Paladin

by Sally Slater

  Tristan rose from his kneeling position and sat on the edge of her bed. He glared into her eyes, his expression fierce. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

  “I did no such thing,” Sam retorted. “You said as much yourself. Right after . . .” She forced herself to say the words. “Right after you found out Lady Samantha was dead.”

  “You speak of her as though you are not one and the same.”

  Sam turned her face from his. “I have not been Lady Samantha for a long time. Even before you knew me I had given her up.”

  “I don’t understand,” Tristan said. “I have never had to hide who I am to be who I want to be. Would it be so bad to become her once more?”

  Sam would be lying if she said she hadn’t asked herself that same question. She didn’t dislike being a woman, just the trappings that went with it. “Yes. If I can’t also be Sam of Haywood.”

  Even as she said the words, Sam reconsidered—not the path she’d chosen, but the woman she’d become. Here, a marriage proposal had fallen in her lap, from a man who’d seen her true colors and still wanted to wed her. Must she only be Sam of Haywood, and never Samantha? And did Tristan—or any man—want a woman with her warrior heart? Pride made her say, “You don’t need to marry me because of some stupid promise you made to my father.”

  Tristan shifted on the bed and took her hand in his again. “I know to you this might seem like it’s coming out of nowhere,” he said. “But I thought about it a lot over the past week. I thought a lot about you. I was angry, you know, when Braeden first told me who you were. It was bad enough when you were just a girl, but worse when I learned you were Lady Samantha. You let me believe that someone important to me was dead.”

  “Tristan, I’m sorr—”

  Now it was his turn to shush her. “I wanted to yell at you, and I did, for a while. For lying to me, for not trusting me, and for having the damned nerve to get yourself halfway killed. Of course there’s not much point at yelling at someone when they’re unconscious. And once I realized you weren’t going to yell back—that you might never yell back—I got scared. You were barely breathing, Braeden was gone—”

  “Gone? Is Braeden okay?”

  Tristan gave her an annoyed look. “Aye, we were separated for a few days. He’s fine.” His frown lines smoothed. “As I was saying, it dawned on me—I’ve grown accustomed to having you around. Far too accustomed to lose you. I want you around.” He brushed his fingers over her knuckles. “Say you’ll be my wife.”

  At his words, Sam allowed herself to observe Tristan openly. He was sinfully handsome, the golden prince of every girl’s dreams, with the hard muscles of a man who fought for his living. He was strong and brave and good, if not exactly kind. As a young girl, had she not fantasized about just such a man? “Wanting me around is not reason enough to marry me,” she said finally.

  “Do you remember the night we captured Sander?”

  “Of course I remember.”

  “You wore a green gown,” Tristan said, “the exact shade of your eyes. You were resplendent. Looking at you, I felt like a depraved man. You were my trainee, but . . .” Sheepishly, he scrubbed at his cheeks. “I wanted to kiss you when I saw you in that gown.” Tristan tucked his thumb under her chin and brought his face close to hers. “Will you wear it again for me, Sam?”

  “I burnt it,” she whispered.

  “I’ll buy you a new one,” he said and kissed her.

  Tristan’s lips were warm and soft, and for a moment, she leaned into their comfort, closing her eyes. Behind her lids, she saw the future she could have had—could still have—the handsome prince of a husband, the cherubic blond children, the beautiful, well-loved home. And then she saw him—silver and savage and alone. His outstretched hand held a dagger, hilt facing out.

  Gently, she pushed Tristan away. “No,” she said. “I don’t want your gown.” She’d never been a girl in need of a handsome prince.

  He blinked. “What?”

  “I don’t want to wear a gown. I want to wear armor and a sword.” She laid a hand against his cheek. “Tristan, you don’t want to marry me. You want to marry the idea of me. This person you imagine me to be—she doesn’t exist.”

  Tristan rolled over on the bed, his back to her. “You won’t marry me, will you?”

  “No,” she said. And then, more firmly, “No, Tristan, I won’t.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Braeden collapsed back onto his pallet and stared up at the cobwebbed ceiling, reminding himself for the hundredth time why he couldn’t check in on Sam. He peeled the sides of his robes apart and ran his fingers along the raised brand on his chest. The skin was swollen and tender to the touch—soreness was to be expected. His efforts to remove the new tattoo had done him no favors.

  Six days ago, Braeden had woken up to find a pattern of dark red ink staining the breadth of his chest. Thin glyphs fanned out from below his collar bone to over the tops of his shoulder blades. Three times, he’d taken a knife to the ink, scraping off layers and layers of skin till nothing remained but raw flesh. And each time, his skin had grown back, the tattoo wholly intact.

  Though Braeden had no memory of it, there was no question as to who had given him this accursed mark. The tattoo could only be the work of his master, though try as he might, Braeden couldn’t recall the sting of ink or needles. He’d lost a lot of time that night—his first true blackout episode since he was a child. Even when he’d lost control with Sam, Braeden had retained some small part of his humanity. But his master had goaded him beyond his limits.

  Braeden could remember nothing of what happened after he’d let his demon out, but the tattoo across his chest was evidence enough that the High Commander lived. Now, once again, he bore the stamp of his master’s ownership. If this tattoo held the same compulsion magic as his last, Braeden was a danger to everyone—doubly so to Sam.

  He hadn’t dared visit Sam in the infirmary, not while she was so vulnerable—let Tristan think him an inconsiderate ass. A better man than Braeden would have put an ocean between them. But she was safe in Luca, even from him. Surrounded by Tristan and thousands of Uriel, even a large demon attack was doomed to fail. Still, Sam was a wanderer and a soldier at heart, and she wouldn’t want to stay in Luca forever. Selfishly, Braeden hoped she would stay for a while; when she left Luca, he would leave her.

  He would allow himself this one happiness: Sam was awake. Whatever else went wrong, Braeden would be grateful for this one right thing. He desperately, desperately wanted to see her, to confirm with his own eyes that she hadn’t died because of him.

  Braeden was weak, and it didn’t long to talk himself into seeing her. Consequences be damned, he retied his robes and climbed down the several flights of stairs to the Uriel infirmary.

  A tall red-haired woman stood just inside the sickroom—Addie Branimir, from Tristan’s description. Hiding in his chamber for the past five days, Braeden had yet to meet her. She held his gaze without flinching, and that in itself was a marvel.

  “So the other one finally shows up,” she said, a hand on her hip. “Do you plan to interfere with my work too?”

  “No, Lady Branimir. I’m just here to see Sam.”

  “Call me Addie or Doc; everyone else does.” She jerked her head to the right. “Sixth bed on the left. You’ll find her in the company of her meddlesome betrothed.”

  The word betrothed dug into him like the cut of a knife. “Thank you, Addie,” he said tightly, offering her a slight bow.

  The bed belonging to Sam was roped off by a velvet curtain, and as he crossed the room, Braeden could hear muffled voices. He gripped the curtain, prepared to pull it open . . . And then he heard the squeak of a mattress, and Tristan’s voice, loud and clear: “Say you’ll be my wife.”

  Her answer would kill Braeden quicker than any poison. He shut his eyes, and when he opened them again, his face was a controlled mask. He turned from the curtain, walked down the room past the five rows of beds, and nodded politely at A
ddie. As soon as he was outside of the infirmary, he ran.

  CHAPTER 43

  After Tristan’s marriage proposal, Sam received no more visitors in the infirmary. The first day, she didn’t mind the solitude; despite Addie’s warning, Tristan had overexcited her and she spent most of the day sleeping. But she quickly grew lonely and bored. Addie talked to her sometimes, not only about doctorly things, but funny stories about Addie’s father and the men who tried to court her. Addie never asked her about Tristan or why he’d stopped coming, and Sam appreciated her tact. Still, Sam was one of many patients and Addie seldom had more than five minutes at a time to spare for her.

  On the third day of no visitors, Sam asked Addie about Braeden. She thought maybe she had missed him while she was sleeping; had their positions been reversed, she would have been by his bedside night and day, if he let her. “Has Braeden come by to see me?” she asked while Addie replaced her bandages.

  An uncomfortable look crossed Addie’s face. “Aye, he came,” she said vaguely.

  “Oh,” Sam said, and some of the tightness in her chest dissipated. “Was I sleeping? Did he say he would come back?”

  Addie applied a cool salve to her wound and didn’t glance up. “He came by right after you woke up, and he left almost immediately. He said nothing much to me beyond hello and goodbye.”

  “Ow,” Sam said. Her chest hurt.

  Addie furrowed her brow. “That shouldn’t have hurt,” she said, and finished wrapping Sam’s bandages.

  Was Braeden mad at her? Sam thought they had mended the rift between them, but perhaps she was mistaken. What awful thing had she done that he wouldn’t come see her? She’d almost died, and she didn’t even warrant a “hello” or an “I’m glad you’re not dead”? The more she thought about it, the angrier it made her.

  Braeden didn’t come the next day, or the day after that. Sam grew angrier and angrier till she thought she would choke with it. Or choke him with it, if he ever afforded her the opportunity.

  Finally, after six days, she caved. “Addie,” she called, “would you fetch me a pen and paper?”

  Hastily, Sam scribbled a note:

  Braeden—

  Come see me in the infirmary. I miss you.

  -Sam

  In return, she received:

  Busy, sorry.

  -B

  He hadn’t even bothered to sign his full name. Sam crumpled his note into a ball and seethed silently.

  “I don’t envy the man on the receiving end of that look,” Addie said. She shuddered. “Scary.”

  “Men are idiots.”

  Addie raised an eyebrow. “There’s no need to state the obvious.” She smacked her forehead with her hand. “Speaking of idiot men, I almost forgot; I have a gift for you.”

  “A gift? For me?”

  Addie ducked out of the curtain opening and returned to Sam’s bed a moment later. The doctor held a long, curved object with her fingertips, as though it were filthy. “Here. This is yours.” She dropped it on Sam’s lap.

  It was a sword and scabbard. The scabbard was beautiful, plated in bronze and etched with intricate patterns. The hilt of the sword was likewise beautiful, with a sharkskin grip and a pommel that looked to be made of solid gold.

  Sam wrapped one hand around the hilt and the other around the scabbard and pulled them apart. The sword slid out of the sheath with a metallic whisper.

  Oh Gods, a paladin’s sword.

  “A note came with it, too,” Addie said. She unfolded a piece of parchment and placed the open letter on Sam’s knee.

  To Sam of Haywood—

  May this blade serve you well.

  Regards,

  Tristan Lyons

  He who would have bought her a gown had instead brought her a sword. Sam recognized the gift for what it was—a peace offering, and one she would gladly accept. She was relieved. She valued their relationship but hadn’t been sure it could survive both her lies and the fallout from his proposal. Sam wanted him around, just not in the way he intended. Even without his title, Tristan would forever be her paladin.

  Sam slid the sword back into its sheath. “If you see Tristan before me, please give him my thanks.”

  “I will,” Addie promised. “He dropped it off here yesterday, but I didn’t want to give you any ideas.”

  “Ideas?”

  Addie put on a mock-stern face. “Don’t even think about swinging that thing till you’ve fully healed.”

  “Would I do that?” Sam asked innocently. Surely one practice swing couldn’t do much harm . . .

  “You are not to be trusted,” Addie said, “which is why I’m taking it back for safekeeping till your stitches are out.” She plucked the sheathed sword from Sam’s grip.

  “Oy!” Sam protested, grabbing for the sword. “Give it back!”

  Addie twisted out of reach. “Don’t be such a ninny. I’m taking your stitches out in a week. You can come back for it then.”

  “Come back for it?”

  Addie smiled. “Aye, you’ve healed quite nicely, and it’s time to relinquish your sickbed to another. I’m kicking you out.”

  “But . . .” Sam bit her lip, feeling utterly lost and alone. “Where will I go?” she asked. Braeden was avoiding her, she certainly couldn’t impose on Tristan, and returning to the Center or to Haywood were not options.

  Addie’s face fell in sympathy. “Oh, Sam,” she said. “You can stay here in the Beyaz Kale, of course. My father was supposed to come by to talk to you about it, but he’s been tied up with an emergency.”

  Reassured, Sam asked, “Will I stay with Tristan and Braeden?”

  Addie went crimson. “Will you . . . stay with Tristan and Braeden? Share a room with two men?” She shook her head adamantly. “No, no, definitely not. It wouldn’t be proper.”

  “I’ve been sharing a room with them for months,” Sam said practically. “What difference would it make?”

  “You’re a woman now.”

  “I was a woman then, too,” Sam pointed out. “Nothing’s changed.”

  “Everything’s changed,” Addie said. “The world knows you’re a woman. You can’t go on as you were.”

  Sam glared at the doctor. “In Haywood there are no women doctors. Some women dabble in the healing arts, but the formal practice of medicine is the prerogative of men. How would you have liked it if your father forbade you from becoming a doctor?”

  Addie chuckled. “He did just that. I ignored him.”

  “Then you should understand.”

  Addie sighed. “You’ll need to make concessions, Sam, as did I. When you’re at battle and no alternatives present themselves, share a room with a man, if you must. But here, in Luca, you are a single woman and must observe the rules of propriety as best you can. It is not so big a concession.”

  “No,” Sam said bitterly, “I suppose it is not.” She wished she could go back to the way things were. It wasn’t as though she had planned to hide that she was a woman forever, but she’d wanted to reveal her gender on her terms.

  “You know,” Addie said, tapping her chin, “things would be much easier if you were married. Married women can do whatever they please.”

  Sam groaned. “Not you, too.”

  “I thought as much,” Addie said, more to herself than to Sam. “It was just a suggestion. As for your sword fighting, I would never tell you to give it up, although I don’t understand the appeal myself.”

  Addie looked so repulsed Sam had to laugh. “I’m surprised. You like cutting up things well enough.”

  Addie sniffed. “Surgery is a precision art. Sword fighting is all . . .” She waggled a fist wildly in the air.

  Sam started giggling and went to cover her mouth. She stopped halfway and dropped her hands to her sides. Since everyone already knew she was a girl, she could giggle if she damn well wanted to. And so she did. Loudly.

  Leaving with strict instructions from Addie to perform nothing more than light exercise, Sam was escorted to chambers
one floor above the infirmary, “just in case”. She grimaced at the single mattress covered in lacy pink bedding. That was going to take some getting used to.

  “Is the room not to your liking, Lady Samantha?” the servant who had escorted her asked.

  Sam winced at the name. “The room is fine,” she said. “And please, call me Sam.”

  The servant looked horrified. “Milady, that wouldn’t be seemly. Not seemly at all.”

  Sam pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration. Addie, who had told Sam in confidence that her real first name was Adelaide, had convinced all of Luca to call her Addie or Doc; Sam would get there one day. But not tonight. “My chest is bothering me. Please leave.” The servant gave an apologetic bow and left her alone in her new chambers.

  The next morning, Sam opened the closet door to find all of her belongings, in addition to several clothing items that were definitely not hers. Gowns of varying cuts and colors hung in between her cloak and her formal tunics. “No thank you,” she told the gowns, reaching for a pair of breeches.

  After she was dressed, Sam headed outside for the Uriel training grounds. She wasn’t going to do anything—she’d promised Addie, and though she felt much stronger, she knew she wasn’t up to strenuous exercise—she just wanted to see where the Uriel trained. And maybe go for a short run. Addie couldn’t object too much to that.

  Winter had hit Luca hard in the weeks since Sam, Braeden and Tristan had left with Sander in tow. Sam slogged through ankle-deep snow to the training grounds, which were located on a plateau down a shallow slope from the Beyaz Kale. A line of pine trees dusted with white surrounded the perimeter, serving as a natural fence.

  Blowing puffs of cold air from her mouth, Sam broke out into a light run to keep her blood warm. By the time she reached the grounds, she was slick with sweat, her damp clothes molding to her body.