by Sally Slater
Horrified, Sam dropped the point of the blade to the ground. “Of course not! And-and there’s no secret to know. I was just going to show you a few sword forms, to prove my point.”
“I already know you’re good with a sword, Sam of Haywood. Adelard lauded your skill in Pirama.”
Adelard had spoken well of her? He was unlikely to praise her again. But she had bigger worries at hand than the loss of the scarred Uriel’s favor. “So then why would you think me a girl? I fight as well as any man.”
“From what I hear, you fight better,” Sander said, eyes crinkling at the corners. “But swordplay and boys’ clothes does not a man make.”
“I’m not a girl,” Sam repeated, clinging desperately to the lie. And to think she’d thought Sander had no real weapon. He could destroy her with his words, armed as they were with truth.
Sander flicked his gaze over her. “Any man who sees you in a dress would have to be a fool to believe you anything but a girl. You moved in that gown like it was second nature and you curtsied like a dream. You wouldn’t have pulled off tonight’s charade unless you’d been playing the part your whole life. You can deny it all you want, but I won’t change my mind.”
Sam’s heart thudded against her chest. There would be no veering Sander off this course; there were no clever lies he would fall for. “I’m not confirming I’m a girl,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “but are you planning to tell Tristan you think me one?”
“Not my secret to tell,” Sander said. “Although I assumed he already knew. You’re a lovely young woman, and he must be half blind not to see it.”
She wasn’t sure if she could trust in Sander’s discretion, but nevertheless, she was angry on Tristan’s behalf. “You met me as a woman, Sander, so you can think of me as nothing else. The reverse is true of Tristan.” Technically, he had met her first as a young girl, but she wasn’t about to divulge that to Sander.
The Uriel leader studied her, his thoughts visible on his expressive face. “Nay, that’s not it. He knows, I think.”
“Not a chance,” she said confidently. “I’d be home back in dresses or hanging in the gallows if that were true.”
Sander smiled kindly at her. The damned man was always smiling. “Maybe he hasn’t acknowledged it to himself, but he knows on some level. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. For a man like him, it’s easier to believe convenient lies than to face the consequences of the truth. He can’t fathom breaking the rules, so he denies the obvious.”
“That’s a hefty analysis considering you’ve known him one day,” she said.
Sander shrugged his shoulders against the tree. “I’m good at reading people. For example, I know you’re terrified right now.”
“Terrified? Of you?” Sam scoffed. But Sander was right; she was terrified.
“Aye. But I shan’t tell your secret to a soul. I swear it on my wife’s grave.”
“Why?” She was his captor, not his friend, and he had ample motivation to betray her gender. He had a powerful bargaining chip, and a smart man would use it.
He closed his eyes, his smile turning wistful. “I was born a farmer’s son, you know. I very well could have died a farmer, bound to the same plot of land I was born on. But I wielded a quarterstaff far more ably than I drove a plow, and I’ve always been far better at guiding people than herding sheep. And then I met my Elizabeth, and I found my purpose. It wasn’t on a farm.” He sighed. “Duty and capability. Perhaps you’ve found what you’re meant to be.”
Sam lifted her head defiantly. “I’m meant to be a Paladin.”
“Or a Uriel,” Sander said with a wink.
Looking at him skeptically, Sam asked, “Do you count women among your Uriel, Sander?”
“No.”
Sam smirked. “I thought not.”
Sander regarded her thoughtfully. “But I would consider it, for the right woman.”
And there it was, the bait to lure her away. “If I were a woman, I’d keep that in mind.” She took a few steps backward, physically distancing herself from the spell he wove. “Go to sleep, Uriel. I tire of this conversation.”
“As you wish.” He tucked his head back into his chest.
Tristan relieved her from her watch a short while later, and she crawled into their tent beside Braeden. She was badly shaken by her conversation with Sander and would have liked to talk to Braeden about it, but she didn’t want to disturb his sleep.
Braeden was sprawled out on his back, a thick blanket draped over his legs. He’d undone the tie of his robes, and the black bell sleeves were pushed down to his hips. Bare to the waist, he was savagely beautiful, his lithe body covered by a smooth canvas of golden skin, apart from the ruined ink on his right arm. The wound itself had mostly healed, leaving behind a thick pink scar, but the tattooed glyphs on his shoulder were irrevocably damaged. She wondered if it still bothered him.
She arranged her bedding with as little noise as possible, but Braeden stirred despite her best efforts. He pushed his silver hair off his forehead and looked at her with heavy-lidded eyes. “Sam,” he said, his voice raspy from sleep. “What’s happened?”
He knew her too well; he saw the tightness of her shoulders and the wrinkle between her brows. For him, that was enough. There was no hiding from Braeden, not anymore. “Sander knows,” she said. She wouldn’t have to tell him what.
He immediately sat up. “How?”
She pulled her knees into her chest. “He guessed.”
“Does he have proof?”
“It’s not hard to prove. One merely has to lift up my shirt.” Even in the dark, she could see his blush. “Have I offended you with my crudeness?”
Braeden coughed. “No,” he said. “What should we do about it?”
Not what should you do about it, but what should we. She wanted to throw her arms around him and thank him, but their rekindled friendship was too new, the scar on his shoulder too fresh. “Thank you,” she said instead. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Never say that,” he half-growled.
She shook her head. “I’ve caused you nothing but trouble since the day we met.”
“Maybe I like your kind of trouble,” he said, not meeting her eyes. He pulled his blanket to his shoulders, his broad feet sticking out the other end, and she grinned in spite of herself. The grin turned into a giggle, and she promptly covered her mouth with her hand.
“What?” Braeden asked.
“Your feet. They look funny.” Gods, she never giggled. Wearing a dress must have addled her brain. Her giggles increased. “Sorry,” she gasped, quaking with laughter. “I think I must be overtired.”
His lips twitched, threatening a smile, but he suppressed it quickly. “What are we going to do about Sander, Sam?”
“He said he wouldn’t tell anyone,” she said.
“And you believe him?”
She paused before replying. Could Sam believe Sander? She still wasn’t sure. She didn’t know what to make of the older man, with his talk of duty and capability. And not that she’d ever really consider it, but she wondered if he’d meant what he said about allowing a woman among the Uriel. “I don’t know.”
“You need to tell Tristan, Sam,” Braeden said, “before Sander tells him for you.”
“What difference does it make if it’s Sander who tells Tristan or me? The end result will be the same.”
“All the difference in the world, Sam,” Braeden said. “Hearing it from Sander would be like a knife through the gut. It has to be you.”
“It doesn’t have to be anyone,” she said.
Braeden rubbed at his face. “Do as you want.”
She watched his hand stroke the pale stubble on his chin, and imagined tracing her fingertip over the strong lines of his jaw. “I always do,” she said. You’re my only exception, she thought to herself.
They spent the next week on the road, cutting through the Woodmaple Forest instead of traveling through town; Sander was a popular man in these
parts, and avoiding people seemed the best way to prevent unnecessary conflict.
The forest was on flat land, and the weather was warmer here than in the mountains, but the air was still crisp and cool with the changing of the seasons. Leaves of every shade of red and yellow hung from the trees and carpeted the ground, crackling under their horses’ hooves during the day and cushioning their sleep at night.
The question of whether Sander would hold his tongue hung over Sam like the hangman’s noose. But if Tristan stole more glances in her direction than usual, the glances held no malice, so Sander must have kept his quiet—for the time being.
In fact, Sander was a model prisoner: he never threatened escape and was unerringly cheerful. The only complaint he voiced was that Tristan left him tied up whenever demons attacked, which occurred with increasing frequency the further west they traveled.
“I can help,” Sander insisted. “I feel so damned useless.”
“If you think I’ll allow you a weapon, you’ve lost your damned mind,” Tristan said.
It was an oft repeated exchange over the course of the week, and the outcome always remained the same. Sam could tell Sander was not used to sitting out a fight and did not enjoy being idle, but he—mostly—kept up his cheery façade. Sam, for one, was disappointed she didn’t get to see him in action. The High Commander’s skill in battle was legendary, and she wanted to know if the leader of the Uriel was of the same caliber.
It was on the eighth day out from Luca that a man on horseback came to meet them in the middle of the forest. His dark cloak and wide-brimmed hat were nearly identical to the High Commander’s spy in Luca, his features as nondescript. The man raised his hand, deliberately curling his first two fingers to his thumb, and then reined his horse near theirs.
“Checking up on me?” Tristan asked with a frown.
“Just making sure you do your part.” The man’s gaze slid past Tristan and settled on Sander. “I’ll inform the High Commander of your success.”
“You do that,” Tristan said, his tone unfriendly. “Is that the only reason you came, or do you have another message to relay?”
“Nay,” the man said. “The High Commander is a few weeks behind you. He’ll find you at the Diamond Coast and will take Sander from your custody.”
“Did he say what his plans are for Sander?” Tristan asked.
The man fixed him with a level gaze. “He did not, and that is not for you or me to ask.”
Tristan’s eyebrows rose at that. “I shall ask the High Commander whatever I please. Are we done here?”
“Aye,” the man said. “Good day, Paladin Lyons.” He tipped his hat in farewell and then galloped past them in a whirlwind of leaves.
As soon as the leaves had settled, Tristan spat on the ground. “Those men are slime,” he said. “They should be held to the same code of honor as the rest of us.”
“They’re not?” Sam asked.
Tristan shook his head. “The Sub Rosa serve the High Commander but are given free rein to execute his orders however they see fit. Their only guiding principle is that the end justifies the means.”
“You sound like you disapprove,” Sander spoke up.
“I do,” Tristan said. “That surprises you?”
Sander shrugged. “To do whatever is necessary is not an uncommon philosophy among men of war.”
Braeden, who hadn’t cast a friendly look in the Uriel leader’s direction since that first night after Luca, turned curious eyes on Sander. “And you? Are you not also a man of war?”
“Aye, among other things,” Sander said. “But it is not my philosophy either, and I hope it is not my men’s.”
Tristan crossed his arms over his chest. “Only moral conduct can produce a moral outcome. It’s why rules and law were created, and it’s why they ought to be followed.”
“Oh, I disagree on that,” Sander said. “Sometimes doing the immoral thing is the moral thing to do. I would lie and cheat and steal to protect the ones I love.”
Sam and Braeden traded guilty looks, and then their eyes bounced apart. Sam’s cheeks burned, and Braeden’s face was flushed, too. Damn it, Sander, she thought.
“What do you know of love, old man?” Tristan snarled. “Your wife is dead,” Sam winced at the harshness in his voice. His sudden anger had come out of nowhere.
Red crept up Sander’s neck, and for once his chronic smile retreated. “Aye, she’s dead,” he snapped. “Not a day goes by that I forget it. But my capacity for love did not die at her graveside. I will love her always, and I would cheat the Gods themselves in order to protect our daughter.”
“You have a daughter?” Sam asked.
Sander’s face softened. “Aye, she’s as beautiful as the day is long and as full of fire as her mama.”
Tristan passed his reins from hand to hand, and his mouth curved downward. “I didn’t know you had a child,” he said.
Sander laughed. “A child? Addie is a woman grown, and won’t let me forget it.”
“Who will care for her while you are . . . absent?” Tristan asked.
“As she reminds me daily, she needs no keeper, though she misses me when I am gone,” Sander said. “If I should meet an unfortunate end, I will be sad to leave her alone.”
It had not occurred to Sam that Sander was more to anyone than the leader of the Uriel. His grief for his late wife and fatherly love for his daughter did not fit with the image she had formed of him. Unease settled over her, and she questioned, for the first time, whether they had been right to follow the High Commander’s orders.
Tristan clucked at his horse. “Come, let’s go. I hadn’t realized the High Commander was so close behind us. I want to arrive at the Diamond Coast before him.”
Kicking her own horse into motion, Sam caught up to Tristan. “It’s odd, isn’t it?”
“What’s odd?”
“You only wrote to the High Commander about Sander’s dinner invitation a fortnight ago. If he left shortly after he received your letter, he should be months behind us, not weeks.”
“He was probably already headed west. His responsibilities regularly take him away from the fortress.” Tristan jerked his thumb at Sander. “I hope your misgivings are not the result of his influence.”
“I’ve said nothing,” Sander said.
It was true; after the first night, Sander had made no further attempts to persuade her to change her mind about the Uriel. If they talked, it was of small, inconsequential matters. Perhaps he had already shown all his cards and was biding his time. The man was an enigma.
Tristan picked up the pace of his horse, and Sander’s by default, and Sam and Braeden fell in line behind them. The forest flew by them till the heavy canopy of trees thinned and finally ended. They were out in the open once more, at the very edge of what Sam thought to be a village, though there was no sign of chimney smoke in the darkening sky.
Tristan’s face was a grim mask. “Finchold,” he said. “Home sweet home.”
CHAPTER 34
It had been more than a decade since Tristan last set foot in Finchold. The village was now abandoned, its human inhabitants replaced by wild ones, the land barren from neglect.
Tristan won his first fight and received his first kiss in Finchold. He stole puff pastries from the baker with his gang of friends, although it couldn’t really be called stealing since Master Croft made extra ones just for them. He danced around the Maypole during the Midsummer festival and tugged at Lyndsey’s beribboned braids when her back was turned to him. He stood at his brother’s side when Danny pledged to cherish and honor his bride for the rest of their lives.
Those were not the memories that replayed in his mind’s eye. He did not see the empty, colorless houses, the dried-up waterway, or the sandy road that had lost its shape. Cruel images from the past were superimposed over the present, dark flashes of violence and chaos painting his world red. He saw bodies lying in the street where there were none and heard screaming where there was silence. Th
e stench of death filled his nose and lungs. He thought he would choke with it.
He didn’t realize he had fallen to the ground till Sam’s hands closed around his shoulders. The world righted itself as Tristan blinked up at him. “What happened?”
Sam sagged backward onto his heels. “You tell me,” he said. “You tipped over out of your saddle.”
Gods, how embarrassing. But Tristan saw no mockery in Sam’s expression, only concern. “I’m fine,” he said, pulling himself to his feet.
“You fell off your horse,” Sam pointed out. “That’s not fine.”
“Let it be, Sam,” Braeden said from atop his horse. His hat hung around his neck on a string, and his peculiar eyes pierced into Tristan. In Braeden’s unguarded gaze, Tristan could see the same darkness that clouded his own.
“Your concern is flattering but unnecessary,” Tristan said, climbing back onto his mare. “Let’s find shelter for the night. We’ll leave again on the morrow.” He didn’t want to stay in Finchold any longer than he had to.
The sight of his own house shocked him. From the outside, it looked the same as he always remembered it. The two stories and triangular cross gables were topped by an uneven, sloping roof with slated eaves and a massive chimney. The wood framing of the house was exposed, filled in with beige wattle and daub and tall, narrow windows.
Tristan jumped off his horse and tested the old oak door, which swung open with a slight push. “We’ll stay here,” he said, ignoring the sick feeling in his stomach. “The stables are in a separate building around back.”
“How do you know that?” Sam asked.
“This is the house I grew up in,” he said.
Once the horses were settled, Tristan returned to the front of the house. His right foot hovered over the doorway, but he could not make himself enter. Braeden looked at him questioningly. “Sorry,” Tristan said. “Give me a moment. You go on ahead.”
Sucking air into his lungs, Tristan stepped over the threshold and into the home where he’d spent his formative years. He closed his eyes against the memories that assaulted him. It was no use; he saw blood, so much blood, trickling down pale, pale skin. Human bones that had been licked clean and discarded like the leavings of filleted fish. Flesh riddled with holes where sharp teeth had ripped into it. And then darkness.