep a breath as she could and looked at Oben. “I fear there is no turning back.”
For a moment, she saw regret flicker across his face. “There never was.” He reached behind him, unhooked the leather pouch with the bottle of Tears of Midnight, and held it out to her. Slowly she took it. As she clutched the bag, Oben nudged his horse forward, saying, “There is no turning back for either of us.”
Betrice barely noticed the city as she rode next to Oben along the cobbled street that led through the most affluent and thus most well-tended parts of the city. Vaguely she was aware of how the people whispered and pointed. Here and there she heard her name—some wondered aloud if
it could actually be her. All the while she thought of the bottle Oben had given her—a way to block out dreams or pain. It was clearly the only gift he felt he could give.
The road slanted uphill and Betrice kept her back straight and her eyes forward. Her heart throbbed in her throat as the two windmills that powered the castle and flanked the entrance came into view. The creaking of the gears pulled her nerves tighter. Everything inside her screamed to turn back.
And when her uncle appeared in the center of the archway that led inside the Keep, Betrice flinched and straightened her shoulders as she spotted her quarry standing to the side of him. Prince Ulron’s dark blond hair curled around his ears and brushed the tops of broad shoulders. She couldn’t see the color of his eyes from where she stood, but the smile that spread across his face when he saw her staring was self-satisfied. Attention from women was clearly what he had come to expect.
Quickly, she looked away from Prince Ulron and focused on her uncle, who had evidently spent more time at the dining table than the training yard in the two years since she’d been gone. His legs looked stubbier than she remembered and his black beard and mop of hair were threaded with gray, but the greedy, narrow eyes that traveled up and down her body were filled with delight and surprise.
“Lady Betrice!” Her uncle waddled forward and took both her hands in his. Her skin crawled at his touch, but she forced a smile as he boomed, “Captain Tarak told us of the ambush. He said he and the three men who helped him kill the attackers searched for you. Your bloody clothes were found shredded in a ravine and there were rock wolf tracks nearby. They believed you to be dead.”
“Had it not been for my horse’s sense of self-preservation and Oben’s aim, I would have been.” Betrice looked for Captain Tarak in the crowd.
“You have my thanks, Guardsman Oben.” Her uncle moved, blocking her view of Captain Tarak. “You brought my niece back unharmed. I am glad that she and I will have a chance to get reacquainted.”
Into the Garden Page 5