Paladin

by Sally Slater

  Braeden arched a brow. “Do you always say goodbye like that?”

  Her cheeks heated, and she punched him again. “Can’t you just forget about it?”

  Braeden’s mouth flattened, and he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. He held his hand out to her. “You want to pretend it never happened?”

  She nodded, taking his hand and letting him pull her to her feet.

  “Fine,” he said, his tone inscrutable. “Then I’ll forget this, too.” He jerked her roughly to him, tilted her chin up, and brushed his mouth against hers. He pulled back from the kiss. “It’s forgotten,” he breathed into her mouth, and then released her, stalking to the other end of the room.

  And that was how Tristan found them, Sam on one side of the room and Braeden on the other, with one pallet between them, the other scattered in ruins across the floor. “What in the name of the Gods is going on in here?” he bellowed, barging through the door.

  Sam and Braeden jumped like guilty conspirators. “N-nothing, Tristan,” Sam stammered, hoping that the shadowy light was poor enough to hide her blush. Her mind was still awhirl and her heart beat like a drum in her chest. Gods, she was a hypocrite, she’d told Braeden to forget they ever kissed, yet his last kiss replayed over and over again in her head, her toes curling involuntarily at the memory.

  Tristan’s voice snapped her out of her reverie. “Braeden, why are you out of bed? Where is your bed?”

  Braeden kicked at a piece of straw that had sprung free from his former mattress. “We had an incident.”

  Tristan crossed his arms. “I can see that. You promised the surgeon you would rest.”

  “It wasn’t his fault,” Sam blurted. “Well, not entirely. You see, his tattoo . . .” she trailed off. It wasn’t her story to tell. Besides, she didn’t know what happened to him, not really.

  Braeden sighed, sinking against the wall. “It was as I forewarned you. My tattoo serves as a ward against the demon within me. The ward has been . . . tampered with.”

  Tristan stepped further into the room, stopping in front of Sam. He touched his index finger to the side of her jaw. “You’re bleeding,” he said. He turned to Braeden. “Did you do this?”

  “Aye,” Braeden said, his voice little above a whisper. “I lost control. I could have killed Sam. My demon wanted Sam very, very badly, and I couldn’t fight it.”

  “But you did,” Sam said. “You didn’t kill me. You fought it and you won.”

  Braeden barked a short laugh. “I didn’t fight it. We found common ground.” His gaze held hers intently. “We both wanted the same thing.”

  Tristan looked between the two of them, his brow furrowing. Sam shuddered to think what his reaction would have been had he walked in on them just a few minutes earlier. She wondered if he would have killed Braeden if he were in her position. He certainly wouldn’t have kissed him.

  “You appear to be in control now,” Tristan said slowly. “What of your wound? Does it still hurt?”

  “Perhaps a little,” Braeden admitted. He weaved through the room towards them, twisting his arm so they could more easily see his wound. The infected surface area had shrunk significantly, which surprised Sam—the way Braeden’s body had expanded and distorted should have stretched the wound wider.

  Tristan grasped Braeden’s elbow gently and peered at his shoulder. “It looks better, I’ll give you that. But your skin is hot to the touch and you still look feverish.” He tilted his head, considering. “Braeden, do you think what happened between you and Sam will happen again?”

  Sam choked and pretended to cough to hide her embarrassment. “Sorry,” she wheezed. “Caught a bug in my throat.” Idiot, she berated herself. Tristan hadn’t meant their kiss.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Braeden said, his eyes fixed on hers. Was he talking about kissing her or trying to kill her? Not that it mattered, his answer should have been “no” either way.

  “Then let me ask you this one more time, and I promise it’s the last I’ll ask it of you,” Tristan said. “Will you reconsider removing part of your tattoo?”

  Braeden took a long time to reply. “If I haven’t healed by morning, I’ll do it.”

  Sam released a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. It had taken him nearly killing her and her nearly killing him, but Braeden had finally decided to be sensible. Maybe he had started to believe in himself, or maybe he just assumed the damage had already been done. Whatever his reason, Sam got what she wanted—Braeden alive.

  “Fair,” Tristan said. “The night, or what’s left of it, is yours. I suggest you stay in bed.” He picked up a piece of the straw that was strewn about the room. “Guess you’ll have to share one.” And on that parting note, Tristan exited the room, oblivious to the distress he left them in.

  CHAPTER 30

  Sharing a bed was not in the cards for Sam and Braeden, not this night. Neither of them could forget they kissed, no matter what they pretended. After a brief argument, Sam took the floor, and Braeden the bed. He was the wounded one, after all, and needed rest far more than she. She wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  The floor was hard and cold beneath her, and every time she shifted, a new piece of straw tickled her nose or feet or back. She wrapped a thin sheet around her, but it provided little comfort. It shouldn’t have mattered—with the marathon of events they’d had over the past few days, she should have been able to sleep standing up.

  But she was too rattled to sleep. Ever since Braeden discovered who she was, she’d been off balance, unsure of how to act now that her two worlds had collided. She didn’t know how to be Paladin trainee Sam and Lady Samantha simultaneously. Sam had thought she’d left Lady Samantha behind for good when she had joined the Paladins. She didn’t want to be a lady, she wanted to be a Paladin. And paladins had no business going around kissing other paladins. Not for any reason.

  Braeden’s voice echoed inside her head. Why? Why did she kiss him? Even when Lady Samantha was her only identity, she hadn’t been much of a romantic. She’d harbored a tendre or two over the years, but never had she acted on it. She hadn’t been the sort to pine over men or flirt or gossip with her friends about the fine turn of a man’s calves.

  Till Braeden.

  At the thought of his name, a fresh pang shot through her chest. When she’d touched her lips to his, she’d crossed some murky line, trespassing into new territory that she wasn’t ready for, now or maybe ever. Their kiss had been wonderful and frightening and seductive, but it changed things between them irrevocably. Could a friendship survive such a kiss? They couldn’t do it again, that much was certain. For the sake of their friendship and Sam’s future with the Paladins. She’d made a choice when she’d discarded her life at Haywood for the Paladins. Lady Samantha might have loved a man, but Paladin Sam never could.

  Sleep did come eventually, or it must have, for she closed her eyes in darkness and opened them again in candlelight. She blinked, pupils adjusting. Tristan’s face blurred above hers and then sharpened. “Morning,” he said.

  “Urgh,” she grunted, not yet able to form coherent words. She arched her back against the hard floor, stretching, and then forced herself upright. Her eyes shifted right, to Braeden’s empty pallet. “Where is Braeden?”

  “With Asa, in surgery, I suspect.”

  Sam bolted to her feet. “Why didn’t anyone wake me?” She moved for the door.

  Tristan grabbed her arm, halting her in her tracks. “Braeden wanted to let you sleep. He said this was something he needed to do on his own.”

  “Oh,” she said, feeling a little hurt. It felt like a personal blow, especially after last night.

  “He’ll be fine,” Tristan said, mistaking her somber expression for concern over Braeden’s wellbeing. She should be concerned about his health, not fretting over some perceived slight. “It’s a quick, easy surgery. Asa said Braeden would be patched up in time for breakfast.”

  “Good,” Sam said absently, surveying the destruction the
y had wrought to the small room. She couldn’t wait to get out of there, to put the evening behind her.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” Tristan said dryly. “I’ve already remunerated Master Byrd for the damages. Cost me a pretty penny.”

  Sam reddened. “Last night was . . . not intentional.”

  Tristan’s face softened. “I know.” Then he grinned. “To be honest, I was far more reckless when I was a trainee, and for less reason. Most of the time there wasn’t a reason, other than my own amusement.”

  “I’m not much for rule-breaking,” Sam said. It was true, if you didn’t count pretending to be a man.

  Tristan snorted. “I’d hardly call you obedient. Have you ever accepted an order without protest?”

  Sam sniffed. “I don’t disobey your orders. I just vocalize my grievances.”

  Tristan’s laughed. “Come on, let’s head to breakfast. Surely you can find no grievance with that.”

  “Only that I have to share it with you,” Sam said with syrupy sweetness.

  Breakfast was an elaborate affair: the usual bread and cheese accompanied by a rich, creamy butter, salted fish, and a chine of beef. It was a meal Sam would expect to see on her father’s dining table, not in some backwater inn. She bit into a piece of heavily buttered bread, her eyes fluttering closed as the golden, flaky crust melted in her mouth. Pure heaven.

  Tristan was staring at her. “What?” she asked.

  “Your expression . . .” he said, pink tingeing his cheeks. “Never mind. Ah, here’s Braeden.”

  Braeden stood at the entrance to the tavern, light and shadow playing across his face, accenting the sharp angles. He searched the room, his eyes landing on Sam’s. After a tension-filled moment, Sam looked away, her gaze falling to his shoulders. His left hand was wrapped around his upper right arm, holding it gingerly. So he had done it, then.

  Tristan waved Braeden over. “How did it go?” he asked as Braeden pulled out a chair from their table.

  “Fine,” Braeden said. “The surgeon said that with the way my body heals, my arm should be fully mobile by tomorrow.”

  Tristan whistled. “Gods, that’s incredible. You’re a lucky man, Braeden.” Braeden gave him a flat look, and Tristan coughed awkwardly. “Well, I do envy your healing ability. The last time I was seriously injured, I was bedridden for a fortnight.”

  “What about your tattoo?” Sam asked, willing her voice to sound normal.

  “Damaged beyond repair,” Braeden said, pushing back his right sleeve to reveal thick white bandages. His eyes met hers again, drinking her in. “I’ll learn to live without it.”

  Sam wasn’t sure if he was talking about his tattoo or something else, but she nodded anyway. “That’s good.”

  “Can you ride?” Tristan asked. “I was hoping to leave Pirama today, but we can delay our departure till tomorrow if necessary.”

  “I should be fine to ride, so long as I’m careful with my arm.”

  “And if a demon attacks?” Sam asked sharply.

  A dagger appeared in Braeden’s left hand, twirling around his fingertips. “I have another arm.”

  Sam shook her head, but Tristan seemed pleased enough by his answer. “Let’s finish our meals and pack quickly, then. I’m eager to put Pirama behind us. Too little sunlight.”

  Indeed, the inn was buried so deep into the mountains that it was next to impossible to tell day from night. When they finally departed The Stag and Bull a short while later, the sun was almost too bright. Sam felt raw and exposed beneath the sun’s penetrating rays.

  Tristan kicked his horse into a gallop, and Sam and Braeden kept apace. Braeden guided his horse expertly with his thighs, his reins sitting unused in his lap. “Now he’s just showing off,” Sam whispered into her horse’s ear. The piebald whinnied in agreement.

  Tristan pulled his mare to a stop at the bottom of the mountain pass where they had fought alongside the Uriel. He dismounted and retrieved a shortsword and scabbard from his pack. He handed them to Sam. “Just in case,” he said. “I’m not sure what sort of reception we’ll get in Luca.”

  Sam looked up at the distant, snow covered peaks. “Luca is through here?”

  “Aye,” Tristan said. “Where Pirama was built into the mountains, Luca was built atop them. Only the most stalwart of men travel to and from the city.”

  “Why did the Uriel set up their encampment there, if traveling is so difficult?” Sam asked.

  Braeden brought his horse beside hers. “It sends a message.”

  “It sounds like cutting off the nose to spite the face to me,” Sam said, wrinkling her own nose. Those snowy peaks looked cold.

  Tristan shrugged. “Who knows why the Uriel do anything? Perhaps our trip to Luca will enlighten us.”

  “Have you decided whether you’ll accept Sander’s invitation?” Sam asked.

  “Still to be determined,” Tristan replied. “I sent off a letter to the High Commander last night. We’ll see what he says.”

  “How will he reach us in Luca?”

  Tristan frowned at her, as though it were obvious. “He’s the High Commander.”

  As Tristan had warned, the road to Luca was not an easy one. The mountain was impossibly steep in parts, and their horses tired quickly, so they had to break at regular intervals to allow the animals to recover. The terrain varied greatly, too—a meadow of brilliantly colored wildflowers would be followed by a field of snow. The snow fields were dangerous, according to Tristan, because rivers flowed beneath them, and it was hard to tell whether the snow had solidified enough to support their weight. He made them cross by foot, afraid that the combined weight of horse and man would send them plunging into the icy waters below. Sam skidded and slid her way through the snow, falling more times than she cared to admit.

  The undulating crests and dips of the mountain path made it difficult to gauge their progress. They’d climb uphill for what seemed like forever, only to descend the same distance after they reached the summit. The trail was narrow and slippery—from melted snow or rain, Sam didn’t know—and her heart stopped every time the horses’ hooves slipped in the loose gravel.

  But it was beautiful in the mountains, too. There were delicate flowers so blue they seemed artificial, and the uninterrupted vistas of lofty, gray bluffs against sky must have been painted by the Gods themselves. At one point, they paused just to watch an avalanche roll down the mountain slope. The avalanche was more than a mile away, but it was close enough that they could see and hear the ice separate from the glacier and fall in crystallized shards to the ground below. It was both awe-inspiring and terrifying.

  When the sky turned orange as the sun ducked below the mountaintops, Sam resigned herself to a cold night beneath the stars. Tristan, however, had other ideas. “Just a little bit farther,” he urged, stroking his horse’s mane.

  He led them off-trail through untamed brush and uneven earth till at last an opening appeared in the narrowly packed trees. A small wood hut stood in the clearing, unsophisticated but well-kept. “We’ll stay here for the night,” Tristan said, leaping off his horse.

  Braeden and Sam followed Tristan into the small hut. It was surprisingly spacious and warm, though Sam could hear the wind beating against the roof. “How did you know about this place?” she asked.

  Tristan spread out a blanket onto the musty floor and lay on top of it. “I stayed here once before, many years ago. I wasn’t sure it would still be here.”

  Sam pulled out another blanket and claimed the space at the back wall, as far from Tristan and Braeden as possible. “What were you doing in the Elurra Mountains?”

  A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Running away,” he answered after a long pause.

  From what? she wanted to ask but sensed that Tristan didn’t want to be pushed, not about this. So instead she asked, “You’re from the West, you said? Did you grow up near Luca?”

  His jaw tightened. “Nay, further west. In Finchold.”

  That took Sam by surprise. Finchold
was supposedly a ghost town. It hadn’t been inhabited in ten years, not since demons overran the city. “That’s, errr . . .” She struggled to find adequate words. “How long did you live there?”

  “Fifteen years,” Tristan said through gritted teeth, his face a dark cloud.

  She opened her mouth to ask another question, but Braeden caught her eyes and shook his head. “Sorry I asked,” she muttered.

  Tristan sighed. “Don’t apologize. I shouldn’t have snapped. I don’t like talking about the past, that’s all. I’d rather focus on the present.”

  Sam bit back her curiosity. Tristan was the one of them without secrets, the unflappable one, the one without a chink in his armor. What kind of sordid past could he possibly want to hide?

  The conversation turned to more innocuous topics for the remainder of the evening, and they went to bed as soon as the sky faded to black. “We’ll be in Luca tomorrow,” Tristan told them with a yawn. “Sleep well. You’re going to need it.”

  Despite the harsh night winds, the wood hut proved sturdy, and Sam slept undisturbed till Tristan woke them at first dawn. She scarcely had time to process that she was awake before she was on her horse and on her way to Luca.

  They drove their horses deeper into the mountain, pausing only to remove a small stone from one of the horse’s hooves. After a few hours of riding, the gray, crystalline granite gave way to an orange-reddish sandstone, peppered with tiny holes like a honeycomb. Vertical columns of rock rose from the ground, twisting upwards into the heavens.

  Their path narrowed and the steep sides of the mountains drew together, forming a winding canyon with smooth walls rounded by the wear of water. “Luca is through here,” Tristan said.

  The canyon ended, exposing a long, flat ridge that extended as far as the eye could see. Human hands had carved cylindrical columns, topped with acanthus leaves and an ornately designed lintel, into the face of the cliff, framing a large rectangular opening.

  “How did they build that?” Sam asked wonderingly.

  Tristan shrugged. “Nobody knows. It’s been here since the Age of the First Men.” He nudged his horse forward, disappearing into the opening. Sam and Braeden followed him, and they were plunged into total darkness till they emerged on the other side, where they found themselves on a high ledge overlooking a chasm so deep they couldn’t see the bottom, only a hazy carpet of white where cloud met sky. A simple suspension bridge decked with wooden planks was anchored on either side of the chasm, swaying in the wind.