“I fought Tristan.”
Blair laughed, then bent forward, brushing her lips over the hollow of my throat. “As if it matters who you fight, these days.” She glanced back up, smirking. “But at least Tristan takes it well when you put him on his back.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And ye don’t?”
Blair’s expression grew rueful as she slid her hands beneath my leathers, fingers exploring the flatness of my stomach, so much firmer now than it had been when I arrived. Not that Blair—who was at least as fit as I was, if considerably curvier—seemed to mind. “You owe me for being late, you know,” she whispered, standing on her tiptoes to run her teeth along my throat, her tongue dancing lightly over my skin.
“I owe ye for a lot of t’ings,” I admitted, tugging on her hair, just a little. Blair made a soft noise and pressed herself firmly against me, putting as little space between us as physically possible.
“Then pay up,” she growled.
And so I did.
18
We lay coiled in each other’s arms, the shadows outside deepening, which meant it wouldn’t be long before Blair returned to work; she and Tristan were both members of Lady Aife’s household guard, trading off with a few others to watch over the warmaiden and her family. Still, I wasn’t going to complain; there was something about her eventual departure that always drew us closer as night fell—our conversations more meaningful, our actions more tender. Absence makes the heart grow fonder—one of the few phrases I occasionally recalled from my old life.
Blair absentmindedly ran her hands up and down my naked back, letting them trail along the curve of my hip as they descended. “Are you ready for the tournament?” she asked.
I frowned, my own arms wound around her shoulders. “Why?” I asked. Blair shrugged, but I noticed the tension singing through her body and knew the question hadn’t been a casual one. “What is it?”
Blair sighed, her breath brushing across my exposed chest, making parts of my body tighten in response. She held me closer, giggling, and shook her head. “It’s nothing.”
“Blair…” I growled.
“It was nothing, really. It was just something Rhys said. He was being…well, Rhys.”
I nodded, relaxing somewhat. “What did he say?”
“He…he said if he wins the tournament, he’ll ask that you be banished for his boon.” Blair spit all this out quickly, as if dreading how I’d react. She shook her head. “I know he doesn’t stand a chance of winning, it’s only—”
I placed a finger against Blair’s lips. “It’s alright,” I said, smiling, though—on the inside—a part of me was seething. Taunting us was one thing, but trying to get to us through Blair? “We’ll deal with him.”
“We?”
I hesitated, then nodded. “Aye. I’ll talk to Lady Aife. See if there’s anythin’ she and I can do. Rhys is a proud man,” I added, thoughtfully, “if all he wants is attention, maybe she can give it to him.” Then, for some reason, I bridled at my own words—as if giving Rhys that much credit had somehow subconsciously offended part of me. Indeed, I was struck by a sudden urge to cut him down, to eliminate him before he became a problem. It was a very callous, but very practical solution.
And it scared me a little.
“That’s a good idea,” Blair replied, grinning. She nibbled on the end of the finger I’d left hovering by her mouth, stealing back my attention. “I have to leave soon,” she murmured, searching my face.
I laughed. “And I still owe ye, is that it?”
“No, I think it’s the other way around, this time,” Blair replied, sinking lower along the line of my body, hands no longer restricted to my back alone.
“Well, if ye insist…”
19
The Beltane feast took place beneath the stars, though the smoke drifting lazily up from our fires concealed the night sky. The market square had been commandeered for the occasion, vendor stalls converted to serving platforms—dishes of all sorts had been put on display, mostly a variety of prepared meats, their contents still sizzling. I was somewhat surprised to find casks of ale had been dispersed among the long tables taken from the mead hall, anchoring either end for easy access, at Lady Aife’s request. She and a handful of her finest warriors—Tristan and Rhys among them—occupied a table of their own at the head of the event, a massive, roaring bonfire burning behind them. Though I couldn’t make them out from where I stood, I knew Blair and a few other guards were out there, prowling the shadows, keeping an eye out for anything irregular, anything that might ruin the festivities.
Which, tonight, included us.
“Ye want to take it when?” I asked, studying Imogen’s earnest face.
“When he’s peeing.”
I shook my head, struggling to remember why I’d agreed to do this. “That’s a terrible idea.”
“No, it’s not,” Imogen argued, voice petulant. “If he’s peeing, that means he’ll be drunk, and away from everyone else.”
“Oh? And is that usually how this sort of t’ing gets done?”
“Well, no,” she admitted. “Usually we’d wait for the man to take a bath and steal his clothes. But Tristan bathes with his arm rings on.”
“Does he now?”
Imogen blushed. “Look, I just need you to distract him.”
“Distract him how?”
“I don’t know,” she replied testily, gripping the loose folds of her dress so tight her knuckles had turned white. “Hit him over the head or something.”
I gaped at the young woman. “Let me get this straight. Ye want me to knock your potential beloved unconscious while he’s pissin’ so ye can steal his armband and proclaim your intentions?”
Imogen frowned, bit her lip, but finally nodded. “Yes.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Wait, why?!”
“Because,” I said, flicking the girl’s ear for emphasis, “if Tristan wakes up with his pants around his ankles and his armband missin’, you’ll have completely embarrassed the man. Not exactly an auspicious beginnin’ to a relationship. Besides, the whole point of this is to be clever. Not cruel.”
Imogen rubbed gingerly at her ear, staring at the ground, disheartened. “You’re right. I’m being silly. Let’s just forget it, alright?”
I flicked her other ear.
“Ow! Why’d you do that?”
I pointed, ignoring her question. “What size is that servin’ girl’s dress, d’ye t’ink?”
Imogen glared at me, but finally turned to look. “Aisling? She and I used to spar together until last year. We’re about the same…” Imogen drifted off. “Wait, what are you—”
“Maybe if we dirty up your hair,” I interrupted, holding her red locks up to the firelight.
“Hold on, I—”
“You’ll have to move differently. Like she does. See how she sways when she walks, turnin’ this way and that with her hips? None of that struttin’ nonsense ye do.”
“I do not strut!”
I pressed a finger to the young woman’s lips. “Imogen,” I said, meeting her eyes, no longer playful or teasing in the least. “D’ye really want to give up? Or are ye willin’ to try somethin’ bold, even if it means gettin’ caught and lookin’ like a fool? Because that’s what it may come to.”
Imogen reached up to take my finger from her lips. “You’re serious.”
I nodded and searched the shadows for a figure in the dark. “Sometimes love is the most humiliatin’ t’ing there is. It’s awful, needin’ someone so much that you’re willin’ to give up parts of yourself. But, if ye aren’t willin’ to take that risk, ye may not deserve it.”
“You really are an outsider, aren’t you?”
I planted both hands on her shoulders, shook her a little, and grinned. “Maybe. But this outsider has a plan that just might work.”
Imogen shifted nervously from side to side for a moment, but eventually let out a small groan of frustration. “Alright, fine, tell me.”
“Well, first you’re goin’ to have to talk Aisling into givin’ ye her dress…”
I took my own seat at Lady Aife’s table just as the Beltane feast truly began. As I settled in, a procession of perhaps a half-dozen cloaked men and women—the sum total of the Curaitl’s druid population—weaved through the tables towards the bonfire, chanting as they approached our table. The druids, it was said, were mystical practitioners who dedicated their lives to the Tuatha de Danann, though all paid particular homage to the Dagda, the greatest and noblest of their gods. Indeed, I’d learned Beltane was as much a religious holiday as it was a celebration of winter’s end—a time-honored tradition designed to venerate the coming summer and its bounty, neither of which would be possible were it not for the intercession of the gods.
Once they were arrayed before us, Lady Aife rose to her feet and held her arms wide, her gold armbands glinting with reflected firelight. “Curaitl!” she cried, her melodious voice carrying remarkably well throughout the market square. “Douse the lights!”
In an instant, all flames except that of the bonfire were extinguished, the torches and braziers put out so quickly I actually felt a thrill of panic—as if someone had thrust a hand over my eyes. Fortunately, once my eyes adjusted, I realized it wasn’t as bad as all that; I could still see the druids as they filed out on either side of our table, working their way towards the bonfire at our backs, their chant uninterrupted. As I watched, each of the druids produced a torch and pressed it to the flames, though when they withdrew them, I was surprised to see the cloth-wrapped ends burning with an inexplicably bright, otherworldly light. As one, they returned to stand before us, their torches casting uneven shadows upon the ground that I could have sworn were facing the wrong way.
“Go forth and rekindle our fires,” Lady Aife said, arms raised once more. “Together, the Curaitl will welcome the coming season! And,” she added, folding her arms across her chest, “if it’s not too much trouble, maybe you could put a good word in for those who will be participating in the coming tournament.”
One of the druids stepped forward, reached up, and pulled his hood back, revealing a stately face covered in fine, faintly blue tattoos which spun around his mouth and eyes like whirlpools. “Let all who bathe in this fire,” he said, lifting his torch, “know the warmth found in the heart of the gods for the Curaitl.” He grinned, then, surprising me with the mischievous glint in his eyes. “And know we’ll do what we can to ensure victory, my Lady. It never hurts to ask, right?”
Lady Aife barked a laugh, then turned to those of us at her table, snatching up her mug in the process. “To the Curaitl!” She tossed back her mug, and I—like everyone else in the market square—followed suit. The ale was faintly bitter, but refreshing, and a great cheer went through the crowd as Lady Aife returned to her seat, speech apparently concluded.
Meanwhile, I quaffed my drink before slamming it onto the table. “More ale!” I called, waving. Tristan, who sat only a few seats down, leaned forward until he could see me, his eyebrows raised in surprise; he knew I rarely, if ever, drank. It wasn’t that I minded the taste of alcohol so much as it was the way I behaved when I’d had one too many—not to mention that damned voice.
“You and Blair planning to celebrate something tonight?” he teased.
I ignored him, gesturing to the nearby serving girl. She swayed towards me, working her way down the table, snatching up mugs and filling them as she went. Her hair was a muddy brown, her dress a little too big on her, but no one seemed to notice or care. Besides, with all the torches and braziers yet to be lit, it was hard to tell even that much.
“More ale?” Imogen, disguised as the serving girl Aisling, asked. Her voice was a bit higher-pitched than I’d have liked, but at least she sounded nothing like herself.
“Aye, and pour some for the homely one over there,” I said, pointing at Tristan.
“Oh no,” he insisted, “I haven’t even finished this one.”
“Ah. Well, never ye mind, then,” I replied, patting the serving girl’s hand. “I was just tryin’ to let the poor man beat me at somethin’ today, that’s all.”
Tristan grunted. “Oh, is that how it is?” he asked, and I realized he was chuckling, shoulders bobbing up and down. He held up a hand and tossed back his own mug, wiping the froth off his chin with a flourish. “Bring it on, then.” He held up his freshly drained mug.
The serving girl flashed me a shy smile and began to close the distance between us, our plan going remarkably well; all Imogen had to do now was trip and spill her pitcher on Tristan. Then, together, she and I intended to slip off his armband in the confusion, and replace it with a cheap, bronze replacement he’d wear until Imogen revealed herself in front of everyone, dressed in her own clothes, cleaned up. It wasn’t the most elaborate plan, or perhaps even the most brilliant, but I had a feeling it would all work itself out.
Or, it would have, anyway.
If not for Rhys.
“You’re in the way,” the bastard said, planting himself firmly between Imogen and her target, having apparently risen from his own seat at the end of the table for some reason. “Go down below and serve the others.” He snatched the pitcher out of her hands. “We warriors can pour for ourselves.”
Imogen turned to look over her shoulder at me, eyes wide. I jerked my head, realizing it would cause too big a stir for her—a mere serving girl—to argue with one of the Curaitl’s champions; she’d be found out in no time. Better that she retreat while she still could. Fortunately, Imogen seemed to come to the same conclusion; she gave the faintest bow and spun, returning to the crowds below, back stiff, sway utterly forgotten.
“You didn’t have to be so rude, Rhys,” Tristan said, taking his eyes away from the serving girl to stare up at the man.
“She didn’t belong up here,” Rhys said, sniffing suspiciously at the pitcher.
Tristan frowned, realizing Rhys was probably right; Lady Aife’s household servants were typically the only ones allowed among us during large events like these—a security precaution few could argue with. Indeed, convincing Lady Aife’s steward that he should let Imogen and I enact our plan had been, until now, the biggest obstacle we’d had to overcome.
“She probably just wanted to meet someone worthwhile,” I said, offhandedly, deciding not to stray too far from the truth. “Girls her age are romantic like that, hoping to attract the eye of a true warrior. It’s too bad she ran into ye first, eh, Rhys?”
Rhys slammed the pitcher on the table, loomed over my shoulder, and glared down at me. “Any woman would be lucky to share my bed,” he growled, then straightened. “After all, Blair never complained,” he added.
I scowled, craning my neck to look up at the bastard. “What d’ye say?”
“You really are a moron, Rhys,” Tristan muttered.
“What?” Rhys turned to face the other man. “Surely Blair shares such things with her lover?”
I glanced back and forth between the two men, but it was Tristan’s face that told me what I wanted to know: Rhys wasn’t lying. I turned from them both, momentarily disgusted by the mere idea of Rhys and Blair together, but it was the sudden jealousy which made me want to hit something. The images that flashed through my mind.
Images I knew would haunt me later.
I clenched my teeth, knowing I was being ridiculous. No, Blair hadn’t told me. But who was I to judge? It wasn’t like I had no past of my own to share. Why would Blair bring up her former lovers, when I couldn’t so much as remember mine? But then, how was I supposed to tell her I sometimes woke up in the middle of the night with the sensory memory of a man’s full lips pressed against my mouth, his tongue dancing over mine, his very touch feverishly hot, like a brand against my skin?
And yet…and yet I hated Rhys for mocking me like this, for having known her body, even for an instant. The very idea that he’d held her in his arms, that he might know where and how she liked to be touched, made me want to destroy something
beautiful.
Irrational? Absolutely.
But so what?
“Rhys, you should go sit down,” Tristan urged, having moved to stand next to the man.
“Why?” Rhys planted his hands on his hips. This close, I could see the bastard’s general appeal: he was handsome in a rugged sort of way, well-built and fair-skinned. And yet the crooked tilt of his lips, the faint tightness around his eyes, made something cruel out of all that potential. Something wounded and nasty.
“It’s alright, Tristan,” I replied, sounding far calmer than I felt. “I’ll go.”
“She’ll never be one of us, you know,” Rhys said. The words seemed directed at Tristan, but his eyes were all for me, and I knew in that moment that the man was itching for a fight, that he’d come over here to specifically provoke me. “We can’t even be sure what she is,” he added.
“She’s a warrior, like us. A spear wielder—” Tristan began.
“Is she, though?” Rhys mocked a pouting face, then shook his head, disgusted. “Tell me, do you know why Lady Aife wanted her? Why we attacked Caer Capall that night?”
Tristan and I both stared at the man, speechless. Personally, I’d wondered that for a long time, though it’d seemed less and less important as my time with the Curaitl went on; whenever I’d thought to ask Lady Aife, she’d insisted it had been a mistake on her part, a response so out of character for her that I’d never thought to pry further. Eventually, I’d stopped caring enough to ask. But, now that Rhys had brought it back up, I felt the stirrings of something. Curiosity, maybe…or perhaps panic.
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