by Sally Slater
Through the trees, Sam could see men training, dueling each other or flogging and slashing at practice dummies. Included among the men was Tristan, who shifted gracefully between sword forms. He must have seen her, because he lost focus and stopped abruptly. His hand made a jerking waving motion, as though he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to wave at her or not.
Tristan jogged to meet her halfway across the training yard. “Sam,” he said. His gaze drifted downward and then shot up, his face turning beet red.
“What is it?” she asked warily.
“It’s just . . .” Tristan ran his fingers through his hair and turned redder, if that was possible. “I don’t know how I didn’t realize you were a girl all this time. It’s sort of obvious.” His eyes dropped lower again before he snapped them back to her face.
That was what Tristan was looking at? Sam smacked him in the arm. “I didn’t bind my chest today,” she said hotly, her face no doubt as red as his. “It’s bad for my wound, and besides, it’s bloody uncomfortable.”
“It’s very strange seeing you in men’s clothing while you have—” Tristan traced the shape of an hourglass with his hands.
“Tristan!” she exclaimed, smacking him again.
“Sorry, Sam, I’ll get used to it eventually,” he said, sounding properly chastened. “How do you like the sword?”
Now Sam felt guilty for hitting him. “I love it,” she said softly. “Thank you.”
“You didn’t bring it with you?” he asked, disappointment coloring his voice. “I was sure you’d want to take a few practice swings with it now that you’re free from the witch woman’s lair.”
Sam laughed. “You mean Addie? She’s really not that bad.” She made a face. “Although she is holding my sword hostage till my stitches are out. Apparently she doesn’t trust me.”
Tristan grinned. “Smart lady.” He sobered quickly. “Listen, Sam, there’s something I need to tell you. I was going to come find you later, but since you’re here . . .” He gulped nervously.
Tristan was never nervous. Sam narrowed her eyes at him. “Out with it.”
“You know I was worried about you when you were wounded,” he said in a rush. Oh Gods, Sam hoped he wasn’t going to propose again. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to make it, and I thought if I had a daughter—”
“If you had a daughter?”
He continued, “If I had a daughter, I would want to know whether she was alive or dead. Even if she had run away from home.”
“Tristan, I—”
“That’s what you did, isn’t it?” Tristan asked. “Ran away from home?”
Sam hung her head. “Aye.” He made her sound like an impertinent child.
“Did you tell your father where you were going? Or leave him a letter?”
“No, I just . . . left. I thought it would be better that way. And I didn’t want anyone to come after me.” Tristan was trying to make her feel guilty, but it wouldn’t work. She had seen her father in Haywood; that had not been the face of a grieving man. He was more inconvenienced than anything else; the duchy would go to a distant relation, unless he managed to procure himself a new wife and heir.
Tristan scuffed the toe of his boot in the snow. “I thought your father should know what happened to his daughter. So I sent him a letter as soon as we left the Diamond Coast. I told him that you were alive but there was a good chance you might die. I told him I would bring you to Luca, where you had the best hope of surviving.”
Sam sneered at Tristan. “What a waste of parchment. You don’t know my father nearly as well as you think, Tristan Lyons. He will find your letter irksome, nothing more.”
Tristan sighed. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. Your father is coming to Luca, Sam. He’ll be here in a week.”
CHAPTER 44
It would have been easier for Sam to forget about her father’s looming arrival if she were able to train as normal. She was under strict doctor’s orders not to touch any weapons—not just her new sword—till the end of the week. Still, Sam threw herself into what she could. She used bell clappers and lifted stones to strengthen her upper body and arms. She rode her horse down the sloping hillsides to Luca’s westernmost gate and then climbed back up on foot. In the mornings, she ran, till short distances no longer winded her.
For the first few days, the Uriel looked at Sam askance, but no one said anything to her or tried to prevent her from using the training grounds, though they kept their distance. She wished she were in top fighting form so she could really give them something to look at. She wanted to prove that she belonged out there just as much as they did. She would, eventually.
As she recovered, Tristan ran calisthenics drills with her and they dined together at night. But Sam caught only flashes of Braeden: a flicker of silver hair or a blur of black robes, and then he was gone as if he’d never been. He was like a phantom, and every stolen glimpse of him was like rubbing salt in a wound. She missed him so much it hurt.
Sam didn’t see much of Sander, either, and found herself disappointed. When he had been their captive, Sander had teased the possibility of her joining the Uriel. “For the right woman,” he’d said he’d consider it. Even if Sam had been born a man, there was no place for her with the Paladins anymore. If the Uriel wouldn’t take her, there would be no place for her anywhere. Perhaps her father would restore her as his heir—it would save him the trouble of producing a new one—but the person she had become in the months since she had run away would shrivel up and die. The Uriel were the only real hope she had.
Finally, the day came for Addie to remove her stitches, although in truth Sam was far more excited about reclaiming her sword. “Where is it?” she asked as soon as she spotted Addie in the infirmary.
Addie steered her to the nearest empty bed. “How did I know that would be your first question? Not ‘Will this hurt?’ or ‘How long will this take?’ like a normal person.”
Sam shrugged. “The pain can’t be worse than getting the wound in the first place. I just want my sword.”
“And you’ll get it,” Addie said. “But first, remove your tunic and lie back.”
Sam obliged and settled back onto the thin mattress. Addie unwrapped her bandages and gently examined her wound with her fingertips. “Very nice,” she murmured. “You’ll have a nasty scar, but only your lover ever need see it.”
“Addie!”
The doctor laughed. “You’re a prude, Sam of Haywood. And I’m only teasing you. Now, this will pinch.” She pulled out thin forceps and scissors from her work apron. Using the forceps to lift up the topmost suture, Addie cut off the black string just below the knot, and Sam felt a minor twinge as the doctor tugged the thread out through her skin.
Twenty stitches later, Addie pulled out the last thread. “There. That’s all of them.” She cleaned the skin again and rewrapped Sam’s chest with bandages. “You’re to leave this on for five days and then carefully unwind it.”
“My sword?”
“So impatient,” Addie said, but she smiled as she said it. She slipped out through the opening in the curtain surrounding Sam’s bed and returned with the beautiful sword—her sword. “It’s yours, to keep this time.”
Sam reached for it with eager fingers, but Addie held the scabbard close to her body. “Before you go running off to the training grounds, I’m supposed to pass along a request from my father.”
Sam’s ears perked up. “From Sander?”
“Aye. He asked if you would meet him for dinner after sunset tonight at the top of the Beyaz Kale.”
“I can do that,” Sam said slowly. “Why didn’t he ask for me himself?”
“I’ve scarcely seen him myself in three weeks,” Addie said. “I don’t know the nature of the crisis he’s contending with, but it’s taken up all of his time.”
“Will you be there tonight, Addie?”
The doctor shook her head. “My father doesn’t involve me in Uriel affairs unless he wants my advice on medicine.
I’m afraid you’re on your own.”
After two hours in the training yard, Sam retired to her chambers to bathe and dress before meeting with Sander. She found herself feeling quite nervous. Addie could shed no light on what her father wanted to discuss, and Sam feared the worst.
She stared at the gowns in her closet for a long time before choosing her nicest pair of breeches and a high-necked velvet doublet. Sam did not accentuate her femininity, but she didn’t hide it, either. Her hair had grown out to just below her chin, and she left her breasts unbound. In her snug-fitting doublet, Sam would never be mistaken for a man. She would come to Sander honestly. Whatever she did next, she would do it as herself.
In a last-minute decision, she strapped her sword to her side. It gave her comfort to have it there. She would go to dinner as a warrior and she would leave as one, too.
At sunset, Sam made the long climb to the top of the Beyaz Kale. An armed guard waited outside the entryway to the domed tower, a man Sam had never seen before. He gave her a slow once-over, the slight widening of his eyes betraying his shock. The guard was no Uriel or the sight of a woman in men’s garb wouldn’t have surprised him. Every Uriel in Luca knew who Sam was by now. “Sam of Haywood,” she stated clearly.
He must have been expecting her, because he moved aside with no further questions. Sam stepped past him into the tower, and her breath caught in her throat. Four men sat around a long table. Sander sat at the head of the table, Tristan sat on his left, the back of a silver head could only be Braeden, and . . .
“Father,” she said.
The Duke of Haywood rose from his seat. “Samantha.” His gaze roamed over her, taking in her boyish attire. “You look well.”
Sam looked from her father to Tristan, to Braeden, and finally to Sander. She felt the sharp sting of betrayal. Her father was coming to Luca; she’d known that much from Tristan, but she hadn’t expected to be ambushed. Was this some sort of conspiracy to send her packing? Why else would the Duke of Haywood sit so calmly at their table? It wasn’t so hard to believe such a thing of Tristan—he’d always been high-handed—but Braeden? A month ago, she would not have believed him capable of such a thing, but perhaps he’d had enough of her.
Addressing the three of them, she said, “There are less cruel ways to get rid of me. I did not know any of you to be cruel men.” She turned her back to them, facing the doorway. She would not cry, not in front of them. She would gather what coin she could scrounge, pack up her belongings, and go . . . go . . . go where? Her shoulders slumped. The world had no want of a woman warrior.
“Sam, wait.” The voice belonged to her father, but he never called her Sam. “I did not come here to force you to return to Haywood.”
Sam turned back toward him. “No? Then why did you come?”
“I came to meet with Sander Branimir.”
An ugly laugh broke from her lips. “I am a fool. Of course you did not come to Luca for my sake. What a monumental waste of time and effort that would have been, Your Grace.”
“Sam,” her father said tightly. “Compose yourself. We will talk of this later.”
She dropped into a mocking curtsy, gripping on to imaginary skirts. “Forgive me, Your Grace. How dare I air our family drama so publicly? Sander, I do hope you weren’t planning to use me as leverage in your business negotiations with the Duke. His Grace doesn’t give a fig about me, you see.”
“Quiet!” the Duke of Haywood shouted. “How self-righteous you are, you who let me believe my own flesh and blood was dead!”
Sam jeered at him. “Flesh and blood means nothing more to you than insurance for the family line. I’m sorry for inconveniencing you by leaving.”
The duke’s face paled to white. “Is that really what you believe of me?” he asked quietly. Sam said nothing. He closed his eyes. “Then I have failed you as a father.” He straightened, as if remembering himself, and returned to his seat by Sander’s side.
Sander pushed back from the table. “Sam, would you take a seat? I did not ask you here for underhanded reasons. Had I realized the . . . shall we say, friction, between you and your father”—he smiled apologetically at the Duke—“I would have forewarned you that he would be here.”
And now, it was Sam who remembered herself. “I was out of line.” She should have held her tongue in front of Sander and let the cards fall where they may before rushing to judgment. Perhaps there was hope for her yet. “I would hear what you have to say.”
Sam took the seat beside Tristan, positioned directly across from Braeden. He kept his head bowed, so she saw only the silver of his hair. Look at me, she willed. I’m right here. He did not. It was worse than not seeing him at all.
Playing the good host, Sander filled five pewter goblets with red wine and set them in front of each of his guests before reclaiming his spot at the head of the table. He took a long sip, cupping his drink with both hands. “I need the liquid courage,” he said with a self-deprecating grimace, “for it is not easy tidings I bear.” He ran his finger along the rim of his goblet. “War is coming. It is an inevitability, and one I can forestall no longer. I must find allies where I can.”
“You want Haywood’s aid,” the Duke stated. “What war would you have us fight?”
“A war you will have to fight, one way or the other,” Sander said. “When the time comes to choose a side, I ask that you choose mine.”
The Duke of Haywood sighed. “Must you always speak in riddles, Branimir? Speak plainly, man.”
Sam’s brows drew to a point. The duke spoke to Sander with far too much familiarity for a first acquaintance. “Do you two know each other?” she asked.
Her father cut her a glance. “I am a politician, Samantha. I make a business of knowing men of import. Of course I know the Earl of Luca.”
“The Earl of Luca? You told me you were no aristocrat,” Tristan interjected.
Sander waved his hand. “The title is purely incidental. When the old Earl died, he left behind no heir, so the title defaulted to me by marriage. It’s a formality I seldom use.”
“Then Luca is yours to rule by right,” Tristan said. “I had thought you an interloper. The High Commander is mad to have ordered your capture. It’s akin to declaring civil war.” Realization dawned across his features. “Oh.”
Sander raised his drink. “Precisely,” he said. “The High Commander of the Paladins has declared open war against Luca, the Uriel, and any who sympathize with our cause.” He gestured with his goblet at Sam, Braeden, and Tristan. “You three have officially been named traitors, by the way. By the High Commander and his puppet king.”
Sam reeled at Sander’s pronouncement. In a matter of weeks, she’d gone from being a Paladin trainee to being a traitor of Thule. All she’d wanted to do was protect the people of Thule, as her mother had protected her. And now she was their enemy.
The duke was the first to speak. “I like you, Sander, and I think you’d make a formidable enemy. But to go up against the Paladins, I’d have to be insane. Why should I risk my neck?”
“Because,” Sander said, “the High Commander did not name Sam of Haywood a traitor, he named Lady Samantha, daughter of the seventeenth Duke of Haywood.”
A wave of shame and self-loathing swept over Sam. The High Commander had made it so that she didn’t belong anywhere—she couldn’t be a Paladin trainee or her father’s heir. And Sander had gravely miscalculated. “I told you not to use me as leverage. His Grace will not go to war on my behalf.” For once, she wouldn’t even blame him.
Sander’s eyes glinted, his gaze latching onto the Duke of Haywood. “His Grace just learned that the daughter he thought was dead is alive. If he sides with the High Commander, he is condemning his daughter to die another death.”
The duke leapt up from the table, spilling his wine in the process. “Are you threatening Samantha?”
“No,” Sander said calmly. “I’m simply stating the reality. If the Uriel have any hope of winning this war, we will need Haywoo
d’s support. And if we lose, your daughter will die. The High Commander will see to that.”
“For what it’s worth,” Braeden said. Her heart jumped at the sound of his voice. “The High Commander is not a good man. If morality factors at all into your decision, Your Grace, then you would be wise to throw in your lot with the Uriel.”
The duke glared down at him. “Explain yourself, boy.”
“I speak of the demons, Your Grace. They do the High Commander’s bidding.”
“What madness is this?” Sander asked, his calm façade gone. Apparently this was as much news to him as it was to Sam. “How do you know he can do such a thing?”
Braeden raised his head. For a fraction of a second, his eyes lingered on Sam, and then he looked away. “Because he can make me do his bidding, too.”
The duke dropped back down in his chair with a dazed expression, and even Sander seemed rattled. Sam wondered what else she’d missed while she’d languished in the infirmary. What secrets was Braeden hiding? Had he kept them from Tristan, too, or was she in the dark alone?
Tristan rubbed at the back of his neck. “What is it you want with me, Sander? I am no duke, and I have no army I can offer you.”
“I do not need you to bring an army,” Sander said. “I want you to join mine.” He nodded at Braeden and Sam. “All of you.”
“Yes,” Sam said. Oh Gods, yes. She would have a place in the world again. She would be a Uriel.
The duke scowled menacingly at her and at Sander. “You invite my daughter into your army? I forbid it.”
Sam lifted her chin. “Too little, too late, Your Grace, for you to pretend to be my father.” Her eyes shifted to Braeden. “Forbid whatever you want, but I will follow my heart.” Braeden didn’t look at her but his cheeks colored under her gaze. She sighed and then stood up from the table, bowing, as a man would. “Sander, I am yours, if you will have me.”
“I won’t stand by and watch you get yourself killed!” the duke yelled, his face mottled and red.
“So don’t,” Sander said. “Lend your army’s strength to ours.”