Veil of Shadows

by Walker, Shiloh

  With that, he reached out the door and grabbed something—no. Somebody. Dais. The man, his hands bound and his mouth gagged, was thrown summarily at her feet.

  A rush of adrenaline and anger chased the exhaustion from her mind, and Syn lifted the pulsar once more, aiming it at Dais. “And what a fine gift, too. Is he all mine or do I have to share?”

  “I’d suggest you share, unless you want the commander to tan your hide,” Morne said.

  Dais glared at her, hitching his shoulder up and rubbing his jaw against it in an effort to dislodge the gag. When that didn’t work, he settled for grunting and sputtering at her from behind the cloth. His eyes, opaque with fear and fury, narrowed on her face. She didn’t need to hear the words—she suspected she understood him just fine.

  “If it isn’t my onetime captain . . . my friend.” She sheathed her pulsar and came around the table, crouching down beside him. She lifted a hand and called the fire. It spun and danced in her hand and without taking her eyes from Dais, she asked Morne, “Do you think if I burn him a bit here and there, you could heal him up before I turn him over to Kalen?”

  Morne clicked his tongue. “Bloodthirsty. I like that.”

  Dais shrieked behind the gag.

  “Don’t care for the idea, friend?” Syn laughed. “Too fucking bad. I find it very appealing.”

  And she did—enough that it left her stomach twisting. Clenching her jaw, she quelled the fire and stood over Dais. He swung out with his feet, trying to knock her down. She backed away, eying him narrowly. “Watch it, old man. I may be above torture, but I’m not above beating you senseless if you so much as touch me.”

  Dais tried a second time. Snarling, Syn went to bend over—she had half a mind to grab the front of his filthy, threadbare shirt and pound her fist into his face until she broke all the bones in her hand—and his face. But Morne beat her to it. He placed a booted foot on Dais’s neck and said, “Try it again and see what happens, treacherous coward. Laisyn may be above torture. But I am not. Although I prefer to think of it as justice.”

  The man went white, and when Morne pulled his foot away, Dais curled away, huddling up against the wall to glare at them both.

  Morne glanced at Syn and then at the closed opening to the pit. “I’d planned on throwing him in there before reporting into the commander—preferred not to drag him through the streets. Most people are sleeping, but I didn’t want to risk a riot if somebody saw him.” He paused and lifted a brow. “But the pit isn’t empty, is it?”

  “No.” Syn curled a lip. “We have a fucking Warlord in there.”

  “Do you, now?” An odd look entered Morne’s eyes, and he cocked his head. “May I?”

  Syn gestured toward the pit. “By all means.”

  Morne started toward the pit and then paused, looked back at Dais. “If you so much as try to stand, I’ll beat you bloody. Then I’ll heal you . . . and do it all over again.”

  Dais returned his stare sullenly. There was defeat written all over the man’s face, Syn decided. She was almost disappointed. All that was left was to kill him. There was no hunt, no capture, no fight left. Nothing.

  No. Not nothing.

  Keeping Morne in her line of sight, she approached Dais and crouched down in front of him. “Try to kick me, attack me in any way, and I will burn you this time,” she warned. Then she yanked the gag out of his mouth. “Why?”

  Dais worked his jaw, not responding for a few seconds. He looked like utter hell, she decided. Thin, almost skeletally so, his hair lank and grimy. He stank to high heaven as well, and the clothes he wore had seen better years. They were threadbare and hung loose on his gaunt frame.

  His mouth, dry and colorless, remained stubbornly closed.

  Staring at him through slitted eyes, she lifted a hand and cupped it in front of her. “Answer me, you bastard. You owe us that much.”

  Now he laughed. It was a rasping echo of the laugh she remembered. Dear God, had it been just a few months ago that this man had stood at her side, fought with her? Grieved right alongside her as they buried the bodies of their fallen?

  “I don’t owe you a damn thing, Captain,” he said. His voice, like his laugh, was harsh and rasping. “The only person I owe a damn thing to is me. I was watching out for my own hide, and the fact that none of you saw fit to do the same is why you’re so pissed.”

  “Watching out for your own hide?” Syn echoed. She smirked and shook her head. “Yes, and it looks like you’ve done a fine job of it. When’s the last time you had a good meal, old man? Clean clothes? A warm bath? When’s the last time you slept without wondering if you’d ever wake again?”

  He spit at her. Syn retaliated by driving her fist straight into his nose. Cartilage crunched and blood fountained. Pain jolted up her arm, and without bothering to replace his gag, she straightened. “Keep your fucking mouth closed. If anybody hears you in here, they’ll come to investigate, and I warn you—many of them are more likely to peel the flesh from your bones and see how long it takes you to die. If you scream, if you try to escape, I’ll let them have you.”

  Unable to look at him another moment, she turned to face Morne. He was staring into the pit. He must have been waiting for her attention, because the moment she looked at him, he lifted his midnight gaze to hers and said, “I don’t think this man is any threat to you, Captain.”

  Her gut agreed.

  Her mind didn’t want to.

  “No threat?” Her mouth twisted in a smirk, and she moved to stand beside Morne, looking down into the pit. The lone prisoner was staring ahead, not bothering to acknowledge the people standing over him. No surprise there. He hadn’t bothered to look at them at all, not even when she lowered food and water into the pit or clean clothes, rags and water for washing. “He’s a damn Warlord. He’s all kinds of threat.”

  “No.” He said something to the prisoner.

  Vaguely, Syn sensed the Warlord’s surprise, but she was too busy trying to understand what Morne had said. She understood basic Anqarian—most of the rebels knew a handful of words and the higher-ranked soldiers could carry on a stilted conversation.

  But the words coming from Morne’s mouth were beyond foreign. It almost sounded like Anqarian—almost but not quite. Just when she thought she’d grasped a word or two, it was lost again.

  The Warlord’s eyes narrowed and he stared up at Morne, something like shock written on his features for the briefest moment. But then it was gone, replaced by that smooth, unreadable mask.

  Morne said something else—a question, Syn thought.

  Her guess was confirmed when the Warlord gave a brief, terse nod. He gave Morne a regal nod and then said in a cool voice, “Laithe.”

  “I thought as much,” Morne muttered under his breath. Then he looked at Syn. “He is no threat to you, Syn. Nor to this camp.”

  “How so?”

  “His name is Laithe Taise—son of Raichar Taise.” He waited just a moment and then said softly, “It’s Lee’s brother.”

  Syn gaped at him and then shifted her gaze, staring down into the pit. Her heart slammed against her ribs and her lungs felt tight, closed off. “Her brother.” She rubbed her eyes.

  Syn caught a movement from the corner of her eye and she turned her head, staring at Dais. Morne did the same. Dais froze. He had been in the process of shifting his weight so that he was sitting upright, but one look from Morne had the man lowering himself back down. Syn shifted around to stand on the other side of the pit so she could keep Dais in her sight line.

  Her head was pounding, she realized. Pain flared behind her eyes, but she shoved it aside. No time for headaches now. Splitting her attention between Dais and the Warlord—Laithe—Lee’s brother, she said, “Just because this is Lee’s brother, if you are right, doesn’t mean he is no threat. Hell, her own father tried to kidnap her.”

  “In his own way, her father tried to protect her,” Morne said.

  Syn opened her mouth to argue, but Morne lifted a hand, cutting
her off. “Believe as you wish, Laisyn, but her father did not seek to bring harm to her—he wanted her with him—safe. A Warlord gives loyalty, protection and allegiance to only three things—family, the High Lord and his liege lord. Lee was his family, and he did want her safe. He simply could not comprehend that his version of safety is naught by imprisonment.”

  Jabbing a finger in Laithe’s direction, she demanded, “And how do we know that won’t be his idea of providing safety?”

  Laithe, his voice cold and hard, said, “My father wasn’t always a wise man. His arrogance couldn’t let him see that bringing Lenena among Warlords would be akin to leading a sheep to slaughter. Warlords ceased warring among ourselves centuries ago, but her presence would reignite those wars. There are those who would level entire cities, nations, to have one such as Lenena under his control.”

  Lenena—that was the name Lee’s father had given her. Curling her lip at the Warlord, Syn said, “She doesn’t go by that name. Her name is Lee.”

  “Lee,” he said, giving her that regal, polite nod once more. “As you wish.”

  “As I wish.” Syn shook her head and swallowed the knot in her throat. Just being this close to a Warlord terrified her, left her feeling half sick. What she wished was for these bastards to leave her world and never return.

  She couldn’t have what she wished, but she’d damn well have some answers. Studying the man Morne insisted was Lee’s brother, she asked, “And what would be your idea of protecting somebody that valuable to your kind?”

  “She is my sister—my blood. I’d lay down my life to protect her. It is my duty, my honor . . . my right.”

  She could feel the truth of those words—not just sense them, but feel them. Blowing out a shuddering breath, she said, “I want to trust you. I want to believe the brother of one of my friends wouldn’t bring harm or heartbreak on her. But according to Morne, her father wanted to protect her, too, and I’d rather die than have that kind of protection. I suspect Lee feels the same way. What are your plans? Tell me now why you are here.”

  “I seek only to watch out for her. I wouldn’t bring heartbreak or harm on her, not if it was within my control, and I would do anything within my power to keep others from bringing it, either.” He looked away. A sad, heavy sigh left him and for the first time, he seemed as human as she. As capable of emotion as any other man. “I barely remember her, you know. I was but a child when she was taken from us. But I remember the way she smiled, and I remember how she loved to hear our mother sing. Our mother had a lovely voice.”

  That was the one thing about her mother that Lee remembered, Syn thought. Her voice.

  “Damn it.” Syn turned away, driving a hand through her hair. She glanced at the door. Xan would be back—should have already been back, she thought.

  Giving Morne a narrow look, she said, “You’ve always had to complicate things.” Then she stooped over and grabbed the rope ladder to the pit. She tossed it down in and said to Laithe, “Come out; you need to speak to the commander, and damn it, you need to be prepared to actually give answers this time. Because he’s going to have a whole hell of a lot of questions, and he’s not going to want to listen to a damn thing you say.”

  Laithe’s mouth twitched. There was something oddly familiar about that smile. “And you did want to listen?” He wasted no time climbing the ladder, clearing it easily.

  Syn looked away from him. His presence still made her skin prickle, no matter what Morne said. But he wasn’t a threat. It was a truth she’d been denying for the past few days, but she couldn’t deny it anymore. Thanks to Morne.

  Focusing on Dais, she gave him a dark look. “I have your quarters ready, Captain.”

  He stared at her and then lowered his eyes to the pit. Something entered his eyes—fear. The man knew once he entered that pit, the next time he left would probably be to die. Assuming he left it alive.

  “No.”

  Laithe and Morne both took a step toward him. Morne gave Laithe a narrow look and said, “I already own his blood, boy.”

  The door opened.

  Syn lifted her head, resting her hand on her pulsar. But it was Xan. She moved her hand away from her weapon and gave him a weary smile. It faded fast, though, as his dark, enigmatic gaze settled on Morne.

  His eye narrowed. His body tensed. “You.”

  Syn put her body between the two men from Anqar and Xan. “Stand down, Xan. It’s okay. You haven’t met Morne . . .”

  “Actually, I have.” Xan’s mouth twisted in a cold smile as he drew the long, wicked blade from his back. “Please step away from him—”

  “Insar!” Dais’s eyes rounded, and he shoved himself to his knees, staring at Xan in shock. He started to babble in halting Anqarian, but this time, Syn understood the words.

  “Please—Battlelord, aid me. I beseech your aid and in exchange, I offer up a prize any Warlord would pay much to acquire.”

  Battlelord—what in the hell?

  Silver flashed. A knife hurtled through the air and buried itself in Dais’s left eye.

  Morne muttered, “Bleeding sands, Kalen will have all our hides.” He moved to crouch beside Dais.

  But it was too late. Dais was already dead. Syn could feel the echo of his passing—angry and bitter—as his soul faded.

  Morne shot Xan a black glare. “Damn your aim, Insar. The commander isn’t going to be pleased.”

  Xan wasn’t looking at Morne. He stared at Syn. Only at Syn.

  Something about the intensity of that look had her heart quivering. Insar—?

  Licking her lips, she looked from Dais’s lifeless body to Xan. “Why was he talking to you in Anqarian? Why did he seem like he knew you?”

  A muscle twitched in Xan’s jaw as he sheathed the long blade. His gaze fell away from her face, and his big shoulders rose and fell with a rough sigh. “I have seen the man before, Captain.” His gaze flicked to Morne, then the freed Warlord, before returning to her face.

  “How? When?” Her voice was shaking. Hell. She was shaking.

  He clenched his jaw. Strong, broad hands opened, then closed into fists. “I believe you already know the answer to that.”

  Oh, God.

  Oh, God.

  “What does Insar mean?” she demanded.

  “Battlelord.”

  With a sharp, humorless laugh, she snapped, “I got that much—thanks. But what in the hell is a Battlelord?” When he didn’t answer, she looked at Morne.

  He stared at her, his gaze softening with sympathy. He didn’t say anything, but he did reach out, lay a hand on her shoulder.

  Xan snarled, drawing his blade again. “Get your damned hands off of her!”

  Syn ducked away when Xan would have grabbed her. The world—dear God, the world felt like it was rocking under her feet, spinning around her. The roaring in her ears got louder and the pain behind her eyes threatened to blind her.

  Xan wasn’t from Ishtan. He was from Anqar—he was whatever in the hell a Battlelord was. Reaching up, she curled her fingers around Morne’s arm. Blindly, she looked in Xan’s direction. “I’d trust Morne with my life—Battlelord. Which is more than I can say for you.”

  “Laisyn.” Morne murmured her name gently, covered her hand with his. She felt him reaching out—not physically, but on the energy plain, on that level where they shared a similar gift. This man will not harm you—part of you already knows that.

  Shaking her head, Syn backed away. Xan had already harmed her. He’d lied to her—all of them. But she didn’t, couldn’t, say the words out loud. In that moment, all she could do was run, because if she didn’t run, she’d shatter.

  Syn started for the door and Xan moved to touch her. “Syn, wait, please.”

  Then she realized she could speak. It was like forcing broken glass through her tight throat, each word painful. But she managed. “Get the hell out of my camp, Battlelord.”

  The door slammed shut behind Syn, and Xan flinched, closing his eye.

  Syn . . .
Aching, he reached up and rubbed the heel of his hand over his heart. Bleeding sands, I should have told her. He knew that . . . He just hadn’t known how. Dear one, I have a confession I must make—I come from Anqar. I am not a Warlord, but I come from a long line of them. My ancestors enslaved yours for centuries. Can you try not to hold it against me?

  “Damn it all to hell,” he growled, whirling around and driving his fist into one of the stone support beams. His skin split and pain shot up his arm, but he ignored it, punching the stone a second time.

  Should have told her . . .

  And now, it was too fucking late.

  “You’d best go after her.”

  Xan opened his eye and glared at the man she’d called Morne. Yes, Xan had heard of him. More often than he could recall, to be true. “She has no desire to speak with me.” With a bitter laugh, he added, “All she wants from me now is my absence.”

  “Since when does an Insar let a trifling thing like that interfere?” Morne asked.

  Xan shook his head. He’d betrayed her, all this time, he had betrayed her. Not because he had come here wishing to cause harm, but because he hadn’t told her who . . . what he was. Grief and guilt swamped him—he couldn’t think. He needed to, needed to make himself return to his dormer, gather his belongings and leave.

  But he couldn’t make himself take that first step. Couldn’t think. There was no room inside him for anything but his grief, anything but his guilt.

  He moved to stand at the window and as he did so, he caught sight of Syn.

  She was at the stables, just across the path, guiding her baern out. It was dark—not quite dawn. Xan moved to the door, growling under his breath, “Damn you, woman.”

  She was already gone, the baern flying down the deserted paths as though he had wings.

  It seemed there was room for something besides guilt and grief after all. Rage. Fear. Worry.

  Behind him, Morne and Laithe echoed similar sentiments, but it was Laithe who moved to grab Xan’s arm. “Whether she wishes your absence or not, it isn’t safe for any woman, especially a witch, outside these walls—not alone. Lord Reil is in the forest, and it’s likely his men will be near—no Warlord with any measure of power could have missed the magic that emanated from this area a few days ago. She’ll be in danger.”