“I don’t understand, Dearra,” Jacob said, speaking as if to a half-wit. “No? You wish to kill him yourself, then?”
“There has been enough pain today, Jacob. Are you so eager to bloody your hands against this defenseless man? Besides, he may prove useful in restoring my brother to us.”
Very nice, what an excellent notion, girl. Did you think of that all by yourself?
I’m trying to diffuse the situation, Dearra thought. Be still, and let me try to fix this. That is what you wanted isn’t it?
Humph, came the reply.
“Be reasonable, Dearra,” Jacob whined like a child who was not getting his way. “He’s dangerous. Let us put an end to him quickly. It will be more merciful than his kind would be for any of us.”
Hugh stepped forward and put his hand upon Dearra’s shoulder, silencing the sharp retort he knew was coming. “Dearra speaks wisely. This Breken may indeed prove useful in returning Phillip to us. In any case, I will not make a decision that could affect us all in haste. Take him to the keep and lock him in the lower store room. The apples have not yet been harvested; use that room. Bar the door, and put two guards outside.”
Disarming him with ease, they picked the young man roughly from the ground, and half dragged, half carried him toward the castle. Dearra trailed a short way behind to make sure they did not get too enthusiastic in their efforts to hurry him along.
Darius’s eyes were everywhere at once. He surveyed his surroundings anxiously, trying to commit to memory any opportunity for escape. What he could do to escape an island, with no boat, and no one looking for him, was a detail he ignored for the moment. At that instant, he was simply grateful to be breathing; he would work the rest out later.
They took him to a room one level below the main keep. It was cool and dry and held the faintest aroma of fruit. He leaned against the dirt wall and slid less than gracefully to the smooth, plank floor. Empty baskets of varying sizes were strewn about in haphazard stacks, waiting to be needed again.
Dearra took one last, long, lingering look, and then firmly shut the door. Jacob volunteered to be one of the guards, and since she could think of no reason to object, she let him have his way. She was comforted, however, when the much milder tempered Bryan stepped forward as the second volunteer.
Dearra’s footsteps echoed through the deserted corridors as she made her way back to her personal chamber. Her thoughts were a twisted mass as she relived, over and over, the moment she saw her brother on the Breken ship, his innocent face pale, and his eyes wide in fear. The cold black, eyes of his captor were too far away to really be visible, yet she knew they had been filled with triumph at his victory over the people of Maj. Then her mind remembered the eyes of another, golden brown, holding her captive and refusing to let her look away, and she shook her head trying to rid herself of the image. Dearra swept up the stairs into her room and dropped the sword onto her bed, unceremoniously. She scanned her room until she found what she was looking for, and made her way to the jumbled pile of objects near the fireplace.
Where do you think you’re going?
“To my father and Daniel, and then back to our strange…um…guest. His wound needs attention,” Dearra explained. She pushed aside a pair of mud-caked pants and a torn vest she kept meaning to repair, and scooped up the bag in which she kept her supply of healing medicines, assorted bandages, and basic medical instruments.
Fine. Leave me here, then. Abandon me. I’ll just wait until you are content to give me your attention once more.
“Yeah,” Dearra responded, distracted. “That would be great, thanks.” Turning back toward the bed, she asked, “Hey, what’s your name?” almost casually.
My name, girl, is ancient. I am descended from… well, never mind that. My name is a thing of power and awe. I am called Brin’du Drak’Tir, the sword said brimming with pride.
Dearra absorbed the name, briefly, finding it cumbersome and awkward in her mouth. “Ok, I’ll just call you Brin,” she responded, pleased with her solution to the problem of the funny name.
Decidedly offended, taken aback that anyone could be so casual about a thing of such monumental importance, the sword shot back, Fine! And I shall call you Big Fuzzy Animal with Antlers.
“Yeah, yeah. Deal,” Dearra said, as she whisked from the room.
***
Forgetting her plans to speak to her father and Daniel first, Dearra flew through the halls and down the short set of stairs leading to the storerooms. Heart pounding, she came to a stop in front of Bryan and Jacob. They looked at Dearra, and then at one another in confusion.
“Well? What are you waiting for?” Dearra demanded. “Open the door!”
“But, Dearra,” Bryan stammered, clearly at a loss for words.
“Absolutely not!” Jacob stated. “Lord Hugh ordered us to keep watch over the prisoner!”
“So? Keep watch. No one’s stopping you.” Dearra took a step forward and placed a hand on the heavy board barring the door. As she braced herself to lift the board up and out of her way, Jacob’s hand clamped down on her upper arm.
“I said, no, Dearra.”
“Let go of me immediately.” Dearra’s voice was calm and cool, but a bolt of panic swept through her as the grip tightened painfully around her arm. Her temper flared to life. She saw Bryan take a step back, recognizing the golden flames that sprang to life in Dearra’s eyes. Bryan had always been a friend to Dearra, and the look of fear on his face unsettled her where nothing else would have. Though the pain in her arm increased along with the pressure of Jacob’s grip, Dearra took a slow deep breath before speaking in as calm a voice as she could muster under the circumstances, “You’re hurting me.” Dearra’s voice shook with the effort it was costing her to remain in control, but only slightly so.
Bryan’s eyes popped wide open, and his jaw dropped as far as it could go as he stared at the scene in front of him in disbelief.
Two sounds came to Dearra almost simultaneously, one in her head, the other clearly coming from the other side of the door. The first was easily recognizable.
I’ll bet you wish I was there now, don’t you, Fuzzy? Her sword spoke in an ‘I told you so’ manner that grated on her nerves. And that nickname was going to wear quickly thin.
Who knew the blasted thing could hear her thoughts even when it wasn’t with her?
The second sound was indistinguishable at first, but as it grew in intensity, there could be no doubt the prisoner behind the heavy door was…no, he couldn’t be…but he was. Dearra could clearly hear that the fierce Breken warrior was…growling a low, throaty sound.Jacob hastily loosened his hold, though he did not let go completely.
Things could have gone badly had Daniel not chosen that exact moment to make an appearance at the base of the stairs.
Daniel spoke, and the fierce growl coming from behind the door ceased abruptly.
“Is everything alright here, Dearra?” Daniel’s eyes (and ears for that matter), had assessed the situation rapidly, and if he were to be honest with himself, he had to say that, in this circumstance, he was completely with the Breken.
Jacob took a wise step away from Dearra before speaking again. “Of course, Daniel.” A simpering smile appeared on Jacob’s face as he continued. “Dearra was…confused. She thought to enter the room with the Breken dog, and so, naturally, I had to protect her.”
“Protect her from what, exactly? One injured man against Dearrawith the two of you standing guard just feet away? Open the door, Jacob,” Daniel said, daring Jacob to contradict his instructions, “and when you’ve finished with that, please fetch Serah to take your place at watch. You’ve clearly had a busy day and are deserving of some rest.”
“You want Serah, Daniel? Wouldn’t one of the men be better suited to…?”
Daniel raised one brow at the now tongue tied Jacob, who went at once to remove the board barring the way to the prisoner, then turned and left without another word.
“I’ll be right here for yo
u, Dearra. Until Serah arrives.”
“Thank you, Daniel.” Dearra reached out, patted Daniel’s arm in gratitude, and walked into the storeroom turned cell.
A scowl grew on Dearra’s face as she saw no blankets, nor food, nor even water, for that matter, had been brought to the prisoner. She quickly stuck her head back through the door and instructed Bryan to bring some of each to her immediately. Having witnessed Daniel’s ire with Jacob, Bryan didn’t need to be told twice, and was gone almost before Dearra was done speaking. Dearra closed the door before turning back to her patient and lowered herself beside him on the wooden floor. He was large, of course, but seemed smaller than many of the Breken she had seen earlier that day. He was, maybe, only six and a half feet tall. His skin was the beautiful, copper color she remembered from their earlier encounter, though it was harder to see now, with only one small torch lighting the room. His thick, black hair looked even blacker, if that was possible, with the blood matted and dried in the strands. And then there were his eyes, made even more glorious by the flickering light of the torch, that deep, rich brown with flashes of gold. They looked right into Dearra, and her breath quickened, and she had to look away. She busied herself opening her bag, and laying out all of the contents before her to better evaluate what she would need. The young Breken watched her intently as she worked; she could feel his eyes on her as she arranged and rearranged bandages, unguents and salves in a neat row.
Bryan returned with the water, two blankets, and some fresh bread and soft cheese. Dearra handed the young warrior a chunk of bread and some of the chilled water, and dipped a soft cloth in the bowl of steaming water Bryan had brought in anticipation of her needs. He shied away as she reached to begin cleaning his head wound, but then held himself still as she worked. Dearra noticed the pained look on his face and paused.
“What is it?” she asked hesitantly. “Am I hurting you? You can tell me if I am. Please, you look so…strange.”
He didn’t speak, but raised a hand, ever so slowly, and traced the bruise just beginning to show on her upper arm.
Dearra froze at his touch and the jolt running down her arm as his fingers brushed, feather light over the red bloom making itself evident on her pale skin.
“Why?” he asked softly, the deep timbre to his voice strong and menacing in the small room.
“Well…” Dearra spoke the word and had to swallow to begin again, the feel of his hand on her arm making her mouth go suddenly dry. “I have always bruised easily. It’s a terrible nuisance, but I’ve gotten used to it.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said, and though his hand had dropped back to his side, his eyes never left the mark marring her porcelain skin. “I meant, why did you do it? Why did you challenge him just to come in here?”
“Oh! Well, you needed attention. Your wounds aren’t going to clean themselves, you know.” She was relieved to have such a simple answer to give, though he seemed genuinely startled by her response.
Dearra dipped the cloth in the water again and continued to do what she could to clean the nasty lump at the back of the Breken’s head. She leaned in close in the dim light, to get a closer look, probing as gently as she could to make sure the injury wasn’t more serious than it seemed.
The silence of the room enveloped her, and she couldn’t, at first, identify what had changed. She looked down at the Breken sitting placidly before her, and realized that, in her effort to get a better view, she had provided the Breken with a view of his own—her chest was directly in front of his face. His jaw was clenched tightly, and his eyes stared straight ahead, as though he were completely unaware of what was right before him, but Dearra noticed that the silence she had sensed had been due to the fact that the fierce warrior was no longer breathing in his efforts to remain completely still. She eased back from him and returned to her bag of supplies pretending to not have noticed the awkward moment, but she couldn’t stop the grin that spread across her face when she heard him exhale loudly behind her.
She finished with her task, and after gently covering him in one of the blankets, turned to leave.
“Wait!”
Dearra turned back to face him as he spoke. “Yes?”
“Thank you…Dearra.”
His voice was rough and the words were spoken haltingly as if they were words he was not used to speaking. She had not introduced herself, but it was not surprising that he knew her name, as at least adozen people must have used it around him today. Still, it was presumptuous of him to speak to her with such familiarity without her consent.
A small smile lit her face and she said, “You are truly welcome…Darius.”
His eyes flew open wide, as he knew he had definitely not given his name to anyone.
Dearra left the room with a grin on her face. Let him ponder that for a while, she thought.
Chapter 8
Darius’s days blended one into another, the only bright spot being when Dearra would flit into his room, bringing food and a medicinal salve that she would gently apply to his head wound. He wanted to tell her that his head was fine now, but he was concerned it might end her visits altogether. The guard, Jacob, had not returned to his post at the door, but had been replaced by a rotation of less hot headed keepers in his stead. This was a very good thing…for Jacob. With nothing to do but think, Darius had come up with some inventive ways to repay Jacob for the marks he had left on Dearra’s arm. He shook his head and smiled at the thought of the tiny warrior.
He had heard that these people used both men and women to fight their battles. His trainers had instructed him not to underestimate their skill, but the sight of the fragile beauty with the sword in her hand had stunned him. She didn’t look large enough to lift the sword, let alone use it. Then he remembered his own part in the battle and decided he would be wise to not throw too many stones, as he had spent most of the fight face down in the dirt. Distracted by a pretty face—what would his father say to that?
His heart wasn’t in the fight, anyway, and he had gone to great lengths to merely disable rather than seriously wound or kill as a result. This was his chance to prove himself one of them, worthy of the name Breken. He was old for this to be his first true test of battle, but his skill was such that he had been able to convince his family his talents would be better utilized as a teacher, but his father had sensed a weakness in his son. Darius was tremendously gifted with the sword, but lacked the cruelty of his race. Prone to pulling back on the practice field, or overlooking an insult, he mostly chose not to participate in the crueler games played by his kinsman. His excuses for this were always the same: it was foolish to damage a valuable slave, or the humiliation of loss would better teach his student than a broken arm.
His father had accepted this up to a point, but enough was enough. The boy was nineteen years old and had yet to bloody his sword in battle, and so he was sent to fight against the Maj.
Life as a Breken was a perilous thing. From the moment a boy reached the age of five they were sent from their own homes to training academies and forced to defend themselves against rivals for position and ranking. Weapons skill was first thing they learned. If a child lacked skill with at least one weapon, some “accident” or another invariably occurred, thereby removing the weak, genetic link from society. If a child could be trained sufficiently with weapons, he was deemed worthy enough to learn how to read and write in his seventh year. All of Breken life was about moving up in the world, and who had the most power, the most slaves, and the most skilled warriors were the concerns of everyday life.
Darius had always been an enigma to his family, from his eyes, to his reluctance to vie for better standing (which he could have certainly attained with ease), to his almost completely useless magical ability. His father had ranted and raved about “the fool priest” who had tattooed Darius on his fourteenth birthday. An ability to understand animals? What purpose could that serve? If you wanted an animal to do your bidding, you simple beat it. What more was there to know?
>
A small tap at the door caught Darius’s attention. He chuckled to himself, knowing it had to be Dearra. Who else would knock to request entry to a prisoner’s cell?
“Come in, Dearra,” he called mildly.
The door swung open and Dearra bounced lightly into the room with almost childlike enthusiasm, as always, the magnificent sword belted at her waist. A finely crafted scabbard of worked leather held the blade securely to her side.
“Oh! You’re standing,” she said. He noticed a small frown line, etched into her forehead.
“I thought you would be pleased. Or was the salve you’ve been applying meant to poison me?” He spoke these words sincerely, but a wicked grin spread across his face.
“Of course not. It’s just that…well…” Dearra struggled to find the right words, unable to tell him she was sorry he didn’t need her anymore. What would he think of her?
Oh, for the love of all things sacred, girl. Say something. He’s going to think you’re an idiot.
You mind your own business, Dearra shot back to the intrusive voice in her head.
“Dearra?” Darius spoke with some concern.
“I…umm…I was just going to say…well…I need to check the wound and…uh…I can’t when you’re standing. You’re too tall for me to see it properly.”
Nice save.
“Oh! Of course. I can sit if it will make it easier.” He lowered himself gracefully to the floor.
“It’s looking much better,” she said as her fingers skillfully checked the wound. “Hardly any bump at all now, and I think the danger of infection has passed,” If Darius noticed her hand strayed a bit too long in his soft locks, he didn’t give any indication.
She stepped abruptly away, and he lifted his eyes to her, expectantly.
“Darius? What’s wrong with you?” Dearra asked without preamble.
The Destiny Series Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 7