Salome at Sunrise

by Inez Kelley

  “Sotherby’s guard was all but destroyed over the winter.” Domic took a long pull from a cup of wine. “The new lord there is doing his best to scramble and train men but the Skullmen hit too hard in one swoop. They sneak like foxes. They torched the barracks in the dead of night. The garrison went up like an oiled wick. Those soldiers had no chance.”

  “Why didn’t Gamot ask for aid?”

  “Pride maybe, I don’t know. No one wants to look the fool in the new king’s eyes. But Windmere’s soldiers are covering both provinces and are spread too thin. My shop was raided twice. Luckily, I’m not very trusting and had my family under paid guard.”

  Domic’s wife was a better than fair campfire cook. Spicy, mouthwatering scents filled the campground but Bryton fought a frown. Lord Gamot had sent word their losses were extensive but hadn’t told the full story. Taric had offered a contingent of soldiers to Sotherby but Gamot insisted he could manage. His ego was making his people suffer. Taric needed to know this.

  A gentle voice raised his head. Domic’s wife offered both him and her husband more wine. Bryton declined wordlessly, looking away, but Domic murmured something. When she departed, Bryton turned back around to find his host’s worried gaze aimed at his wife’s back. His voice filled with despair.

  “I couldn’t leave her behind. They’ve started taking women.”

  Bryton’s throat clamped tight around a sudden knot. “What do you mean, ‘taking’?”

  “Just that. Women disappear. Never old ones, never children, never men. Only pretty women—wives, maidens, makes no difference. It turns my stomach to think what they…I couldn’t leave her, not even with guards.”

  “Have any been found? Even their bodies?”

  “No.” Domic motioned with his chin. “Is the falcon yours?”

  Bryton twisted on the rock and peered over his shoulder. The falcon stood no more than twenty paces away, watching him. Not even the sudden laughing squeal from one of the children dropped its gaze. Its silky wings were folded tight without a twitch of impatience. The rapidly setting sun turned the feathers to deep oak that faded into a milky spotted breast.

  “Seems to be,” he muttered, swallowing the last bite of herbed grouse.

  “I haven’t done a lot of hawking but I can admire the animal. It’s beautiful. Female?”

  “Yes.” Now, how in the hell do I know that? Bryton narrowed his gaze back on the silent bird. It—she—quirked her head. Intelligence glistened in small gray orbs that saw straight into his soul.

  Domic pushed from the ground, a silent signal the meal was over. His wife gathered the children close, brushing at crumbs and grasses, readying them for sleep in the wagon bed. Bryton hadn’t meant to stare but Domic followed his gaze.

  “You married, Javon? Do you have children?”

  “No.”

  A sharp caw yanked his head toward the falcon. A chill gripped his bones as she spread fragile yet fearsome wings and soared high into the sky. He almost felt berated for the dishonesty.

  Her flight was magnificent. With a barely lit sky as her playing field, she circled and climbed, dipped and glided, never leaving his sight range. She went higher than the clouds, until he had to strain to see her shape, then rolled, tucked those splendid wings and dove. Like an arrow from a bowstring, with her body pointed, she plummeted. Breath caught in his lungs and he held it, waiting, watching, as she barreled toward the ground. A flawless, effortless grace unfurled her feathers and she floated like the down of dandelion.

  “Amazing. I’ve never known a hawker who let his bird fly free without a lure to call it back. How do you bring her to you?”

  Damned if I know but she’ll be around, I just feel it. “She returns when she wants.”

  “Here.” The cup Domic offered him steamed and had a hearty, invigorating smell.

  Bryton sniffed deeply. “What’s this?”

  “It comes from across the sea, from a bean black as tar. Near as expensive as gold, too, but I’m afraid I’m hooked.”

  The brew smelled like no bean Bryton had ever seen and he skeptically took a sip. A robust bitterness burst into his mouth, a hundred times more potent than the hearty fragrance. It hit his belly like a ramming iron.

  Domic laughed. “Powerful stuff, eh? Too much and your bones will shake clean out of your skin, but a cup in the morning and night do no harm.”

  Bryton held a mouthful, letting the rich liquid loll on his tongue before swallowing. He liked the lingering warmth that remained in his mouth. He leaned back against his pack as Domic raised his head to watch his family. His squinted gaze touched each member, each guard, then finally his wife. The perusal solidified Bryton’s suspicions. “You trained as a soldier.”

  “For a while.” Domic’s wry grin deepened the lines around his mouth. “My eyes…I don’t see well past about twenty feet. Can’t scout if you can’t see the enemy. But I see remarkably well close-up. The detail work in goldsmithing needs a fine eye. So I traded my spurs for a smelting pot. What about you? You carry yourself like a man with training.”

  “A man can pick up a lot depending on the company he keeps,” Bryton sidestepped. “Tell me more about the Skullmen in the south. Have you seen them?”

  “Face-to-face, no. Have you?”

  “A few.” Bryton drained his cup, the hot drink souring in his mouth. “Let’s just say my face is the last they saw.”

  Crickets began their song and the horses nickered behind them. Domic stared into his ceramic cup for a long while, rolling the pottery between his hands. Bryton waited. Evening sank to night, the children giggled in the wagon back, and Domic reached some decision. He pitched the preciously expensive drink into the night and laced his fingers together. “The Bridge Troll.”

  “What’s that?”

  Domic angled his frame away from the wagon. “When you deal in gold, you occasionally hear from…less-than-honest men who have items to sell. They talk, try to impress you with their importance to scum. I won’t deal with them. I’ve enough business without tarnishing my name with filth. Others in my guild have no such compunctions.”

  “But you hear talk.”

  Domic nodded. “Marlo’s Pass. The Bridge Troll is a tavern I wouldn’t go in without two daggers and a boot knife. Supposedly the tavern master has an arrangement with certain foreign men. He supplies whiskey and whores, they let him live.”

  “Windmere and Sotherby are seaports. There are many foreign men there.”

  “Gold skin with paint that doesn’t wash off, eyes like topazes, all from the same boat, set to die but someone bought them like cattle and freed them like a plague. Sound familiar?”

  “Very. Thank you.”

  “Javon, be careful. The bounty on these men is not worth your life.”

  Bryton grunted. A warm breeze lifted his hair and the sweet aroma of honey filled his nose. He took a deep breath that suddenly cramped in his chest. Domic’s tunic did not flutter in the wind and the grass did not move. A soulful note vibrated in his ear.

  “Do you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” Domic’s hand went to his dagger and his posture tensed.

  Bryton angled his head. The song grew louder, wordless but stirring, until the melody wrapped around him.

  Domic arched an eyebrow at him. “What do you think you hear?”

  “Nothing,” Bryton murmured, pushing to a stand.

  The song grew stronger. The black streak in his hair lashed his eyes and he ran his hands through it, relacing the leather tie at his nape. Still the breeze played, tugging at it like a woman running it through her fingers. He fought it for a minute then gave up. Resigned, he tucked the tie in his belt and looked at Domic. His host regarded him as if nothing was wrong, as if the wind wasn’t swirling around him like a tempest.

  Bryton faked a smile. “Your wife spoils you and me with you. I’ve not eaten so well on a trail before. I’m going to walk for a while. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He barely heard a reply. Motio
ning to the guard standing watch, Bryton headed straight into the darkness. He had no clue where he was going but followed the call of the wind. Grasses, tree roots and brambles grabbed at his boots but his feet never slowed. Fear did not touch him. Concern for his path never crossed his mind. Only the song mattered, the mournful lilting of wordless melody.

  Prairie gave way to forest. The forest grew thicker then thinned to sparseness. The gusts dried his eyes and he blinked. A taste of honey burst onto his tongue when he licked his lips, the sweetness blending with the bitter drink. Without thought, he opened his mouth to draw more of the flavor inside.

  “I am called for you. I come to soothe the ache inside. I come to give you peace.”

  Bright in the satin sky, the moon shone full with a throng of stars twinkling like torches. Bryton scanned the heavens but could see nothing but light and dark. An outcrop jutted over a vale. The funneled wind pushed at him until he stood at the precipice, the forest tops silvered below him. Icy-green leaves frosted by moonlight didn’t move, though his tunic snapped like a sail.

  “I am called for you.”

  “Who are you?” he yelled into the night. “Who sent you?”

  “I am called to heal your wounds.”

  His ragged breath battling the gale, he fisted his hands. “Show yourself to me then.”

  The wind calmed but his pulse pounded with a vicious thud. His bones quivered, not from chill but anger. He only knew one person with the power to call a magic spirit—his beloved pain-in-the-ass queen. A dark spot grew larger in the moon’s circle. It flapped powerful wings once and then glided to descent. A fragile second before the owl landed beside him, a swirl of lilac shimmered along the golden brown feathers. A woman stepped off the air and stood before him.

  Moonglow dazzled on long hair the shades of the owl’s feathers. A thin gold braid secured it low on her nape, but full waves fought the hold. Wide gray eyes scrutinized him and a tiny smile bowed her pink lips. Her chin was a touch too pointed to be beautiful but it elongated the graceful column of her throat, and his gaze slid down to her one bared shoulder. The delicate exposed curve glistened like cream. Myla’s chiton had been a draped length of ruby red silk affixed at both shoulders. This woman’s chiton shone like blazing fire, sunrise against an ebony sky.

  With her hands clasped lightly before her, she bowed her head. “I am Salome. I am called for you, Bryton Haruk.”

  “I don’t need a guardian,” he snapped.

  “I am not a guardian.”

  “Then what are you?”

  “I am a peacemaker.”

  Snorting, he shook his head. “Yeah, well, you’re shit out of luck then, because I don’t want peace. I want bloodshed and a lot of it. So just fly back to wherever you came from and leave me alone.”

  “I cannot do that. I am called for you and am bound to you until you find respite.”

  The formality of her words reminded him of Myla when he’d first met her. And that irritated him even more. She’d been a pain in the ass and this one could be no different. Frustration tore through him with a growl. He spun and stomped away from the crag edge only to return and point a finger at her. “I don’t like birds. Go migrate or something.”

  “I cannot.”

  “Myla needs to keep her magic nose the hell out of my life. Go tell her that I sent you away.”

  “I cannot.”

  “Cannot! Cannot! What can you do? Besides be a bird and a lullaby in the wind.”

  Her smile transformed her face, rounding rosy cheeks and crinkling her eyes. The pretty but unremarkable features turned to glorious beauty and his breath caught. “I can help you lay your pain to rest.”

  Arms spread wide, he glared at her. “So do it, birdie. Do your damnedest so you can fly into the night.”

  Like petals dropping from a full blooming rose, her smile fell. Her head shake spread her hair along her back in ripples of maple cream. “Peace does not come like a ship on the water. You must open your heart and be ready to accept it.”

  He crossed his arms and shifted his jaw. “My heart is dead. I have no use for pretty words or pretty women unless their legs are spread. Are you offering?”

  “Is that what you require? ’Tis an easy enough request.” Salome slid her feet apart, widening her stance on the rocky outcrop.

  Her naive compliance with his brash proposition ripped a grunted laugh from him. “Go away, Salome.”

  The scent of wild honey assaulted him as she stepped closer. The elegance in her movement melted her gown to her skin, caressing curves hidden beneath silk. His thighs tightened and his gaze dropped to her throat. His body responded but that was easy to ignore. He’d always liked beautiful women, admired their form even when he had no intentions of acting on those thoughts. She was small, tiny compared to him, barely reaching his Adam’s apple. A long-fingered hand moved toward him and his knees locked to prevent stepping away. Her touch, light as a feather, landed above his heart.

  “Your heart is not dead, only wounded. Only you have the true power to let go of your anger, your hate, your pain. I am but a tool to aid you.”

  “I have enough tools. I have this.” Metal rasped against the scabbard as he drew his sword. The leather-wrapped grip felt right in his hand, familiar and soothing. He refused to think about her palm pressed to his chest feeling the same way. “I don’t need anything else.”

  Starlight danced along the blade, highlighting the sheen, the scratches, the lethal edge, the etched word Salvation.

  Her gaze traced from tip to hilt then returned to his face. Twilight-gray, her eyes held infinity and he fought against getting lost in them. They stared with never-ending patience. “You need me.”

  “I don’t need you. I don’t want you.” He snapped her hand from his chest, tossing it down like a stray leaf. She tried to pull back but the force of his thrust sent her hand outward and into his blade. Her soft gasp sliced him as deep as the cuts that spewed blood from the backs of her fingers.

  “Oh, shit! Come here.” The sword clattered to the rock as Bryton grabbed her hand. Her blood was warm, pumping with force. Three fingers were cut to the bone, white shining through the slashed flesh. He clamped a strong palm around them and squeezed.

  She hunched her shoulders and tugged at his grip. “Ow! Do you wish to break my bones?”

  “I wish I’d never met you but no, I’m trying to stop the bleeding. Stop fighting me.” His mind raced. Myla. Myla had bled. She’d had to return to Taric to heal. “Will this heal if you become a bird or the wind again?”

  “The wind, yes.”

  “Do it.”

  “No.”

  Bryton gaped at her. “No? What do you mean, no? This is bad, Salome. Either you shift or I’ll have to stitch it and I’m not that good with a needle.”

  “What do you care if I bleed? You care not if your blood spills.”

  Curses that would make his mother blanch brewed in his mouth but he gritted his teeth. “Are all the women where you’re from pains in the ass?”

  “The pain is in my hand and you are not helping by being cross.”

  His jaw released and swung open in stunned silence.

  A gentle smile curved her lips. “Release my hand. Take your blade and slice a piece away. From the chiton, not me, if you please. I shall wrap my hand in that.”

  He drew her to sit on one protruding crag then knelt at her feet. The silky fabric cut smoothly with barely a whisper. On her feet, tiny leather sandals laced up across the delicate bones of her ankles. His eyes skimmed along the high arch of her foot, the hollow above her heel, the curve of her calf. Only the warm drop of blood that fell with a soft splat to the rock beside him tore his gaze away. He reached for her hand.

  The orange material soaked the blood like a dry sponge. The first layer molded to the wound like skin and he looped the long piece again and again until not one drop of red bled through. Tearing the end with his teeth, he tied off a crude knot.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t
mean to hurt you.”

  “It was an accident, two forces moving in opposite directions that clashed at the wrong moment. There is no blame, my charge.”

  “Your charge?” His eyes snapped wide. “Birdie, I have charges. I am not a charge.”

  “You are. You are my charge. I was asked to come for you and I came.”

  “I didn’t ask for you.”

  Serene dove-gray eyes did not blink as she leaned closer, cradling her injured hand to her stomach. Steady soothing fingers did not tremble as she stroked his brow. Her gentle voice whispered over the sounds of night insects, a sweetly composed song vibrating in her words. “This I know, but you need me and I am here. I was called by those who value you. Do not dishonor them.”

  His spine jerked straight and his vision narrowed until the world faded away. Only her face, tranquil and delicate, remained centered.

  “I have never in my life brought dishonor to the House of Segur and I won’t start with you. Fine, I’ll be your charge. But hear this, birdie, stay out of my way. Karok’s time grows short and I’ll mark the end.”

  Her hand dropped from his forehead like a stone from a rooftop. Her eyelids closed and a small nod bobbed her chin. “If that is where your destiny leads, I cannot stop your path. I simply wish to bring peace to your soul…before the end.”

  This Bryton could accept. He knew his goal, accepted the only way to ease the ache that never left his heart. His family, Taric, his men, none understood how hard he’d struggled to find other ways. The pain, the guilt, weighed more than a castle stone.

  The most important battle of his life and he’d failed. He’d failed his child. He’d failed his bride. He’d failed himself. There was no absolution. He’d have fallen on his own sword had honor allowed it. Instead, he’d thrown caution and safety to the wind, taking every dangerous and deadly position he could. Still, he was stuck in this mortal plane, bound by chains of misery and grief.