by Inez Kelley
“Is this all? We…hold hands? Who wins?”
The whisper that left him took all his strength. “You do.”
A wide smile rounded her cheeks. “That was easy.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, blinking and struggling to remember his name.
Salome leaned closer and his head angled, his gaze focused on her mouth. Warm breath feathered across his skin. She tilted her head, bringing her chin nearer his. A tiny hitch in her breathing sped jolts of fire down his body. His heart leaped then galloped in his chest. He sucked in her scent, her taste, his eyelids slowly lowering.
“Do we stay like this for a purpose?”
Appalled at himself, Bryton yanked his head upright and hurriedly dropped her hand. “No.”
He jumped to his feet and strode toward Jester, stomping the grass with too much force. What the hell was he doing? He was not going to be entranced by some magical skirt. He swiped a fast hand across his mouth, wiping away her near kiss and the fuzzy longings from his mind.
He did not need the swish of her dress to tell him she followed. He could feel her. Each tiny hair on his body stood and quivered at her nearness. The muscles in his thighs grew taut and he had to battle the urge to stop abruptly, see if she would slam into his back. Shame soured his gut when he realized if she did, he’d spin around and pull her even closer.
“Are we finished competing then?”
That musical voice—the lullaby of a sultry dream tinged with naked flesh and sated sighs—grated on his raw nerves. He wrapped his hand around the bone handle of his dagger and turned. Salome crashed into his chest. Too many summers of being a protector sprang into action and his arms went around her, keeping her from falling, inadvertently tugging her higher to him.
Wrong crushed against right and his senses spun. She was too short, too soft, too fragile next to him. There was no fragrance of peach, no sugared-wine sigh. What he held was foreign and alluring. Unique sensations poured over him. Her skin burned with sun-kissed warmth and graceful fingers tightened into his tunic. Blood and desire swooped low, and his groin ached. The reaction was horrifyingly familiar.
He wanted her.
Chapter Three
Bryton thrust her away, gently, afraid of breaking those birdlike bones. “You’re clumsy for a spell.”
“You are ill-tempered for a charge.”
Teeth ground on teeth as he clenched his jaw. She could make a dead man itch. “Salome…fly away. You’re irritating me.”
“I believe the very grass upon the ground irritates you. You do not lose well. If it were within my design to deceive you, I should have let you win one of those competitions. Are all men this…fragile?”
“Fragile?” Birds shot from the top of a nearby tree at his shout. Every shred of manly pride growled like a tiger and his face flushed hot. “Pick something, anything. Set a task—that does not depend on speed—and I’ll prove how fragile I am.”
Her slender neck craned to watch the birds’ flight. The look she settled on him then was an impish taunt. “Very well. Perch there, on the branch where those minnow birds flew from.”
Blood flavored his mouth with the tang of copper. “I don’t fly.”
“Then I win.”
The smug satisfaction sparkling in her gaze bathed his vision a furious red. He jerked his dagger from its sheath and thrust it at her. “Pick a target and we’ll see who has better aim.”
The tiny twitch in her brow when she looked at the blade rushed empowering blood through him. He’d never been bested at knives. He could strike a man’s heart at thirty feet five times out of six. She was going to lose this round.
Salome swallowed and grasped the handle. She nibbled on her bottom lip then turned, facing the open field. She lobbed the blade like a ball. It hit the dirt with a bounce four paces away and Bryton’s jaw loosened. Batu could throw farther and he was but three summers old.
Dust billowed as he yanked the fine metal from the dirt with a grimace. A quick snap sent the blade hurtling toward the tree trunk where it embedded with a hushed thunk. His throw was easily five times that of her pitiful attempt but he felt no triumph. He felt rather like a bully who’d kicked a puppy.
Salome grinned as if he’d sprouted wings. “You won. Do you feel better now?”
“No.”
A sigh sagged her shoulders. “You are a difficult man, Bryton Haruk.”
“Can you use a bow? A sword?”
“No.”
“You’ve absolutely no training in fighting at all, do you?”
“No, I told you this. I am not a guardian. I am a peacemaker.”
“You’re a pain in my ass.”
“You keep speaking of this pain in your backside. Perhaps you should seek a healer.”
His frustrated snarl echoed in the pollen-rich air. He cursed Myla with every grumbling step to retrieve his dagger. Raking his fingers through his hair, he glared at Salome and added a mumbled curse for her, too.
He needed a female as a companion like a hole in his boot. Every drop of blood in his body craved vengeance and she was bent on serving him peace like a spoonful of medicine. There wasn’t a sugar sweet enough to make him swallow that elixir. The only thing that could cure his rage was Karok’s death. Salome would not distract him from that mission.
Several deep cooling breaths filled his lungs and blew through determined lips. He had not been Taric’s captain for this long and not learned to employ diplomacy when it was warranted. If he didn’t do something to find a level of truce between them, he’d go mad before the sun set.
When calm returned, he strode back, picked up Jester’s reins and resumed walking. She fell in step with him.
“So the magic realm holds guardians and peacemakers. Are there other…areas of expertise?”
“I suppose there may be. I only know of myself. Even now, the memory of my realm dims with each breath I draw. But the call was very strong. It intrigued me and I came.”
“Why? What intrigued you?”
A tiny cluster of pink flowers grew low to the ground and she stooped to pluck one. The bloom was wild, vivid and bright in the golden sun—and no bigger than the nail of her smallest finger. He’d never have noticed them if she hadn’t plucked one from the earth.
She pressed it to her nose with a gentle smile then dragged it across her bottom lip. He refocused his attention to the overgrown path ahead of him.
“The words, the charm certainly, but still, I nearly returned without agreeing to this duty.”
“What changed your mind?”
“You.” The little flower fluttered on the wind as she tossed it away. “Part of the incantation held a bit of your hair. Your mark, your essence, still lived in that braid. It…You are a very complicated man with many layers and depth. You are a soldier, a man of honor, a son, a father and a friend. So many noble and trustworthy things I could not help but wish to bring you peace.”
Weight blanketed him, oppression from her glorified version of him. He had no clue where such a braid might have come from but he knew for certain it held not one strand of the black that he now carried. That stain went deeper than his scalp, down to his very marrow, and there was nothing noble in it. A stray stone kicked from beneath his foot, striking a stand of grasses with a muted thwap. The soft clop of Jester’s hooves plodded behind him and bees droned from a nearby hive. Spring was flourishing, breathing life and renewed growth all over Eldwyn.
Bryton felt like a dead man.
“If you know that much, then you know there are a lot of ugly things on that list as well.”
“Ugly? There is no ugliness in your soul.”
“I’m the King’s Captain.” At her quizzical brow slant, he sighed. “I vowed to protect him, to stand in his place when death comes. It also makes me his Might and his Law.”
“His Might and his Law?” Salome’s mouth puckered in confusion.
Bryton steeled his face. “I hurt people to get answers. If they break the law, I’m their puni
shment. I kill, Salome, and not quickly or painlessly.”
“And this brings you pleasure?”
“Pleasure? No. I mean, I don’t enjoy it but it’s part of my duty and I do it well. I’m a good captain in both the noble and not-so-noble parts of the job.”
“But you are no longer a captain.”
He stopped, his knees locking into place and his bones jarring his skin. “Since when?”
“Since you chose this path.” Salome lifted her face to the breeze, smiling at the cloudless sky, oblivious to the verbal knife she’d jabbed into his gut. “Surely the king shall choose another captain now that you no longer stand beside him.”
“I guess he will.” Bryton’s feet moved forward but his mind reeled backward, through time and memory. He’d been Taric’s guard since he was fifteen. It was at the very core of who he was as a man. The rituals, the training, the sacrifices he’d pledged, those were as deeply ingrained in his soul as the blood in his veins. What was he if he was no longer a captain?
Her tiny sandals made no noise and the sounds of nature lulled him deeper into memory, to a day long ago. The sun had set, sending a prism of purples, golds and oranges across the sky. His father, Mactog, had been locked in the library with King Balic all day and the youngers had rejoiced in an easy day. But Bryton knew something wasn’t right when Mactog pulled him from the dining hall. They took no horses or packs but headed straight into the forest’s darkness.
Deep autumn leaves crunched beneath their feet in the chilled air but neither spoke. Bryton scrambled to remember any chore or task he might have forgotten that could possibly be bringing punishment. Had he oiled the saddles? Yes, he’d done that at first light. The armory had never shone as bright and his hands still ached from the coarse scrub cloth. He’d even helped the woodcutter stack the cords of wood behind the kitchens. Granted, he’d done that to flirt with the serving maids but he’d worked hard. What had he done that drew harsh lines between his father’s brows?
The sliced moon appeared with her chorus of stars and Mactog stopped, the night winds whispering in eerie music. With no torchlight, the shadows had seemed alive, reaching toward him with cold, deathlike fingers.
“Papa, what—?”
“Tell me about the wolf.”
“That was two summers ago,” he’d protested.
Mactog crossed his arms and waited.
Bryton swallowed his complaint, ducking his head. He’d known he had gotten off too easy for that misadventure. He hadn’t known his father would wait so long to punish him. “We went hunting on the north face. The guards stayed below since the mountain was empty. You know what a good shot Taric is. He bagged the largest pheasant I’ve ever seen. He was cleaning it while I chopped wood to roast it. The wolf appeared so fast, we just froze.”
“But you didn’t. Tell the tale properly.”
The soft, damp earth begged for his toes to scruff in, to fidget with shame, but his father would only frown harder. Instead, Bryton raised his chin and confessed. “I dropped the axe. I knocked Taric to the ground and threw the pheasant at the wolf. But it…a jaguar came and attacked the wolf and…I should have thrown the axe and not the bird. I know that now.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Taric was between me and the wolf. What if I hit him instead?”
“What if the wolf had gotten you?”
“I didn’t think, Papa. I’m sorry.”
Mactog worked his jaw. His nostrils flared with a deep noisy breath and he tilted his head back, gazing at the rising moon. Age had salted Mactog’s hair, dusting the black like snow. At that moment Bryton wondered the oddest thing. His mother’s copper hair, which he’d inherited, had yet to gray. How would his look in thirty summers?
“Taric becomes a man within a moon.”
“I know.” Bryton’s lips were chapped and the wet tongue he slicked across them stung. “The cook had us catch seventeen live grouse to fatten, one for each summer. Taric wanted almo—”
“He’ll no longer be a child, Bryton. He’ll no longer fall under my protection. It’s time for him to have his own captain.” Mactog lowered his head and stared directly into Bryton’s eyes. “Why did you push Taric out of the way? Did you think your mother and I would mourn you any less than the king would mourn his son?”
Bryton’s mouth worked but he didn’t have an answer. “I didn’t think. He’s my friend.”
“You didn’t think. You reacted.” The large hand that landed on his shoulder was warm, hardened with calluses and filled with strength. “You were right. The axe might have struck him. The bird was a better distraction. You didn’t think about your own safety, just saving your friend. Instinct cannot be taught. You acted like a guardian.”
Shock chilled places the wind had not yet touched. “I thought…Taric says he has a magic guardian.”
“He does, but he’ll need a human one at his back. I’ve watched you since then. You may be younger than he is, but you’re bigger. In the lists you prevail easily and already have joined the older boys. You react but never in anger. You use humor to ease tensions before they erupt but I’ve never seen you back down.”
For the first time, Mactog looked at Bryton not as a son, but as a man. His eyes held no censure, only pride…and warning. “You know what I do, what vows I have taken. I offer this not because you’re my son but because I see in you that rare spirit of duty. You’d make an excellent captain. But I cannot and will not decide that fate for you. You must choose for yourself…and there is no shame in saying no.”
It was cool enough he could see his breath, misty clouds streaming in a pale color. They hadn’t taken time to grab their cloaks, and gooseflesh coated his arms. The cold air dried his mouth as he sucked in huge lungfuls. He couldn’t hold his father’s gaze and lowered his eyes to Mactog’s boots.
The dark brown stain on the calfskin wasn’t mud. Bryton had always known that but tonight, under the frosty sky, the image branded into his head. Mactog commanded respect, though he was a man of few words. His simple presence instilled security. All the soldiers looked to him for guidance and leadership. Criminals feared him. Even the king turned to him—for protection, for counsel, for friendship. How brave his father was, how strong and solid. Suddenly Bryton felt very young.
“I was afraid, Papa. I…I wet my pants.”
Mactog chuckled and the deep, rich sound burned hot blood into Bryton’s cheeks. “I vomited.”
He jerked his face up. The firm hand on his shoulder squeezed once, then dropped. “The first time I came between Balic and a sword, I puked until my gut ached with it. I still do occasionally. Only idiots don’t fear death, Bryton. It’s believing in something greater than yourself that gives you the courage to stand up despite your fears.”
Along Mactog’s right biceps, a dozen dagger peaks formed precise lines that sucked shadows until they blurred black. Bryton knew there were nearly an equal number of brands on the left arm, rows of valor earned for duty. Duty, honor, discipline were not empty words. They were the code his father lived by, the code he had instilled in his son from birth. The code he suddenly knew was his own destiny.
Bryton felt his spine straighten and his shoulders level. Confidence warmed his belly and he nodded. “I’d be honored to be Taric’s captain.”
“We leave at daybreak then, to begin your training. Welcome, my son, to the Order of Daggers, the long line of those who are more than soldiers.” Bryton gripped his father’s offered hand, squeezing with a new strength that flushed through his soul. Mactog grinned, threw his brawny arm around Bryton’s neck and turned him back toward the castle grounds. “And you let me explain this to your mama. Maybe by the time we return she won’t want to geld me.”
They’d entered the forest as father and son but left it as more, with a bond that went deeper than blood, a bond wrapped in the moral codes of protectors and bodyguards.
“You are quiet.” Salome’s lyrical tone ripped Bryton from the past and thrust him into the bl
aze of springtime. He blinked rapidly, fighting a strange sense of displacement. The autumn grove had come alive in his mind and this warmth felt foreign. Bryton had walked away from those woods more certain his father was the strongest man alive, both in muscle and in spirit. He’d wondered if he’d ever be that sure of his place in the world. He certainly wasn’t sure of it now.
“Old memories,” he muttered. “Do you always chatter like a magpie?”
“Magpies do not chatter. They warble.” She shook her hair back, raised her face to the sun and…warbled.
Bryton cocked an eyebrow. “You’re different than Myla.”
“She who called for me?”
He nodded.
“Yes, she is who she is. I am who I am.”
“Myla was bound to Taric.”
“And I am bound to you.”
“She had to obey him even when she didn’t want to. Does this mean you have to obey me?” The idea held innumerable possibilities and each one appealed in wicked ways that tickled the jokester in him. Buried deep, another part of him responded to more sensual possibilities.
A pink tongue flicked out to her upper lip. “Not quite. They must have been blood bound, we are not. We are honor bound.”
A snort burst from him. “Figures. You’d be too easy to get rid of any other way. So, I’m stuck with a peacemaker-falcon-owl-windsinging magic spell who plays with snakes. Wonderful.”
Her giggle surprised him and he looked at her quickly. Happiness sparkled in her smoky eyes and a dimple twitched with the laugh. “I am not only a falcon or an owl. I chose those for their talents but could be a hummingbird or a pheasant.”
She linked her arm through his, casually, as any woman might do to a man she walks with, but her touch scorched him. His shoulders stiffened as he fought not to pull away. A long time ago, he’d had any number of women slide their arms into his. Then he’d claimed one and one alone. The familiar and strange sensation rattled him.