by Sally Slater
“He’ll be ready,” Sam said, barely moving his lips.
The groom brought out their horses: Sam’s piebald, Tristan’s chestnut mare, and a handsome black stallion for Sander. “I need to fetch my weapon and let my men know I’m leaving,” Sander said. “Will you help the lady with her horse?”
“Of course,” Tristan said. He kneeled beside the piebald and cupped his hands. “Your foot, madam.”
Sam sent him a look of pure venom, but permitted Tristan to boost him up onto the horse. Sam leaned over to adjust his gown so he could ride astride modestly, and a round, purple and white object fell from the folds of his skirts. Tristan scooped it up from the ground. “An onion?”
“Braeden said my crying lacked conviction,” Sam whispered. “Get rid of it before Sander sees!”
That explained the tears. Tristan smashed the onion beneath his boot. “You have no future as an actor,” he told Sam. He stood up, dusted off the dirt from his knees, and mounted his own horse.
Sander returned with a quarterstaff in hand and expertly swung himself onto the stallion’s saddle. “Where to, my lady?”
“The Mountain’s Respite,” Sam said. “Do you know it?”
“I know every inn in this city,” Sander said. “Paladin Lyons is staying there, too.”
It didn’t surprise Tristan that Sander knew where he was lodging, but he hoped the Uriel would dismiss it as mere coincidence. Sander didn’t seem to harbor any suspicions, but the man hadn’t become the leader of thousands of men by being a fool. Sam’s ruse was damned convincing, though; no one would guess that the raven haired beauty was Tristan’s trainee. He hardly believed it himself. “Let’s ride,” he said, spurring his horse into a run.
They galloped down the curving declivity of the mountain road, a blustering wind pressing at their backs. Their pace was inhibited by Sam, who had enough sense to curtail his horse’s gait to an acceptable level for a lady.
When they arrived at the inn, it was no longer dusk, but well and truly night. The frenetic beat of the city had slowed, and the once-packed streets were near to empty. Milky moonlight cast an eerie sheen across the urban landscape.
Sander offered Sam a hand down from his horse, and Sam accepted it without hesitation. He dipped into a quick curtsey as thanks, and Tristan thought, not for the first time, that Sam affected the carriage of a woman too easily.
The stablehand was nowhere to be found, so they tied up their horses themselves and crossed to the front door of the inn. Tristan felt ill with anticipation, and he could see in Sam’s eyes that he felt it also. Sweat formed on Tristan’s brow, but he ignored it. “Will you show us to your room, my lady?”
Sam ducked his head. “Y-yes, milord. It’s on the second floor.” He glanced back at Tristan, biting his lip. Tristan gave him the slightest of nods in encouragement.
The innkeeper was gone, too, and Tristan idly wondered where Braeden had stowed him. He hoped that duty was worth the many sins he had committed and had yet to commit this night.
“Where is Ewan?” Sander asked, a hint of sharpness creeping into his voice.
They needed to act now and quickly, before suspicion pointed their way. “Perhaps his disappearance is related to the demon,” Tristan said, thinking on his feet. “We shouldn’t tarry any longer. My lady, please lead us upstairs.”
Sam made a shallow curtsey and headed straight towards their rented room. He put his ear to the door and made a pathetic attempt at a whimper. “The demon’s still there, milords! I can hear it growling.” A deep, menacing growl echoed into the hallway, lending credibility to his words.
“Hand me the key,” Tristan said. He fitted it to the lock. “Stay back, my lady, I would not want you to get hurt.” To Sander, he said, “Shall we?”
Sander gripped the shaft of his quarterstaff with both hands. “After you.”
Tristan twisted the door open and stepped inside. He held onto the doorknob till both Sander and Sam had entered the dark room, and then he shut the door behind them.
Sander twisted his neck, looking at Sam. “My lady, you shouldn’t be in here. It’s not safe for a—”
Before he could finish, a blur of black and silver hurtled across the room, the demon come to life. “Shite,” Sander swore, narrowly sidestepping the attack. Braeden leapt at him again. Sander threw up his quarterstaff just in time to prevent Braeden’s elongated claws from piercing his skin, but the force of their collision sent them both tumbling to the floor.
Sander rolled on top of him and lifted his quarterstaff into the air, prepared to deliver a skull-crushing blow to Braeden’s head. He froze at the kiss of steel at his neck.
“Drop your weapon,” Sam snarled into his ear.
The quarterstaff clattered to the floor. “Ah. I thought it might be something like this,” Sander said with a half-smile.
“Hold out your wrists,” Tristan said tonelessly, and he tied Sander’s hands together with rope.
“My ankles too?” Sander asked, who still straddled Braeden.
“No,” Tristan said. “I need you to be able to ride.” He brought Sander to his feet, and Braeden moved out from underneath him, his eyes ablaze with red from his previous efforts.
“I’ll ready the horses,” Braeden rumbled. He rubbed at his bare chest, where his knife had punctured his breastbone. The wound was already knitting itself together.
Sander looked at him appreciatively. “You must be Braeden. Nice trick.”
Did nothing ruffle this man? Even in the face of abduction, the Uriel seemed faintly amused. Tristan said to Braeden, “Put on some proper clothes first. We don’t want to draw any unnecessary attention.”
Braeden stepped into his robes, which he’d discarded in a black pool of fabric at the far corner of the room. “Can I change?” Sam asked.
“No time,” Tristan said. “I need you to walk in front of Sander so no one can see his wrists till we’re on horseback.”
“This dress itches,” Sam complained. “You owe me for this.”
Finally, Sander’s face registered astonishment. “You wouldn’t be Sam of Haywood, would you?”
Sam swept into a mocking curtsey. “In the flesh.”
Sander began to laugh. “Gods, that’s good,” he hooted. “I never would have guessed.”
Tristan scowled. “You do realize the implications of your situation, do you not?”
Sander sobered, his laughs subsiding. “Better to laugh than to cry, no?” And then, shockingly, he winked. “Besides, I haven’t given up on you yet, Tristan.”
Damn the man for pricking his guilt. “Let’s go,” he said gruffly.
They maneuvered Sander through the hallway and downstairs, and miraculously did not bump into a single patron. Before leaving the inn, Tristan tucked a handful of sovereigns into the binding of Master Ewan’s ledger. Tomorrow, the innkeeper would wake up with a nightmare of a headache, but at least he would be well-compensated. Guilt slightly assuaged, Tristan steered Sander towards the stables.
With Braeden’s help, Tristan lifted Sander up onto his stallion and then tethered the horse to his own chestnut with rope. It was an inconvenient way to ride and would slow them down, but Sander was an accomplished equestrian and did not need the use of his hands to spur his horse to escape. They would sacrifice speed for the assurance of his capture.
Braeden had already packed the horses with their loads, so they were off as soon as they all were saddled. Under the cover of night, they rode hard and fast till the western gates of Luca were in sight. Sander did not raise protest, clinging silently to the pommel of his saddle with his bound hands.
In seconds, they would be underneath the west arch and through it into Swyndale, where the Uriel’s hold would not be quite as strong. They couldn’t rest in Swyndale—Tristan hadn’t mapped out how far loyalty to the Uriel extended—but they would be out from under the shadow of the Beyaz Kale. A laugh burbled up from deep inside Tristan. They’d done it. Their insane plan had actually worked.
One of the men stepped forward, the glint of the moon highlighting his disfigured face. He held his spiked mace at the ready. “Paladin Lyons,” Adelard said, his voice cutting through the night like a whip. “You’ve interrupted my dinner.”
Never let it be said that Sam didn’t come prepared to do battle. As soon as the Uriel archer had loosed an arrow, the boy ripped his gown to his knees and withdrew three daggers from his garters—good Gods, the boy was actually wearing garters—frilly scraps of white fabric peeking out from beneath his petticoat.
A girl ought to be ashamed of exposing so much leg, and the Uriel men, those who did not know her to be a he, gaped at the sight of pale white calves and ankles. The legs were deceptively feminine, slender, with only the finest coating of hair, so Tristan could understand their mistake.
“What do we do now?” Sam asked Tristan, clearly itching for a fight. He clutched two daggers in each hand and holstered the third in the tight lacing of his bodice.
“We have no choice. We must fight,” Tristan said grimly, dismounting from the saddle. He couldn’t fight on horseback, not with Sander’s horse tied to his.
Adelard spat on the ground. “You disgust me. You would use an innocent woman to further the Paladins’ ambitions?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “And to think I actually liked you.”
“Innocent woman?” Sam said. He shook his daggers at Adelard meaningfully. “Do I look innocent to you? And besides, I’m not a—”
“Sam, shut up,” Tristan ordered. Like always, the boy’s irrepressible mouth betrayed too much.
As Sander had done, Adelard began to laugh, but his laughter lacked real mirth. “Sam of Haywood? Oh, that’s rich.”
Sam edged his horse closer. “Laugh all you want, Uriel, while you still have breath for laughter.”
Adelard took a step forward and held his mace straight out in front of him. “There are ten of us, and three of you. This is a fight you cannot win.” He dropped his mace to his side. “Release Sander and it will be as if this never happened. You’ll go your way, and we’ll go ours.”
“I can’t accept that bargain,” Tristan said, with a touch of regret. He would have happily divorced himself from this Uriel business, but he knew his duty.
“There are two paths you can take to get to the same conclusion,” Adelard said harshly, “but only one way to leave Luca with your lives and dignity intact.”
“I have yet to be bested in combat, by man or beast,” Tristan said. “Perhaps it is your men who should consider turning tail.” He unsheathed his sword, the jet black obsidian of the scimitar’s blade nearly invisible against the dark sky. “Sam, Braeden, weapons at the ready.”
Braeden’s eyes flared with red for the second time that night, the telltale splotch of crimson wetness radiating out from his breast where his knife had found its mark. He jumped down from his horse and stood by Sam’s, one hand on the piebald’s flank and the other hanging down by his hip, a monstrous combination of claw and manmade steel. They were as ready as they’d ever be.
“On my mark!” Adelard shouted. “Charge!”
Time slowed, the battleground stretching out before Tristan like a game of chess. He and Adelard careened from opposite corners down the same unobstructed path while the Uriel pawns advanced towards Sam and Braeden. Braeden tore at his clothes and howled in murderous rage. A dagger, cast from Sam’s hand, parted the air in a graceful arc, seeking its fleshy target.
“Stop!”
The power in Sander’s voice could not be ignored, and both the Uriel and paladins drew to a halt, daggers and arrows falling harmlessly to the ground. Gone was the composed, insouciant man who had smirked and joked throughout his own kidnapping. Even hunched over his horse with his hands imprisoned, Sander exuded such authority that no doubt remained that this man could command five thousand men, and more.
Straightening as best he could given his restraints, Sander said, “That will be all, Adelard. Return without me to the Beyaz Kale and let these men go in peace.”
“Sir!” Adelard exclaimed in protest, his mace still raised above his head.
“I made a promise to these men,” Sander continued, as if Adelard had never spoken. “I promised that neither I nor my men would harm them while they stood on Lucan soil.”
“The circumstances have changed. They assaulted you,” Adelard said. “Surely that releases you from your promise.”
Sander’s mouth hardened. “I will not be made a liar.” He spoke loud enough for all the Uriel to hear. “Nor will I condone human blood shed on my behalf. That is not what we do. That is not who we are. We must remember our purpose always, even when others forget theirs.”
Despite his unwavering loyalty to the Paladins, in that moment, Tristan could not help but believe that this was a man of honor, and that Sander shamed them with his speech. He looked at Sam and Braeden, reading confusion on their faces, and he wondered if they felt as ashamed as he.
With a shout of frustration, Adelard threw his mace to the ground. “So we should do nothing? We should just let them take you Gods know where to do Gods know what? That is folly, Sander! I can’t allow it.”
Tristan stared at the angry Uriel in disbelief. No one would have spoken to the High Commander with such freedom; no one would dare, not even he.
“Do you still follow my orders, Adelard?” Sander asked, his tone mild.
Adelard bowed his head. “Till the death, be it yours or mine.”
“Then you will do nothing. You will let them take me,” Sander said. “And you will lead the Uriel in my stead till my return.”
“If you return,” Adelard said bitterly.
“You must have faith in your fellow man. On that you and I have always agreed.” Sander looked to Tristan. “Will you release me, Paladin?”
The Uriel leader’s gaze held a world of expectations, and so Tristan averted his eyes. “I cannot say.”
Sander nodded. “Not yet, then.”
Arrogant man. Tristan owed him nothing and would promise him nothing. “I will do as my High Commander tells me, no more and no less.” He sheathed his sword and returned to the saddle. “By your leave.”
“By his leave, not mine,” Adelard said. He turned his back to their horses. “Get out of my sight.”
CHAPTER 33
Sam burned her dress that night in silent contemplation. Everything about the evening had been too close for comfort, from the fit of her dress to the near-battle with the Uriel to the way Tristan’s eyes wandered over her small but still-present curves. She was sick of it all: the hiding, the lying, the constant guilt churning in her gut. She’d run away from home to gain control over her life, and yet somehow she’d lost it.
Sam observed Sander, who leaned back against the tree he was tied to. In some ways, he was freer than her; the rope that bound him could be cut. Not Sam, the chains of her sex would hold her back forever. She wanted to be a warrior and a woman, but she wasn’t allowed to be both. So she’d made her decision, and if given a second chance she would make it again. She just hadn’t expected it to chafe.
After the small fire consumed the last of the green cloth, Sam shifted closer to Sander. She’d been assigned the first watch of the night—they were to take turns making sure the Uriel leader didn’t escape. Sander was wily, Tristan warned, and she needed to be careful.
“Don’t engage him in conversation,” Tristan had said. “The man has a silver tongue, and before you know it, he’ll have convinced you to undo his binds and run away with him, too.”
With his torso wrapped in rope and his head drooping into his chest, Sander didn’t appear to pose much of a threat. He was old enough to be her father, with
an attractive but unremarkable face, apart from his very crooked nose. If his tongue were his only weapon, Sam wasn’t too concerned. Whether he spewed venom or poetry, nothing he could say would persuade her to his side.
She crept closer still, a twig snapping under her feet. Sander’s head shot up and his eyes pierced through her. He smiled at her and said nothing, turning his gaze to the stars. He began to hum softly—an old, familiar song—the notes rising and falling in his rough, compelling voice.
“Stop that!” she snapped.
His humming ceased. “Singing is good for the soul.”
“Perhaps you should have become a bard, then.”
Sander’s smile widened. “I should have liked to be a bard, but life had other plans for me. You know a thing or two about that.”
Sam furrowed her brow. “About what?”
“Duty and capability. Isn’t that why you joined the Paladins?”
Sam had no answer for that; her reasons for joining the Paladins were intertwined and complex. One duty had been allotted to her at birth, but she cast it aside for another. She had natural talent with a sword—that was no boast but simple truth—but did that give her the right to follow the path she’d chosen?
Sander searched her, his eyes amber like a wolf’s in the glow of firelight. “How long has Tristan known?”
“Known what?” she asked.
“Known that you’re a girl.”
Sam froze as her world crashed down around her. “I’m not a girl.”
“Beg pardon. How long has Tristan known that you’re a woman?”
Fear made her stomach heave. “Tristan doesn’t know I’m a woman because I’m not one.”
He didn’t believe her; she could see it in his face. “So he doesn’t know.”
“I’m a boy, a man, a male,” Sam lied with conviction. “How else would I have become a Paladin trainee?” She drew the short sword from the scabbard at her hip. “Shall I demonstrate I am worthy of the name?”
Sander eyed the sword warily. “Are you going to kill me now that I know your secret?”