Aaron sniffed and glanced up at the sky where he could see dark clouds gathering in the early night, promising the storm to come. “Tonight, do you think?”
Leomin shook his head slowly, “I don’t know. I wish that I knew more, Mr. Envelar, but I only … I do not feel good about the coming night. Not good at all. Tell me, did you see any honeysuckle as we rode?”
Aaron frowned at the abrupt change in topic, “No, I didn’t.”
Leomin nodded , still studying the woods, “And yet I smell it. Do you know, many people believe that the smell of honeysuckle means death is on its way.”
“I had not heard that,” Aaron said. Though, in my experience, Leomin, death always is.
The Parnen nodded, “Superstitious nonsense, I’m sure. A smell can no more predict death or pain than a sound or a taste—unless, I suppose, one tastes poison. In which case…”
Aaron rubbed a hand across his grainy eyes, “Leomin? Is there anything else?”
The Parnen finally turned to him then, meeting his gaze. “I only think we should be careful, Mr. Envelar. This night has a dark feel to it. It is as if I feel the breath of this thing on the back of my neck, can see its approach out of the corner of my eye. Yet each time I turn there is nothing there that should not be there. For it is always behind me, always just out of sight.”
Aaron nodded. He’d been feeling much the same himself, though he’d wanted to pass it off as no more than a building of the jitters that had been working their way through him since they’d left Baresh. Now, though, with the Parnen’s words, he knew them for what they were. He had felt such feelings before, had known such anxiety. First there was the feeling of something off, of somehow stepping outside one’s self, watching one’s movements as if they were the movements of a stranger. Then there was the anxiety, the kind one felt in a dream when everyone around him seemed to know everything there was to know, and he himself knew nothing. These things always came first, but they were not the end of it, only the beginning. The feeling. The anxiety. And then the blood. There was always the blood, a river of it, running just out of sight, the sound of it just beneath the threshold of human hearing. But there anyway, and Aaron was struck by the unexplainable feeling that the river would run a little higher before the night was through.
“I think that you must look after her, Mr. Envelar.” Leomin said, pulling Aaron from his crimson thoughts. “I think that, tonight, we must all look after one another.”
Aaron nodded, “Alright, Leomin. Stay close, and if you need anything, give a shout.” He tipped his head, “However you may.”
Leomin smiled and nodded, “So I will, Mr. Envelar. Good night, and may the morning find us safe and grumpy and feeling like fools.”
“I hope that it does.”
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
He stood in the barn’s doorway, just able to make out her form there, in the darkness. She lay on her side, her back to the door and to him. He paused, wanting to say something, needing to say something, but the words didn’t want to come. They were there, he thought, but buried, and he couldn’t seem to get his hands on them. Buried beneath his own fears, his own worries—most of which revolved around Adina, one way or the other. So he only stood there instead, looking at the rise and fall of her breath, knowing that she was awake, knowing that she needed the words he would say and cursing himself for not being able to say them. Threats or angry words, sure, those came easy enough—they always did. As easy as the blood-letting that so often followed in the world he’d created around himself. But words of comfort, words of kindness and love … those were alien things to him, tools of which he’d had no need and therefore of which he had no experience.
There was the fear of losing her, the fear of what might happen to her, of what he was becoming and, of course, there was the fear of the words she’d say in answer. It wasn’t so much a fear of her rejecting him—though there was that, an image of her laughing and shaking her head, asking him was he serious and wondering how he could be—it was more a fear that she’d agree, that she’d accept his words, his thoughts, that she would utter her own. And what would follow, then? She would come to know him, in the days that followed, come to understand the weight and danger of the stone she’d tied around her neck. Who he was, what he was becoming, they would all be laid bare before her and then she would not deny, she would regret. She would not reject. She would condemn.
He knew too that, if he went to her, the darkness of the night would hide those flaws, tied inextricably about his person, woven in and out of his being, so that should a man grasp them and pull them out, there wouldn’t be enough left of him to walk upright. If somehow he was to take away his hate, his anger, he wasn’t sure what would be left—he wasn’t sure if anything would. For he was made of blood and made for the drawing of it. He was nothing without that. Nothing and good for nothing. For no one.
The darkness could hide such truths for a night, maybe more than one, but the sun reveals. If it does nothing else, it does that. Sun and time. These two things would make her understand the pit into which she’d fallen, a pit that could be crawled out of only with great pain and suffering. He’d try to help, of course, but as his voice was not made to comfort, nor were his hands made to help. His was a voice made to shout, to threaten, his hands made not for holding but for hurting.
He turned away from her still form, feeling relief and shame both, somehow, the two mingled together inside of him so that he could not rightly separate one from the other, and made his way to the other side of the barn floor, setting about unrolling his bedroll. He lay down on his back, wishing to sleep and knowing he would not. Wishing, for a few hours, to let himself go into that abyss, to let all that he was, all that he’d made himself become, be washed away on the lolling waves of unconsciousness. But sleep did not come easy, nor had he expected it to. After all, nothing else ever had.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
She came to him in the darkness, lying down next to him, the heat of her body almost a visible thing where it met his own. For a moment, neither of them spoke, only lay there in the darkness and the warmth that only two bodies so close can make. Her hair tickled his face, smelling of hay and flowers, and her breath was soft and warm against his neck.
After a time, her fingers quested out, interlacing with his own, and he was surprised by how soft they were, how delicate they felt in his own rough, calloused hands. She brought his hand up slowly and placed her lips on it in a soft, quiet kiss. “I’m scared,” she said, her voice low and faint in the darkness.
“I know.”
“I have a strange feeling,” she said, “I can’t really explain it. It’s as if … I feel like something’s going to happen. Something bad.”
He squeezed her hand a little, hoping it would transfer the comfort his words could not. “It almost always is.”
She said nothing for a time, her breath slow and hot now against his neck. “I….” he started, and the words, the damned words fought against him. He cleared his throat and tried again, his body tensed like a man going through some great trial or pain. “I won’t let anything happen to you if I can help it, Adina. I’ll die first.”
She leaned in close, her face, inches from his own, “That’s what I’m afraid of.” Then her lips were on his, and he forgot his objections, forgot the reasons that had been so clear and obvious moments ago. Under the weight of that kiss, he forgot, for a time, who he was, forgot those forces, understood and not understood, arrayed against them. It was only him and her, their bodies in the darkness, her lips against his, her hand reaching under his shirt, running across his stomach and chest.
He told himself he was being a fool, knew the truth of it, even as he pulled her closer, wanting more of her, wanting all of her. Her hair fell about his face in a curtain, and her hand quested lower, running over his trousers. An involuntary moan escaped him, and then she was straddling him, her hands locked in both of his own as she kissed him, their breath
coming in short gasps between kissing.
She guided his hands to her breasts, and he felt the soft smoothness of them under her shirt, felt himself being pulled by an animalistic need greater than anything he’d known before. “Adina,” he gasped, “I—”
“I know,” she whispered, “me too.”
He sat up, kissing her again then he turned and threw her on her back, his need a pressing, desperate thing now. He reached a hand down to her waist, felt the fabric of her trousers, started to pull them down then hesitated, staring at her outline in the darkness.
“It’s okay, Aaron. Please.”
He hesitated another moment, thinking. A princess. She was a princess, and he could have her, would have her in a barn that smelled of hay and old horse shit. And not just a princess, but the kindest, most perfect thing he’d ever seen in his life, and he would have her lying on a dirt floor with Leomin somewhere out in the darkness watching for a danger that moved toward them.
An image flashed in his mind, an image of hands stained crimson holding a dagger and digging into a man’s guts, a man who’d come to rob them and carry them to Belgarin to be tortured and executed, but a man anyway. He saw the hands going about their grisly work, uncaring of the man’s screams and choked pleas for mercy as they created their bloody art. Killer’s hands. His hands. “No,” he said, sitting up and jerking his hands away from her, “I can’t—” he cut off, not knowing how to finish. He stumbled back and to his feet, the fear stronger than ever now, twisting and turning in his stomach like some fell creature newly born.
“Aaron?” She asked, “What’s wrong? Please, it’s okay. I want this. I need this.”
Need. The way the hands had needed, had quested and tore and raked with the dagger’s blade until there was little left. Want. The hands had wanted too, had rejoiced in the causing of pain, had drunk it in like some perverse dark priest that dined on blood. “No,” he grated, “I’m sorry.” Then he was grabbing his sheathed sword and slinging it over his back, putting his cloak back on and drawing down the hood, entering back into a world he knew and understood. “I’ll go check on Leomin.”
“Aaron, wait,” she said, but he was already out the door, out of it and moving. Not so much toward Leomin as away from her, away from the pain that he would cause her.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Balen stood on the deck watching Avarest appear on the horizon, the buildings only vague shapes at this distance. He took a puff from the pipe he held, breathing in the fumes deeply, wondering for what must have been the thousandth time what was happening with Leomin and Aaron and the princess. Wondering and worrying.
He sighed before taking another drag from the pipe, watching the smoke of it carried away on the wind. They’ll be alright, he told himself. Aaron can take care of himself, the gods know that, and Leomin and the princess are smart. They’ll make it out okay. It wasn’t the first time he’d told himself as much and now, like all the others, it was of little comfort.
Looking for something to take his mind off of his worry, Balen glanced around the ship where Festa’s sailors went about their given tasks in near silence. A quieter ship, he’d never seen. Safest, he supposed, unless they relished the idea of becoming another dent in the captain’s table. He’d tried to help, at first, a way to take his mind off of things as much as anything else, but they’d rebuffed him in their silence, someone picking up a task even as he made his way to it and giving him looks that, though not hostile, were not humoring either.
He was just about to turn back to the city once more when he saw old Thom emerging from below decks. The man walked heavily, as if exhausted, and Balen couldn’t help but smile as he watched his old friend head toward him. The gray-haired man took up a spot beside him, propping his arms on the ship’s edge and gazing out into the ocean.
Balen grinned wider at the desperate look in the man’s eyes, “Well?” He said. “How is it with you, Thom? You’re lookin’ a little stiff, you don’t mind me sayin.’”
The older man slowly turned his head to study Balen. “Give me a pull of that herb you’re smokin’, why don’t you?”
Balen grinned wider, passing the pipe to the first mate. Thom grunted, taking a drag before handing it back and turning to look at the ocean once more.
Balen waited several seconds then spoke, “You know, some of the lads have been speakin’ of some squeals comin’ from one of the cabins at night. Say they’ve been losin’ sleep on account of it.”
Thom grunted again, “Well. Ships sometimes get rats, you know that. It’s natural enough.”
“Aye,” Balen said, nodding, “aye, rats. Thing is, they’re sayin’ this squealin’ don’t sound like that of a rat. Say it sounds more like that of a man, fightin’ for his life maybe. Quiet enough lot, your men, but seems this has caused a bit of talk between ‘em.”
Thom frowned at him, “They’d do just as well to stay quiet.”
Balen nodded, schooling his expression. “Well. You ain’t heard any of the squealin’ yourself, then?”
Festa’s first mate sighed, “Alright, damnit. Alright. I’ll just say as that woman is a handful and then some. She does some things ….” He hesitated, glancing at Balen, “I’ll tell ya, Blunderfoot, I didn’t know such things was possible. Why, I feel like I been beat every which a way a man can be. She’ll be the death of me, for it’s through.”
Balen laughed, “I ‘spose there’s worse ways to go, if that’s the case.”
Thom studied him for a moment then his weary face showed a small smile, “Aye. I ‘spose you’re right. But the stamina on her….” He shook his head in something like wonder.
Balen stared off at the distant city, his smile fading. “In these times, I feel that a man has to get what joy as he may where he finds it, Thom. Sore bones and scratches are a small enough price to pay and less than most.”
“Aye,” Thom said, nodding, “you’re right, of course, Blunderfoot.”
“Won’t be long now,” Balen said to himself as much as his friend, “Soon, we’ll reach the city. Then, I suppose, we’ll see what we might see.”
“Seems to me,” Thom said, “you might do with a bit of joy of your own, lad. There’s a dark cast to your features.”
Balen closed his eyes for a moment, felt the cool sea breeze on his face, listened to the sound of the gulls cawing in the distance and the rush of the water beneath them. “You’re right, old man. But I think I feel a storm comin’ on. A bad one.”
Festa’s first mate glanced up at the blue sky, no cloud in sight, “The day’s clear enough.”
“Yeah,” Balen said. He was a simple man, of simple pleasures, and he rarely expected much out of life. That, he’d always found, was the secret to happiness. His papa had once told him that a man expects a lot and gets a little is unhappy, but a man that expects nothing and gets a little is thankful for what he’s given. He tried to tell himself that now, but, for the first time in his life, it didn’t seem like enough. “But there’s a storm comin’ just the same, Thom. I can feel it as much as I can feel anything.”
The gray-haired man grasped his shoulder, “Easy, lad. If a storm does come, it won’t be the first blow you or I have suffered. Storms, after all, can be weathered.”
“Aye,” Balen said, studying the sky, “Most can.”
They stood in silence for a few moments then, each with their own thoughts as the ship cut through the water, drawing them closer to the shore, closer to the future and whatever awaited them there.
“Master Thom.”
They both turned at the sound of the voice to see May, the club owner, walking toward them, wearing some fancy green dress that looked to Balen like it belonged more in a ballroom than on a ship. Still, she wore it well. Her long bright red hair seemed almost on fire in the light of the sun. A thick woman, but one whose thickness only seemed to add to her beauty somehow, in Balen’s eyes. And, apparently, in Thom’s too, judging by the way the man was staring.
“I
wonder,” May said as she drew close, and Balen noted all of the sailors turning to glance at her as she passed, “if I might have a word with you before we reach Avarest.” Her words and voice were casual enough, but there was something almost predatory in her green eyes, predatory and amused.
“Of course, my lady,” Thom said, swallowing hard. “What can I help you with?”
“Oh,” May said, “it’s so loud out here, with the waves and the gulls. I wonder if we could speak below?” She nodded as if he’d agreed, “I’ll expect you in a few minutes,” she said, then turned and sauntered off, escorted by the eyes of every sailor on the ship until she disappeared below decks.
“Damn.” Thom said, and Balen couldn’t help but laugh.
“No worries, old man,” he said, “as you say. All storms can be weathered.”
“Aye,” Thom said, running a hand through his graying hair, “Aye, as you say.” Then he turned and started toward the cabins and despite all his complaints, Balen couldn’t help but notice the eagerness in the old man’s step. If that was a man walking to his own death, then he was doing it gladly.
Thom had only been gone for a minute or two when Balen saw the chamberlain, Gryle, making his way toward him. The short, balding man was wringing his hands as he approached. Balen tried to think of a time he’d seen the man where he hadn’t been nervous and came up empty. “Chamberlain,” he said, nodding, “how are things with you?”
The short man seemed surprised to have someone asking after himself, “Me? Oh, they’re going well enough, Mr. Balen. Thank you for inquiring.”
“Please, lad,” Balen said, and there was such about the balding man’s character that it felt right to call him so despite the fact that he was at least ten years Balen’s senior, “as I’ve told you before, Balen will do. A man like me has no right to a mister.”
“Of course, as you say, Mr. Balen,” the chamberlain said nodding, his hands rubbing together in earnest now. “I apologize for my intrusion, of course, but I was wondering if I might ask you a question.”
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