by Sally Slater
Tristan ground his jaw. “The inquiry comes from the High Commander. That is all you need to know.”
“The High Commander’s spies extend throughout the West, do they not? What could you possibly hope to learn from me that the Sub Rosa cannot tell you?”
Tristan took his time before answering. “The Sub Rosa can find out who the Uriel are, and some of what they’re doing. I want to know the why.”
A white eyebrow rose. “Does why really matter?”
“Aye,” Tristan said. “Why is always the most important part.”
Denya gave Tristan a long speculative look. “Your view is unique, Paladin Lyons, especially for a man of your position.”
“A man of my position?”
“Aye, Paladin. You are the High Commander’s muscle. Muscle acts and does not question.”
Tristan gripped the edge of the table. “I am more than my sword, priestess.”
“Does your High Commander know that?”
Sam thought steam would come out of Tristan’s ears. “Watch your tongue, old woman,” he growled. “Your words border on treason.”
Denya smiled faintly. “You’re as hot tempered as they say, Paladin Lyons.” She sat back in her chair. “I have heard enough.”
Any effort Tristan had been making to remain composed went by the wayside. “You’ve told us nothing!”
The priestess rose to her feet, black eyes flashing. “I will tell you this, Paladin. The High Commander is right to fear the Uriel.”
“Why?” he asked. “Have they named us their enemy?”
Denya snorted. “Who would be fool enough to do that?” She shook her head. “No, Paladin, the Uriel challenge you in deeds, not words. In the West, people turn to them for protection before they do you. You can rely on the Uriel, they say.”
“And you cannot rely on us?” Tristan asked, obviously affronted.
The priestess shrugged her bony shoulders. “Go west, Paladin. See what you find.” She studied Tristan, and then her gaze raked over Sam and Braeden. “I will give you a name,” she said finally. “Sander Branimir. You won’t soon forget it.”
Tristan’s expression was guarded. “I’ve never heard of this Sander.”
“But you will,” Denya promised. “Out West, they hold him in as much regard as Cordoba holds the High Commander. Rumor has it Branimir grew up poor, the son of a farmer from a small hamlet. Humble beginnings or not, the man runs the Uriel like he’s held a scepter from the cradle.” Just above a whisper, she added, “He’s the sort a man would die for.”
“So is the High Commander,” Tristan said.
“Aye, Paladin, that he is,” Denya said with the faintest of smiles. “Let us hope it never comes to that.”
CHAPTER 12
Back at The Twelve Peers, they spoke no more of the Uriel or of the strange priestess. Sam would have liked to ask more questions of Tristan—what did he know of the Uriel, and why did they make the High Commander so nervous?—but he was clearly in no mood for it. Instead, he gave her and Braeden the rest of the day to themselves, with a firm warning to stay out of trouble.
So Sam spent some time exploring the city of Cordoba on her own, grateful for the small freedom. It was a vibrant place, full of all manner of people: burghers in ordinary gowns and tunics, peddlers in garish colors, men with the ear to nose chains of the sea folk. Sam imagined you could find anything you ever needed or wanted here—spices from the East, silks from Westergo, fruit from the tropical lands in the South, medicines and herbs alleged to cure every ailment.
But the long nights and longer days of the past week soon caught up to her. She returned to the inn before the sun even set, made her excuses, and retired early to bed.
And yet, despite her exhaustion, sleep didn’t come easily. Only after hours of lying restlessly in her pallet did she finally fall asleep, and then into a dream.
The first thing Sam saw was the woman. She was, without question, the most beautiful woman Sam had ever seen. Her face was inhuman in its perfection, as though her delicate features had been hewn from marble. Her eyes were closed, lashes fanning her cheeks, and her sensuous lips were parted as though she were in ecstasy. She leaned against a tree that bloomed pale pink cherry blossoms.
The Goddess Tree. Where was she? Had she somehow returned to Haywood?
The woman smiled, her eyes still shut. “Sam,” she crooned, the name on her lips an invitation. She undulated her hips against the trunk of the tree.
Sam turned away, embarrassed. Any man would die a hundred deaths or confess to a thousand sins to be in Sam’s place. But underneath her men’s clothes, Sam’s heart would never beat fast for a woman.
“Sam,” the woman said again, pushing herself away from the tree. Now, she was demure, her eyes downcast as she approached.
Sam took a step back. “What do you want?”
The woman smiled sweetly, reaching out to cup Sam’s cheek. “Who are you, Sam of Haywood?”
Sam shivered at her touch, and a warning sounded in the back of her brain. Don’t trust her. “I-I’m nobody,” she stuttered.
The woman’s smile grew over-bright. “Will you not tell me who you are?”
Sam pressed her lips firmly together. Her instincts were seldom wrong, and they were screaming at her now. Do not trust her!
The woman’s perfect features shifted into ugly fury. “Tell me,” she snarled. “You will tell me who you are.” She dug clawed nails into Sam’s cheek, piercing the skin she’d just caressed.
Faith in blood, it hurt—but Sam clenched her jaw, ignoring the pain. “I’m nobody,” she repeated.
“You lie!” the woman shouted. She backhanded Sam across the face, and then drove her nails in deep, gouging her to the bone.
Sam awoke in her bed writhing in agony, clutching her face with both hands. When she pulled her hands away, her fingers were dry; she had half expected to find them wet with blood. Just a dream.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw a dark shadow silhouetted by moonlight streaming through the window. The shadow was human in shape—or mostly human, for out of its back unfurled monstrous wings that spanned the width and length of its body. Its glittering crimson stare burned into her.
A beam of moonlight struck its face. Sam let out a shocked breath. The demon’s visage was a mirror image of the woman’s from her dream—but as though the reflection in the mirror had been warped. What had been beautiful perfection on the woman was a twisted mess, its features put together like mismatched puzzle pieces.
Sam looked wildly around for Tristan and Braeden. Both men were still fast asleep.
She didn’t have a moment to waste. “Wake up!” she shouted, reaching for the dagger from the night table beside her pallet.
The demon gave a flap of its mighty wings and lunged for her. Sharp claws narrowly missed her head as she rolled off the bed and out of harm’s way. She staggered to her feet, readying for the demon’s next attack.
“Faith in blood,” Tristan said in a hushed voice, suddenly standing behind her. “What is that thing?”
Thank the Gods, he was awake. “I saw it,” Sam said. “I saw it in my dreams.”
Tristan’s jaw fell slack. “Dreamwalker,” he whispered. “It can’t be.”
“Dreamwalker?” she asked, but Tristan shook his head and ignored her.
“Look out!” cried Braeden, crouching on top of his mattress, a knife in either hand. The demon was airborne again, circling them like a hawk. He threw his knives toward the pale underside of its wings, into the joint where wing met skin.
The demon howled, a terrible, inhuman sound, flapping its wings frantically. It gave one final flap, screeched, then touched its toes to the floor, folding its wings behind it.
Hissing through its teeth, the creature held up its long dangerous-looking talons.
Its crimson eyes were still locked on Sam. It edged forward, step by step, preparing to spring.
Tristan darted forward and plunged his sword deep into its gut
. He drew the sword up and twisted, exposing its ribcage and pumping heart.
His blade still buried in the demon’s chest, his gaze found Sam’s. “Finish it,” he said.
His voice echoed inside her head. It won’t die till you cut off its head!
Crossing the floor to Tristan, she thrust her dagger into the demon’s throat till it pierced through the other side. With all her strength, she wrenched the dagger sideways. Its head rolled to the floor, mouth frozen in a scream.
Sam stared at the head. Separated from its winged body, it appeared all too human. She swallowed down a lump of bile. “The demon—it spoke to me. In my dream it wanted me to talk.”
Tristan ran his fingers through his hair. “To live in such times,” he muttered. “It should be impossible.”
“What should be impossible?”
“In the stories of old, there are demons that can manipulate dreams,” Tristan said. “Dreamwalkers, they were called. It was said they made the realm of dreams their domain, that they could use it as a means of travel. But they haven’t been seen in thousands of years, not since they were imprisoned in the Afterlight with the worst of the demons. They were supposed to be gone forever.”
“You think that was one of them?” Sam asked.
Tristan shook his head. “I don’t know what to believe.”
“For whatever my opinion is worth,” Braeden said, bending over to retrieve his knives from the demon’s corpse, “I can tell you this demon is different from any I’ve ever encountered before.”
“How so?” Tristan asked.
Braeden wiped his knives clean on his robes. “It was intelligent. It had complex thoughts, like you or me.”
Tristan swore. “I must write of this to the High Commander. But first we have to leave Cordoba. Immediately.”
“Why?” Sam asked, covering a yawn. “It’s not even close to morning.”
Tristan glanced sidelong at Braeden. “A demon in Cordoba is not exactly a common occurrence, and this”—he gestured at the demon’s corpse—“will incite some unnecessary misunderstandings.”
“They’ll blame me for it,” Braeden said without any obvious emotion, “just like they did at the fortress.”
Sam made a face. “That’s stupid.” Where was the logic in that?
“It’s Cordoba,” Braeden said, as though that explained everything.
Tristan frowned at them both. “Less talking, more packing.”
Getting rid of the demon in secret was a gruesome affair. They hacked up the body, wrapped the pieces in bed sheets, and once outside, Tristan took out his tinderbox and set it afire. They left The Twelve Peers when the last of the demon’s corpse had been burned to ashes. The streets of Cordoba, so boisterous just hours earlier, were dead quiet. With the moon as their only source of light, they kept the horses at a slow walk, careful to avoid any missteps. The gatekeeper was asleep at his post, and they had to rouse him from his slumber in order to get him to raise the city gates. He would have refused, too, had Tristan not revealed himself as a paladin.
As the excitement from the demon attack tapered off, Sam began to feel the effects of lack of sleep. “Are we riding for much longer?”
“I want to get at least two hours’ distance away before we rest,” Tristan said. “Why?”
“I’m practically falling asleep on my horse, that’s all,” she replied with a hint of a whine.
“You’re beginning to annoy me,” Tristan told her. “You knew full well when you joined the Paladins what you signed on for. I’ve gone days without sleep when I’ve had to.”
“Fine,” she grumbled, shutting her mouth.
After several minutes had passed, Tristan spoke again. “Braeden, can I ask you something?”
Braeden grunted in the affirmative.
“There’s no easy way to ask this,” Tristan said with an apologetic laugh. “We’ve had two demon attacks in the past week. We rarely see them with such frequency, especially in such close proximity to warded territory.” He dragged in an audible breath. “Does your presence have anything to do with it? I’m not suggesting you’re drawing them on purpose, of course. I don’t blame you for Paladin Savage’s death.”
“It’s fine,” Braeden said. “I’d wonder, too, if I were you. But the answer is no. I’ve always had to seek demons out, if I wanted to fight them. I cannot control where and when they show.” Sam felt Braeden’s eyes on her back. “I’m not sure why we’ve seen so many demons of late. But there must be a reason.”
A long silence followed his reply. Sam concentrated on keeping her eyes open; several times her forehead collided with her horse’s neck as she nodded in and out of sleep, and once she nearly fell out of her saddle. To her frustration, neither Tristan nor Braeden seemed to be having any trouble. She stuck out her tongue at their backs.
By the time Tristan motioned for them to dismount, Sam was all but ready to collapse. They walked their horses off the main dirt road to a hidden enclave in the surrounding woods and tethered them to a tree. Tristan erected a small wedge tent, just large enough to squeeze three bodies side by side.
“I’ll take the first watch,” he said. “Braeden, I’ll wake you for the second watch, and Sam, you’ll take the third. Get sleep while you can.”
Sam didn’t need to be told twice. She rolled out her bedding and crawled beneath her blanket. The ground was uncomfortably hard, but at least her ankle no longer bothered her so much. Only the occasional twinge reminded her that she’d injured it just a few days before.
She felt Braeden crawl in next to her. “Sam?” he whispered.
“Yes?”
“Did you feel anything strange earlier tonight? Before the demon appeared?”
“I had a bad dream,” she replied sleepily. “Why do you ask?”
He hesitated before responding. “I can sense the presence of demons, well before they’re in range to attack. But this one . . . this one I didn’t sense till you shouted for us to wake.”
“What do you think it means?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe you should say something to Tristan,” she suggested.
He shifted again, flipping over onto his back. “I’d rather not. Not yet anyway,” he said. “It could have been a fluke. I’ll tell him about it if it happens again.”
“Tristan can be an arrogant ass,” Sam said, “but I think we can trust him.”
“You’re more trusting than I am.” He said nothing more, and Sam wondered if he’d fallen asleep.
“Braeden?”
“Yes, Sam?”
“Thanks for trusting me.”
CHAPTER 13
The next few days left Sam exhausted. As soon as Tristan felt they had made enough distance from Cordoba, he had begun daily training sessions. If Sam had thought training at the Paladin fortress had been hard, drilling two-on-one with Tristan was brutal. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he allowed them to use weapons, but Tristan made them perform callisthenic exercises that Sam swore he’d invented just to torment them. She knew that Braeden was half a demon, but she was beginning to think that Tristan wasn’t entirely human either. The man never tired, and—good Gods, was he whistling now?
“You’re off tune,” she accused.
Tristan twisted around in his saddle to glare at her. “You don’t know the song. How could you possibly judge whether I’m off tune?’
“I don’t need to know the song to know your rendition is terrible.”
His frown deepened. “What’s got you in such a foul mood?”
She was in a foul mood—she hadn’t had a bath or a proper night’s sleep in ages and she felt vile. She was too tired and cross to pretend otherwise. “Why must you torture us with your whistling? You have no reason to be so cheery.”
“I wasn’t aware I needed a reason to be in good spirits,” Tristan said. “Besides, Braeden doesn’t mind my whistling. Right, Braeden?”
Braeden let out a loud cough and cantered his horse up ahead of them.
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“It’s not that bad!” Tristan called after him, reserving his scowl for Sam. “If you must know, I’m looking forward to our arrival in Haywood. We’ll be there in half a day’s ride.”
Her heart sped up. “We’re stopping in Haywood?”
“Aye,” Tristan said. “I have business with the duke. You’ll have time to visit with your family, if you’d like.”
“Great,” she muttered. No need to tell Tristan that the duke was her family. She would have to make sure she stayed out of sight for the duration of their stay. There were too many people who might recognize her, and too few she could trust to hold their tongue. If she had her druthers, she would never come back to Haywood. There was nothing for her there anymore.
As they closed the final distance between Cordoba and Haywood, the scenery began to change. Rolling dunes flattened and the occasional pockets of thicket spread till the land was green as far as the eye could see. The air thickened with humidity and the clouds gathered in the sky, blocking the sun’s rays but not their warmth.
Once the all-too-familiar turrets of Castle Haywood came into view—the only home she’d ever known—Sam retrieved a cloak from her pack, hiding her face beneath its hood.
“Are you mad?” Tristan asked incredulously. “It’s boiling hot out.”
“I’m cold,” Sam lied, hoping he couldn’t see the perspiration on her upper lip. When he wasn’t looking, she dabbed at her damp face with her sleeve. Braeden, however, caught her at it, shooting her a quizzical look. Later, she mouthed, though she wasn’t sure what tale she’d spin.
It was nearing dusk when they reached the murky waters of the castle moat. The moat was a relatively new addition to Haywood; the duke had grown increasingly paranoid in the years since his wife’s death and spared no expense when it came to the city’s security. Hundreds of sentries were stationed on top of the city wall. But, as Sam knew well, the duke’s security was not infallible: for years, she had bribed the guards to keep her training a secret from her father. After her mother had died, not only had he stopped training her, he had also demanded she stop training altogether.