But she wasn’t done, it would seem.
As the men milled closer to the gate, Syn looked at them and said, “You may go back into the camp.”
A few hesitated and she rolled her eyes. “I am right here.” She pointed out the guards stationed in the watchtowers and said, “And they can see me just fine. I’m perfectly safe.”
They glanced from her to Xanthe.
Xanthe knew why they lingered, understood their reluctance. They hadn’t only been guarding their captain from the threat in the mountains—they’d been guarding her from him. They no longer trusted him. It cut deep, he realized. He hadn’t been prepared for that—hadn’t been prepared for how it would feel to lose the respect of these men and women.
In a soft voice, he said, “Go on into the camp, Captain. They are simply trying to watch out for you.”
Syn shot him a narrow look. “I’m fully aware of what they are trying to do, thank you. But if you had malicious intents, I would be bound, gagged and blindfolded, trussed up in some Warlord’s tent, and we both know it.” She jerked her chin toward the soldiers and added, “They know it, too, or rather they would if they would get their heads out of their asses.”
With that, she turned her back on them. It was a very clear, rather pointed dismissal and Xanthe watched as the mounted riders began to nudge their baerns to the gates.
As they passed through the main gate, Syn kicked a leg over Kerr’s neck and dismounted, taking the reins. She passed them off to the one of the soldiers.
Xanthe did the same, half prepared to have the reins thrown back in his face. He was mildly surprised when one of the men offered a hand. His voice stilted, he murmured, “Thank you.”
The men disappeared through the secondary gates, leaving him alone with Syn in the relative privacy of the gallery, the empty stretch between the two walls built around the camp. The soldiers stationed in the watchtowers and along the wall could see them, but they weren’t paying Syn or Xanthe much attention.
Feeling the weight of her gaze, he turned his head and looked at her. She looked pale and tired, dark circles bruising the delicate skin under her eyes. He was responsible for this. Last night, she should have finished her rotation watching over Laithe and gone to her bed for some rest. She hadn’t rested at all.
“You are tired.”
“I’ve definitely had better nights.” She tucked her hands into her hip pockets, shrugging restlessly.
“Why did you release Laithe?”
“Because of Morne. Morne said he wasn’t a danger, explained who he was.” Syn’s mouth twisted and she shot him a narrow glance. “Just being related to Lee isn’t really good enough for me, though. Her father would have forced her into Anqar, and he might have even had good intentions—but it would have been wrong.”
“Yes.” He looked away. “He would have been very wrong—he was a wise man, but his arrogance sometimes overcame the wisdom. He would have believed he could protect her—that only her blood had that right. But he would have been wrong. Lenena—Lee would never have been safe in Anqar, and she would have never been happy, either. I imagine my brother, my father and I would have spent much of our lives making sure she didn’t give herself to the sands.”
“Give herself to the sands?” Syn echoed slowly. A dark look crossed her face. “Does that mean what I think it means?”
“I imagine. Giving yourself to the sands means to run into the desert with the intention of dying there. Between the sandstorms, the sun and the heat, it doesn’t take long.” That scene implanted itself in his mind and his gut went cold. Yes. He could easily see Lee killing herself before willingly submitting to living her life in the gilded cage their father would have created for her. She would have been pampered, protected and, whether she realized it or not, adored. But she would have had all freedom stripped away. Eventually, she would have killed herself—unless the life broke her first.
It was an ugly knowledge, Xanthe knew. But little about his life had been pleasant in recent years. He found himself thinking of his sister, then his father. Curious, he turned to look at Syn. He’d wondered before, but he had never dared to ask for fear she’d become curious.
But now . . .
“Do you know how my father died?” Xanthe asked quietly. He didn’t know. He’d been found dead in his lodge, but the bodyslave with him wouldn’t speak and there had been no other witnesses. His personal servant had been in his own quarters when it happened. Arnon had been the one to find the body . . . Arnon. Arnon Ramire.
Narrowing his eye, he studied Syn’s face. “There were rumors that his spy had been playing both sides and had assassinated him.” Arnon had relayed those rumors to Xanthe when he gave word of Char’s death. Until that moment, Xanthe hadn’t heard much about any of his father’s spies. He had wanted nothing to do with that aspect of his father’s life. “Did you know if it is true? Did Dais kill my father?”
“No. Dais didn’t kill him.”
“You sound rather certain.” Too certain.
“I am certain.” She met his gaze levelly, her cat’s eyes unreadable.
“Who killed my father?”
“Morne’s brother, Arnon.”
“Arnon. My father’s most trusted servant.” Xanthe growled, closing his hands into fists. “Why?”
“Because of Lee.” Syn hooked her thumbs in her utility belt, her eyes staring off into the distance. “Morne can tell you this story better than I can. But from what I understand, Arnon and your mother were in love. They kept it secret—considering how powerful a man your father was, how highly ranked, I can understand why. They would have both been killed. After she had Lee, she knew she couldn’t stay there. Otherwise Lee was going to live out her life the way all women in your world do. She wanted more for her child—I guess Arnon did, too. He helped her escape.”
“Escape.” Xanthe shook his head. “Arnon was no Warlord. He did not know how to raise Gates.”
“No. But his brother did—Morne was just steps away from being made a Warlord, whatever in the hell that means. He knew how to raise a Gate, and he did, and he came through with your mother. Arnon knew if he disappeared, your father would know how to find him. But the same didn’t apply to Morne—guess Morne didn’t serve under your father.”
“Arnon.
“Arnon . . . and my mother?” Xanthe saw red. He had realized that somebody had helped her . . . somehow, but he imagined it had been one of his father’s enemies. Not somebody his father should have been able to trust . . . “Arnon. And Morne.”
“They are the reason your sister isn’t trapped in that gilded cage—she’s lived out her entire life in freedom, and in relative safety for the most part.” Her voice softened and when he looked at her, there was sympathy in her eyes. “You did lose your mother because of this war . . . just like I did. But yours wasn’t stolen away—wasn’t forced away. She left, and she did it because she wanted to protect Lee. It was a brave thing she did—an honorable one.”
Syn’s mouth twisted and she added, “It seems one thing that Warlords respect is honor. Hopefully you won’t despise her memory now that you know what happened.”
“I’d never despise my mother’s memory,” Xanthe said, his voice gruff. There was a raw ache inside, one that would linger for some time. But he expected a lot of lingering aches in the months and years to come, and most of them would stem from memories of this one proud, strong witch.
“Good.” Syn looked away again. She sighed and reached up to rub her neck. He imagined the muscles were tight under her hand, and if the tightening around her eyes was any indication, her head was paining her once more.
If he still had the right, he’d touch her, stroke the tension away until she was soft and pliant in his arms. Then he . . .
Stop, he told himself, jerking his gaze from her. In a hoarse voice, he said, “I must go. If I may, I would like to see Laithe before I do.”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know.”
&
nbsp; She shot him a look from the corner of her eye and shrugged. “If you want to see your brother, by all means, go see your brother. You don’t need my permission.”
“I do not belong in this camp,” he said.
“Your sister lives here, Xanthe. Kalen isn’t going to kick you out on your ass.” Then she scowled. A flush stained her cheeks. “You’re asking my permission because I told you to get out of the camp.”
He said nothing.
Syn swore and spun away from him, pacing. “I take it back. Fine. You’re welcome in the camp—I can’t rightfully tell you otherwise. Other than not being truthful about your intentions, you haven’t done anything wrong. Don’t let anything I’ve said keep you from seeing your sister.”
“I’ve done plenty wrong.” He stared at her. When it came to her, he’d done damn near everything wrong. From touching her when he shouldn’t have, to falling in love with her, to not being honest with her. With a bitter smile, he murmured, “I’ve done plenty wrong, Captain. But rest easy. I have no intentions of lingering.”
“Going to be hard for you to watch over your sister if you leave,” Syn said, an odd note in her voice.
With a sharp laugh, Xanthe said, “That woman doesn’t need me watching over her any more than you need somebody watching over you. She doesn’t need my protection.”
“But maybe she’d like to have her brothers—both of them—in her life,” Syn said gently. She licked her lips and opened her mouth as though to say something else. But then she stopped and shook her head.
For the briefest moment, there’d been something in her eyes. Something that wrapped a fist around his heart and squeezed.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” She jerked her head toward the camp and said, “Go find your damn brother. Have a happy reunion with your sister. After she decks you for not telling her sooner, she’ll probably be thrilled to learn who you are. Don’t feel the need to leave because of me—you do whatever in the hell you want. It doesn’t matter to me.”
Until that moment, Xanthe didn’t realize he had actually been harboring some naive hope that she’d forgive him. That perhaps she’d even let him stay in her life. That perhaps she wanted him in her life . . .
You should have known better.
Xanthe shook his head. “I cannot stay here. Not now.” There was no way he could handle living so close to Syn, without having her. It would drive him insane. “Perhaps I’ll return to visit her. And Laithe, should he choose to remain.” He closed the distance between them and reached down, caught her hand.
“Captain, it has been an honor and a pleasure.” He brushed his lips against her hand and then backed away. He wanted to leave—now. Screw seeing his brother. Despite what Syn said, he doubted Lee was going to welcome him with open arms.
He needed to leave.
“Wait.”
He paused and looked back at her. She was staring at the ground, her hands balled into fists. “I understand why you didn’t tell anybody who you were. Especially at first. But I don’t understand about me.”
“I already told you why I didn’t tell you,” he said, forcing the words past his tight throat. There was pain in her voice, such deep pain. It tore at him, tore into his heart. Bleeding sands, he had never meant to hurt her.
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” She shot him a look from under her lashes. “What in the hell did I have to do with anything? You didn’t need me to find out more about Lee. Just being in the camp you would have learned about her. So why . . .” Her voice faltered.
But she didn’t need to say anything. Xanthe understood what she was asking, and it only made his guilt and grief worsen. “From the first day I saw you, I wanted you. I wanted you more than I’d ever wanted another woman in my life.”
He couldn’t help it. He had to touch her again. One more time. Just once. Slowly, giving her every chance to pull away, he cradled her chin and arched her head back. Staring into her green-gold eyes, he pressed his mouth to hers. “When I touch you, there is nothing else for me,” he rasped against her lips. Then he kissed her, wishing he could tell her all the truths he should have already shared.
She sagged against him, sighing into his mouth as she opened for him. She caught his tongue and bit him lightly.
His hands ached. Itched. He burned to grab her and pull her closer, pull her close and never let go. But he touched only her face and when the need for more threatened to drive him mad, he pulled back, tracing his tongue along her lower lip, and then he stepped away.
“I touched you, took you, stayed with you, because I wanted it—needed it. It had nothing to do with anything or anybody else,” he said raggedly. “It was just you.”
Just me—
Syn stared at his broad back as he strode toward the main gate. Getting ready to walk out of her life. Forever. She knew it without even asking. He didn’t plan on coming back, no matter what he said.
Abruptly, she called out, “What does avi mean?”
He stilled and glanced back at her.
Syn shrugged. “I understand Anqarian well enough. I’ve never heard that word before.”
“It means soul.” Once more, he began to walk.
Soul—
Her heart, frozen inside, started to heat, and something began to burn inside her. She thought it might be hope. Eshera esen avi.
That was what he’d said to the Warlord.
“What does eshera esen avi mean?”
This time, Xanthe didn’t stop. Narrowing her eyes, she glanced at the gatekeeper and shouted, “You open that damn gate, I’ll have your ass.”
That caught Xanthe’s attention. He turned, eying her, his face unreadable.
“Answer me, damn it. When the Warlord was trying to convince you to help capture me—to turn my ass over to him—you said something to him, and I saw the look on his face. I want to know what in the hell you told him.”
Her palms were sweating. She swiped them down the sides of her trousers legs. She wanted to move to him, wanted to lean against him—let his heat warm her body. She was cold again, all but aching with it. Slowly, she walked toward him.
“You said, ‘Eshera esen avi.’ I want to know what it means.”
Xanthe’s chest rose and fell on a ragged sigh and he shoved his hair back from his face. “It means, She is my heart, my soul.”
“Your soul.”
He gave a short, terse nod. “Damnation, Syn, have you any more questions? Or are you done now? Would it speed things up if I just begged for forgiveness? Then would you leave me the hell alone?”
It was hope, she realized. Part of her wanted to laugh. Part of her wanted to dance. But she shrugged and said, “I’m kind of curious if you meant it or if you were just trying to talk him into walking away.”
“If I say it, I mean it,” he shouted. “Are you done now?”
“No.” She stepped toward him.
He tensed. He stood so still, he could have been carved from flesh-colored stone. He didn’t blink; he barely breathed. A breeze blew a strand of his long hair into his face, but he didn’t appear to notice.
Syn pushed up on her toes and cupped his face in her hands. She smoothed her palms over the rough stubble, gently traced her finger around the patch he wore over his scarred eye. Staring into that harsh, unyielding face, she murmured, “One more question, Xanthe. If you mean it . . . then why are you leaving me?”
Elina gnashed her teeth as the soldiers filed back inside the camp. So far, no sign of Syn.
She was going to beat the younger woman. Clobber her bloody. Would serve her right, doing something so damned foolish—
Narrowing her eyes, she searched through the milling bodies, but she wasn’t there. Kalen had said she was fine—she’d be there soon. So what was taking so long?
She hid it well, but Elina was massively impatient. For the past thirty minutes, she’d been waiting at the main gate for Syn to return, ready to lash into her. With every passing minute, she got more and
more angry—and more and more worried.
Finally, she caught sight of the other woman, just inside the main gates, staring at Xan. They stood in the gallery, obviously intent on each other, and Elina debated on whether to wait or just hunt the witch down later. She had yet to hear all the details—Kalen could give her those just as easily and it looked as though Syn was having some sort of private moment with her sexy, brooding male.
But on rare occasion, curiosity got the better of Elina.
No—very often, curiosity got the better of her. Though not many knew, she was inherently curious, inherently hot-tempered, inherently prone to getting into trouble. She’d just learned to curb those impulses, and save those who knew her closely, most people believed the calm, controlled façade she presented to the world.
Keeping her mischievous impulses under control served her better—as a mother, as a onetime professor of magical theory at a well-respected university, as a soldier in the rebel army. So most of the time, she didn’t let her curiosity lead her around by the nose.
This wasn’t one of those times.
She couldn’t get much closer without being obvious. But she wasn’t going to let that stop her.
Elina strode toward one of the watchtowers and climbed to the top. The soldier on guard blinked, surprised to see her, and she gave him a cool smile—I dare you to question why I’m here. He didn’t. After a few seconds, he ignored her and went back to studying his section of the perimeter.
Elina rested her arms against the wooden railing and stared at the two people down in the gallery. She couldn’t hear them, but she didn’t need to hear a single word to sense the tension, the emotion. Xan was busy staring at Syn like she held the keys to his universe in her hands. Syn’s face was unreadable, that carefully guarded expression she always wore when she fought to keep others from seeing her emotions.
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