The Fireblade Array: 4-Book Bundle

by H. O. Charles

  Blazes! She had made a mistake. She tried very hard not to look at Morghiad, and instead feigned innocence. “Oh? How do Hirrahan women do it?”

  “Front-facing.” He smiled too

  broadly, and went to help Qeneris with the bows.

  The minute she was standing alone, Morghiad approached with as much darkness and ill-tempered mood around him as he could muster.

  “Your brothers are very goodlooking indeed.”

  “You are playing with fire.”

  “I am a wielder; that is what I am supposed to do.”

  “Artemi, my brothers don’t understand the situation and neither do you. Qeneris made you go in front of him earlier so that he could look at your backside!” Morghiad spat the

  words out.

  She smirked. “Is that so?”

  He edged himself closer, and leaned toward her threateningly. “Remember that you are mine.” His voice was almost a growl.

  “I belong to nobody.”

  She could feel his eyes upon her for a while, though she ignored him, and only spoke once she was sure he had looked away. “You have a beautiful home, Morghiad Calyrish.”

  He did not reply.

  Soon his two brothers joined them with their fresh-strung bows, and she was led to the firing line. Feyan

  was the first to demonstrate his skill, creating a striking line with his body that was silhouetted by the fading light. His arrow hit the distant target in the second ring from the centre. Qeneris went next, and his bolt struck the edge of Feyan’s arrow, causing it to vibrate. The next man up ought to have been Morghiad, but his brothers gave him no opportunity.

  “This isn’t the lightest one we have,” Qeneris said, handing her a bow that was nearly as tall as she was. “It’s designed for a man, but it’s the only one that’ll suit your height.”

  “I am stronger than I look.”

  Artemi held out the weapon in front of her to gauge its balance and to get a feel for the breeze. It did feel quite different from any other bow she had tried, but also strangely... familiar. “May I have an arrow?”

  One was handed to her. She knocked it, lifted the bow, drew back the string as far as her muscles would permit, aimed and released. The top limb of the bow lurched forward forcefully, the arrow soared into the air, fell and hit the grass at the edge of the target. Bloody blazes! Artemi failed to hide her irritation.

  “You say you’ve never fired one of these before?”

  “What do you eat for breakfast, Tegran tiger meat?” Qeneris and Feyan actually looked impressed by her errant shot.

  “I missed.”

  Qeneris folded his arms. “You won’t next time. Well, now that we have established you are an archer with some skill, how about a little contest? My brother and I against you and Mor.”

  Morghiad looked less than enthusiastic.

  “Hah!” Feyan guffawed, “He’s too taken with his swords these days to practise his archery. Isn’t that so, Mor?”

  “I practise,” he said quietly.

  “And what is the prize?” Artemi asked.

  Qeneris rubbed at his chin. “If we win, you come to dinner with us tomorrow night. If you win, you come to dinner with us tomorrow night.”

  “I see. I accept your challenge.” She made a graceful curtsey, and collected her three arrows. Her firing line position with Morghiad was a little away from the other two, which she imagined would give him ample opportunity to start up his accusations

  and admonishments again. He kept his silence, however, and took up his bow to make aim. His face was a picture of concentration and focus. So much so that Artemi was almost tempted to distract him, until she remembered they were on the same team. There was no sense in ruining a good competition.

  His arrow hit squarely in the centre of the target.

  “Lucky, Mor, lucky!” shouted Feyan, who had only hit the third circle.

  Artemi took up her bow next, this time correcting for the error she had made before. Up and slightly to the left. She released the arrow smoothly, but was disappointed to see it land in the fourth circle. Damn.

  “Improving!” shouted Qeneris.

  “Barely,” she shouted back. He had scored a bullseye.

  Morghiad drew his bow and made ready to aim again.

  “Have you thought of how you will explain the missing fifty-seven sovereigns, Mor?” Feyan shouted to him.

  Fifty-seven? Light of Achellon! It hadn’t been Silar or Toryn...

  He lowered his bow, but did not remove his eyes from the target, and

  after he had taken a breath, raised it once more.

  “It was you,” she whispered.

  He loosed the arrow; it hit the centre yet again, right next to its companion. Morghiad said nothing as he stepped back from the line, and still refused to make eye contact with her. She did not know quite what to do, or say for that matter. It was only the admonishment from one of his brothers that she was dallying and holding up the competition that prompted her to move again.

  She readied her arrow, her mind whirling with too many confusing

  thoughts. He hated her. And it had been before their unfortunate... interaction had taken place. Why would a man who despised her so much pay all that money to keep her in his sight? Focus, Artemi! She had to focus.

  Hot fire very nearly shocked her into releasing the arrow early, but it was Morghiad’s hand moving hers down the riser. He whispered in her ear, “You treat it too much like a short bow. Open out this hand, don’t clutch with it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it will help the bow to rotate.”

  “No – why did you pay the fees?”

  He adjusted her aim slightly, and with surprisingly gentle hands. “Because you entertain me. You may release now.”

  She let the arrow go, and it struck one of his as it ploughed into the bullseye. His two brothers did not look terribly pleased that she had received help with it. She was beginning to get the feeling that they disliked him as much as she did. Perhaps Morghiad was not able to get on with anyone.

  “Thank you,” she said finally.

  “Get on the bed,” he demanded.

  “I do not take orders from you.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I don’t care. Let’s just have this done.”

  Artemi was not about to submit to him without any sort of fight. It simply would not have been right or acceptable. He may have shown her a new side today, but that did not excuse any of his many previous transgressions. He had still demanded that they meet in secret as if she were a prostitute of some kind, and he had absolutely insisted that he would name

  the time and place for it. And so, the morning after their archery tournament, they had met at an obscure and ramshackle house in the middle of the woodland that bordered his estate. It was clean inside, as if someone had recently lived in it, but the absence of its most recent residents was something Morghiad would not disclose. She watched and waited as he stripped himself of all his clothing.

  He frowned. “Well?”

  “Well, what? Do you want me to give you marks out of twelve?”

  “Please yourself.” He strode over to the bed and sat on it in as

  presumptuous a manner as was possible.

  This was not the done thing. “This isn’t how our game works.”

  “It’s not a game. I’m not fighting with you anymore. Come to bed.”

  On a bed?! Had he gone mad? Artemi was quite tempted to walk from the room and take his clothes with her. That would have been very satisfying indeed. She tried to think of things that might stir his temper, but found inspiration strangely lacking from her thoughts. “This bores me.”

  “How do you think I feel? I have to sleep with gutter dirt, and

  entertain her on my damned estate!”

  “Well it’s better than being dragged out to another country, hidden, insulted and then having to lie with an arrogant, idiotic pig’s dropping like you! The whole process is more repulsive than eating
a bucketful of sewage.”

  “I thought this was all part of your plan.”

  “I thought it was part of yours. You’re the one who paid for me to stay at Fate’s!”

  “So you admit that you never intended to bed me.”

  “If I have admitted that, then so

  have you.”

  Morghiad studied her levelly, his eyes appearing an especially vivid shade of green. “Sleeping with me is not all that bad. You ought to be glad for it.”

  Artemi laughed. “Why? No other man will ever enjoy as much Blaze flowing through them as you do. You are the one who should be glad.”

  He rose, moved toward her and then stood as close to her as he could. He was trying to loom over her, to make her arch her neck as much as possible in order to meet eyes with him. It was hardly intimidating when

  she knew she could match every attack he could think of throwing at her. Height was nothing when Artemi Fevtari was your opponent. She smiled warmly at him and waited for his first move with patience.

  But instead of a grab or a kick, he lifted one hand very carefully and deliberately, and moved it toward her neck. Artemi batted it away, but it came back at the same, slow speed. “What are you up to?”

  He stayed silent, and she permitted him to continue with whatever he was planning. She would work out how to retaliate once she

  knew what his intentions were.

  The palm of his hand came to rest against the base of her jaw and the upper of her neck, bringing its usual shower of fiery heat. There was no indication that he was going to try strangulation, which was something of a relief. Being throttled was an opener she really did not like at all, and the move to repel him would have to be more violent than was typically necessary.

  His thumb, which had been resting at the bottom of her cheek, seemed to move softly over the skin there. This was a very odd approach

  indeed. Artemi’s breathing was quickening. There were no indications, no hints of what scheme he had in mind. On the other hand, this was becoming far less boring than she had feared it would be.

  His stare had altered from a vexed glare to one of careful study; he seemed to be thinking about something. The flames that moved between their contact started to jitter and change shape. Seconds passed before Artemi realised that he was actually drawing power through her. Oh, that had been very sly indeed! She quickly put a stop to it, denying him access to any of her

  Morghiad blinked, but his expression did not alter. “It would be very easy for me to quench you.”

  “Do it, then.”

  She felt his grip on her power immediately return, and that grip began to tighten considerably. It was far too similar to having someone tighten a rope around one’s chest, but when Artemi tried to fight back, she found her body utterly unresponsive. Neither her arms nor legs wanted to move.

  Bloody blazes! He was actually going to do it! He was going to cut her off from her power! Stop! She had to

  tell him to stop, but no words would come out of her mouth. Stupid, idiot Artemi! What sort of girl asked a mentally unhinged man like Morghiad Calyrish to go ahead and quench her?!

  But his grip did not tighten any further or wrench at her soul as it ought to have done. From the tales Artemi had heard told, this was supposed to be far more painful. And, just as quickly as she had felt him take hold of her, he released the fires back to her control. As Artemi’s limbs began to speak to her again, she found that they insisted upon shaking uncontrollably.

  They stood in utter silence for a

  while, thinking of what to do next. Just what had he intended? It had felt like a demonstration of his power over her; Artemi had the most uncomfortable of suspicions that he had succeeded, and had won whatever battle had just taken place. But he did not look triumphant at all. There was no smirk, no grin of superiority. If anything, he looked upset.

  “I’m sorry.” It was barely a whisper, but the words were unmistakable.

  “Sorry?”

  “I didn’t want to hurt you- I’m

  sorry.”

  She drew herself up. Her shivers were rapidly dissipating. “It didn’t hurt.”

  He almost hissed through his nose, if such a thing were possible. “Spare me the bravado, Fevtari.”

  “I’ll spare you nothing. Get on the bed then, sorry man, and we’ll find a way for you to pay the price for what you have done.” Quite what he had done, she was not entirely sure. But this would be a fine opportunity to reassert some control, and she badly needed to exploit this newly apologetic man.

  She was the first to awaken afterwards, and her most immediate sensation was of utter exhaustion. Morghiad appeared to be in the deepest of slumbers, though Artemi had been fooled by such appearances before. Their passions had been of a rather different flavour this time. He had behaved with complete subservience and compliance, which was utterly out of character, if quite amusing. And the only explanation she could attribute to his behaviour was that he felt genuine guilt: guilt at simply threatening to quench her. But how to exploit this further? Dresses and jewellery were

  things she already had and did not want, and would only have been temporary returns besides, but shaming him in public somehow would provide her with a memory for life.

  She found herself staring at the features on his face, though it was not the first time she had done so whilst lying next to him. He had a curious curve to his mouth, which was usually distorted by his impetuous pouting and expressions of disgust, but in his sleep it appeared quite sinuous and mild. A faint scattering of stubble marched around it and back along the length of his jaw. Artemi could not imagine what it would feel like to touch, and her curiosity was growing. Slowly, she raised her hand from her hip and moved it toward his face. She paused in case he might wake up, but he did not. Her fingers barely touched the blunt ends of his hair, but she could feel their roughness well enough. Artemi followed the line of stubble to his cheek, over his skin, and to his temple. He had curiously long eyelashes. How odd for a man – one who liked to fight and argue and cause trouble – how odd for him to have long eyelashes. It did not seem to fit with his nature at all. Perhaps such things were

  the preserve of noble blood. She would have to check the lashes of his family the next time she saw them.

  His eyes flicked open and a hand shot out to grab hold of hers. His glare was green and ireful. “What are you doing?”

  “Thinking about ripping out your eyeballs.”

  “Oh.” He released her hand and his frown lines rapidly dissipated. “We need to get back to the house. You’ll be expected at dinner.”

  “Morghiad. That’s not a good idea...” Artemi was hardly going to admit that she knew nothing of noble

  table manners. She needed an excuse. “I did well enough with your brothers, but it has left me rather tired.”

  “You cannot refuse. They will be insulted.”

  Artemi propped herself up on one elbow. “Does that matter? You and I will be back at the school soon – I don’t have to stay here, so there’s no need for me to see them again.”

  “It doesn’t work like that. You don’t understand.” Frustration was evident in his voice. “You cannot just... leave. They will be upset by it. If you hadn’t decided to play at being a lady, then you would not be in this

  situation.”

  She almost laughed at him. After every argument they had battled through, after every instance she had found herself crying in a corner of her room because of one of his tricks – after all of that, he wanted her to save the feelings of his brothers and his father. It was rather novel to think that he cared for anyone’s feelings at all. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

  “No,” he said in complete seriousness. “It is a great insult to decline once the offer has been made. Some families hound their guests to the ground for non-attendance.”

  Hirrahan culture was growing more perplexing by the hour.

  The dining hall of Haeron House was a daunting place, with bla
ck oak covering every wall, a chimney breast the size of most normal dwellings that hunkered at one end, few candelabras and a table long enough to bridge a swollen river. Artemi was intimidated by few things, but this was not something she had ever been trained to handle.

  “Please sit down, Edilea,” Lord Calyrish – The Lord Calyrish said.

  Artemi obliged him immediately.

  He was clearly not a man who would be ignored. He shared the imposing height of his sons, and his hair was black like Morghiad’s, but he had a great many more years behind him. Her own father would have looked like a child compared to his man.

  Yarrin Calyrish had re-married shortly after his first wife had died, and though Morghiad had never once mentioned his step-mother, she seemed to be one of the few people who showed him any fondness. She squeezed his arm as he took his seat beside her, and he did not appear to grumble about it.

  “So,” Yarrin began in his commanding voice, “how is it that a Sunidaran lady ends up on her own in Hirrah?”