by Sally Slater
Braeden snorted. “Unlikely.” He gave his bootlaces a final tug and straightened. “I’ll leave first.”
“Understood.”
When she rejoined Braeden outside the brothel’s front door, Tristan had yet to make an appearance. “Where is he?” Sam asked irritably.
Braeden pointed to a hunched-over figure on the opposite side of the dirt road. The man retched violently into the pale pink hydrangea before withdrawing his head from the foliage. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sank against a nearby tree. “That would be our esteemed Paladin,” Braeden said.
“He’s going to be unusually pleasant today, isn’t he?”
Braeden’s lips twitched. “Undoubtedly. Let’s go greet your betrothed, shall we?”
“Not funny, Braeden.”
He ignored her, crossing the street in long, confident strides. Sam started after him at a jog but slowed her gait as trepidation took hold. She didn’t like trusting her secret to another person, even if that person was Braeden. And she still hadn’t fully worked out what to tell Tristan about the events of the previous evening.
But as she neared Tristan, she could see that he was in no state to listen to stories, true or not. His face was gray and drawn, blond hair damp against his forehead, and his eyes were fixated on his flaring nostrils in a cross-eyed stare, as though he were channeling all his powers of concentration into breathing.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
Tristan held up a finger and then bolted into the hydrangea bushes, clutching his stomach as he heaved into the flowers. This last bout of vomiting must have done a little more good; when he returned, his face had lost its sickly grayish cast, though he remained unusually pale. “That’s better,” he croaked, and grimaced. “Remind me never to get that drunk ever again.”
Sam’s gaze traveled over his wrinkled tunic and grass-stained breeches. “What happened to you? Did you end up sleeping out here last night?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Tristan grumbled. “In fact, I don’t want to talk at all. My tongue feels like it’s three sizes too big.”
“I’m sorry to hear—”
“No, don’t speak,” Tristan interrupted. “I don’t want to hear you talk either.” He leaned against a tree for support. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to rest my eyes for a quarter hour.”
Sam smirked. “Rest your eyes?”
“Aye. Hush. I suggest you two do the same.”
“And then what?”
Tristan closed his eyes and slid his back down the tree trunk. “And then let’s get the hell out of Haywood.”
A quarter hour turned into an hour and an hour turned into two. By the time they remounted their horses, the sun was already high in the sky. Tristan was none too pleased at the late start to the day, but he was to blame for their late start, and he knew it.
They left Haywood with little fanfare. The duke, in typical fashion, did not bother to see them off; now that Tristan was no longer to wed his daughter, he likely had lost interest. Haywood, swept up in the madness of the Grand Fair, just two days hence, barely acknowledged their departure. It made for a quick exit.
Tristan set a breakneck speed in an effort to make up for lost time, riding their horses at a near gallop. Haywood was soon only a speck in the distance, the curved road wide and open with nary a soul in sight. Sam wondered if she would ever see her home again.
When the horses began to flag, Tristan led them to a nearby stream and told his trainees to dismount. “We’ll rest here,” he said.
“For the evening?” Sam asked. “We still have a few hours of daylight.”
Tristan patted his horse’s flank, encouraging it to drink from the stream. “The horses are already fatigued,” he said. “Besides, you and Braeden have hardly trained since we arrived in Haywood. Now is as good a time as any.”
Sam bit back a groan. Nothing like training after half a day’s hard riding, and on top of a night of drinking too. “More calisthenics? Or will you let us hold actual weapons?”
“I was planning on the latter, but in light of your impertinence, I’ve changed my mind,” Tristan said archly.
“Wonderful. Calisthenics are so practical for killing demons.”
“Someone will cut out that sharp tongue of yours one day, and when I say I told you so, you won’t be able to reply. And to be clear, I said no weapons; I didn’t say no fighting. Some hand-to-hand grappling is in order, I think.”
“Okay,” Sam said, feeling more optimistic. She’d enjoyed the few grappling lessons she’d had.
“Now that I have your hard won approval,” Tristan said, “let’s begin. We’re going to start by practicing the three basic tie-in positions, so you’ll need to face each other. Braeden, move closer. Closer. There, that’s good.”
Braeden and Sam stood a little over a yard apart, their nearness emphasizing Braeden’s significant height advantage. He stared straight ahead at a spot above Sam’s head, avoiding eye contact.
“Now, step your right foot forward—no, Sam, that’s your left—so that your legs cross at the knees. Burn this foot position into your memory. It’s the same for all three starting stances. Okay, now, Sam, I want you to grip Braeden’s upper arms around the outside, and Braeden, you grip Sam’s upper arms from the inside.”
To Sam’s embarrassment, Braeden’s hands easily encircled her upper arms while her own fingers couldn’t even touch. She squeezed a little, surprised at the hardness of Braeden’s triceps and a little unnerved. Though Braeden still refused to meet her eyes, he wasn’t as apathetic as he pretended; a faint blush stained the ochre of his skin.
“Excellent,” Tristan said. “Both of you, drop your right hands and shift your left hands to each other’s elbows. Good. This is the single arm tie-up.” After they executed the starting stance to his satisfaction, he continued, “The next and final starting position is the double-waist tie-up. Braeden, reach around Sam’s waist and grab your wrist with the opposite hand. Sam, you do the same to Braeden.”
Braeden and Sam now stood in an embrace, their arms around each other’s waist. The only air separating their bodies was in the small space between their hips. Their knees rubbed against one another as they shifted, and the back of Sam’s head rested on Braeden’s shoulder. Their embrace was that of lovers, not fighters.
Braeden broke off their embrace and stormed off into the surrounding woods.
Tristan scratched his head. “What’s wrong with him?”
Sam shrugged helplessly and focused on calming her racing heart. She neither wanted nor appreciated this new awareness of Braeden. Had touching him always felt so strange or was it the result of the new dynamic of their relationship?
Braeden reappeared moments later. “Sorry. I had to deal with something.”
“Verbose in your explanations as always,” Tristan said. “If there are no more interruptions?” Braeden shook his head. “Splendid. As you were.”
Expressionless, Braeden wrapped his arms around Sam’s waist once more, and she trembled, damn her traitorous body. “I won’t tell,” he whispered into her ear, his breath tickling the sensitive skin. He must have mistaken her reaction for fear, not . . . whatever this new sensation was.
“Sam, don’t interlock your fingers,” Tristan instructed. “We’re going to practice the lift and throw next.”
They practiced the lift and throw till Sam grew sick of thumping her skull against the earth. She’d learned how to fall properly long ago, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed it. Moreover, she was convinced Braeden was going easy on her, tipping her over like a teapot instead of throwing her to the ground like he should. When it came to her turn to practice on him, she made a point to drop him unceremoniously on his head.
As dusk drew near, Tristan allowed them to spend the last few minutes of their training grappling. “Let’s make this quick,” Tristan said. “First one on the ground is the loser and has the fine privilege of digging the latrine.”
He was too quick, though, locking her in a one-armed chokehold. Wheezing, she swung her arm backwards and pushed against his body with as much force as she could muster. He stumbled back a few inches and she wormed her way out of his grasp.
Sam circled Braeden, her competitive instincts now fully engaged. A bead of perspiration rolled down her forehead and off the tip of her nose, landing on the rim of her mouth. She tasted salt as she ran her tongue over her upper lip.
Braeden’s eyes zeroed in on her mouth. Seizing the opportunity, she crouched down and shot forward, streaking across the grass. The crown of her head connected with Braeden’s solar plexus, sending him sprawling. She’d won.
It was too easy.
Braeden came up onto his elbows. Before he could rise to his feet, Sam jumped on top of him, shoving his chest hard. “You wretch!” she snarled. She shoved him one more time for good measure and then stalked off, muttering to herself.
“First you, now Sam. Am I missing something here?” she heard Tristan say.
Braeden’s reply was lost to her as she stormed off into the trees. He had let her win. For the Gods’ sakes. Was there anything more humiliating? Or more insulting?
After venting her frustration on a rotten tree stump, she went and helped Tristan set up camp, ignoring his efforts to make small talk. Then she set off in search of Braeden to have some words.
She found him deep in the woods, bare to the waist, muscles rippling as he shoveled dirt. When he saw her approach, he dropped the trowel and hastily stuck his arms into the sleeves of his robes.
“Stop it!” she snapped. “I’ve seen your bare chest a hundred times before. Don’t be modest on my account.”
Braeden ignored her and continued dressing. “It was different then.”
“That’s just it,” she said. “It’s not different. Not to me, and not to Tristan. Stop treating me like I’m a woman.”
“We’re alone now,” Braeden said, knotting the tie of his robe into a bow.
“I’m not talking about when we’re alone! Today, at training—what do you call that?”
Braeden blushed—not exactly the response Sam was anticipating. “You mean when I walked off?” he asked. “That was . . .” he floundered.
“Not that, you idiot! Our fight, at the end. Did you think I wouldn’t be able to tell?”
Now Braeden looked well and truly confused. “Be able to tell what?”
Sam searched for something to throw at his head—a medium-sized rock would do nicely. “That you let me win!”
His face darkened. “That’s complete shite, Sam.”
“It’s not shite and you know it. You could have easily evaded my lift and throw. Why didn’t you? Because I’m a woman? Because I couldn’t possibly handle a real fight?”
“Gods, Sam, give me some credit,” Braeden said, scowling. “I may have just learned you’re a woman, but I’ve known for far longer that you can fight. I’m not trying to take that away from you.”
“Then why did you let me win?”
Braeden let out a huff of frustration. “I didn’t let you win. I was caught off guard.”
“By what?”
“Nothing of import,” Braeden said evasively. “It was a momentary distraction and it won’t happen again.”
“Hmph.”
“Harrumph away. I didn’t intentionally allow you to win. Satisfied?”
Sam nodded begrudgingly, though she remained skeptical.
“Then let me go back to digging the latrine. And give me some more time to adjust. It hasn’t even been a full day.”
Sam’s face grew hot. She had been unconscionably selfish and self-centered. “Sorry. I’ll leave you be.” She turned and headed for the camp, the wind carrying Braeden’s quiet sigh to her ears.
CHAPTER 21
It took a week of near constant travel before they again reached anything that resembled real civilization. The land between Haywood and Catania—the nearest city—was sparsely populated. Just the wagon road, endless woods, and the occasional small farm.
Though a week’s journey was not overlong by most standards, Sam had never made it out to Catania before. The Duke of Catania, and his much younger duchess, had visited Haywood a few times when Sam was a child, but whether they would remember her face, even if it were fully healed, was dubious.
Considering their relative proximity, Sam was surprised by how different the two cities were. Perhaps the contrast was heightened by the excitement for Haywood’s Grand Fair, but Catania seemed downright miserable in comparison. At this time of year, when the weather was still warm and the marketplace was full of new wares, the city was supposed to be at its brightest. The business district of Catania, however, was a somber place. The merchants and shopkeepers were alternately harried or sour-faced, and their customers stared at their feet rather than their companions. And it was so quiet. There was no shouting, no loud arguments, no excited haggling. Everyone spoke in hushed whispers and kept their exchanges short and succinct.
“Will we be staying in Catania long?” Sam asked Tristan, eager to be elsewhere.
“Just for the night. We’ll leave at first light tomorrow,” Tristan said, stopping to admire a pair of leather boots.
“Good,” she said, hugging her cloak tighter despite the heat.
Tristan arched a brow. “Don’t think much of Catania, do you?”
She shook her head. “It’s depressing.”
Tristan looked around as if seeing the city for the first time. “You know, it is rather dreary. I hadn’t noticed.”
“Is the whole city like this?” she asked.
Tristan stroked the blond stubble on his chin. “I can’t say for certain. I know a few of the paladins posted here, and they’re a raucous lot. I’d hardly characterize them as gloomy. We might run into them while we’re here—they frequent the Hog in Armor, where we’ll be staying the night.”
They arrived at the Hog in Armor a little past sundown, after they’d finished replenishing their supplies at the market. Inside, the inn was a far cry from the muted tones of the city. Servants bearing food and drink traipsed back and forth across the entrance hall, and even when the door was shut, they could hear laughter and music spilling out of the common room.
Behind a desk in the lobby sat the innkeeper, a tiny man with delicate spectacles perched low on his nose. “Can I help you?”
“Aye,” Tristan said. “We need a place to sleep for the night. Three rooms, if you have them, but three pallets would do as well.”
The innkeeper took in their disheveled appearance, dusty and grimy from the road—and then his gaze fell on Braeden. His eyes bulged behind his glasses. “We’re full.”
He hadn’t even bothered to check his books. Tristan frowned at him. “Why don’t you take another look?”
The innkeeper sniffed and adjusted his spectacles. “I’m afraid we can’t accommodate you and your men at this time, but there is another inn on the main thoroughfare that I’m sure would be more than happy to take your business.”
Tristan leaned against the innkeeper’s desk, towering over him. “I have stayed at this inn before, and I intend to stay here again tonight. Check your books.”
The innkeeper was unruffled. “You must have procured a room from my predecessor. The Hog in Armor is for men with refined tastes, and to be blunt, we don’t serve men of your ilk.”
“Men of my ilk? You listen to me, little man— “
“Lyons! That you?”
The innkeeper turned to the source of the new voice and blanched. “I-I did not see you there, Paladin. You know this man?”
The newcomer was a broad-shouldered, stocky fellow with hair and beard a fiery shade of red that would rival Will’s. “Know him? This here’s the finest swordsman in the kingdom, except for maybe the High Commander himself. And even I wouldn’t place any bets on that fight. You ever spar with the High Commander, Lyons?”
Tristan nodded in greeting. “Good to see you, Sagar. And I can’t say I have.”
“Shame, that. Would love to know who’d come out on top.” He jerked his thumb at the innkeeper. “Is Crompton here treating you right?”
“Actually, he was just telling us that all the rooms were full,” Tristan said, his displeasure obvious.
The innkeeper, Crompton, dabbed at his forehead with a lace handkerchief. “My deepest regrets, Paladin Lyons. Had I known who you were— “
“Spare me the false apology. Do you have rooms available or not?”
Crompton opened his bound ledger and flipped through the pages. “I have two rooms on the third floor. Will that suit the needs of you and your men?”
“My trainees. Paladin trainees,” Tristan clarified. “That will suit just fine.”
“Begging your pardon. I’ll take you to your rooms myself whenever you are ready.” Crompton looked back and forth between the two paladins. “Will you be attending the party this evening?”
“Of course he’s going,” Paladin Sagar said, clapping Tristan on the back. “Lyons, bring your trainees, too.” Heading for the common room, he lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “Don’t mind old Crompton, boys. He warms right up once he knows you’re with us.”
“Hold up, Sagar,” Tristan said, before the other Paladin could exit. “What is this about a party?”
Sagar grinned. “You came to the Hog in Armor on a good night, my friend. The Paladins have all but taken over the inn—best lodgings you’ll find west of Heartwine, after all—so Crompton’s been so kind as to host monthly gatherings on our behalf. It’s good fun, I promise.”
“Perhaps,” Tristan said noncommittally. “Who will be there?”
“Oh, only everybody who’s somebody in Catania. Paladins, nobles, the wealthier merchants, and the like.” He made a mock-pouting face. “Come on, Lyons, I’ll be bereft if you don’t show. Besides, your trainees deserve a break for putting up with your sorry hide. Terrible traveling companion, our Tristan.” He winked at Sam and Braeden.