by Megan Derr
"Yes, Commander." Myra finished his second cup of wine and set it on the desk again, then rose and bowed. "Unless you've further need of me, I am going to retreat to my rooms for the day. I'll remain there until the bodyguard arrives, though I don't really have anywhere to go. I'm not used to being anywhere but the office most days."
Jader finished his wine and rose with him, buckling his swords back in place. "I'll see to the bodyguard now. I hope the office is not too severely demolished in your absence."
Myra made a face and tried not to think about it. Piru would manage well enough, and the rest he could do nothing about until he returned to duty.
After he left Jader's office, Myra walked slowly through the palace to his rooms, ignoring the curious looks of the court and staff he passed along the way. Safely in his own chambers, he locked the door, then slid down it to sit on the floor, bending his knees and draping his arms across them, then resting his forehead on his arms.
His heart had not stopped pounding in his ears since he'd made the decision to tell Sarrica the truth—since he'd seen a man who looked eerily like his youngest brother staring back at him, spewing poison at him, bringing back a thousand memories Myra had hoped would stay buried. Knowledge he had hoped he'd never have to care about again.
Like the knowledge of what would happen to him if Iron Moon captured him. He'd be dragged home, put before the entire village while his crimes were listed out, and then the chief—and unless things had changed, his eldest brother would be chief by now, as his uncle had not possessed heirs—would sentence him to being tied to a stake and left to the elements. Some clans preferred stoning, but not Iron Moon.
But he'd done the right thing. He'd ensured the safety of those who mattered. He'd enjoyed his stolen life for twenty years. He refused to hope that he'd be left alone, that they wouldn't take him. The attack on Jac had gone awry, but the real kill team wouldn't fail the way the trainees had.
Climbing to his feet, Myra unbuttoned his long jacket as he headed into the bedroom. Shrugging out of it, he tossed it onto the bed and sent his shirt after it. Bare chested, he ran his hands over the long-faded scars where breasts had been removed a couple of weeks before he'd passed his tests and sworn himself to the Shadows of the Iron Moon.
Emblazoned on his chest, almost hiding the scars, was the tattoo that marked him a full Shadow: an intricate pattern of slashes and whorls, incomprehensible to most, but denoting family and history and other details to the clans. Had he continued on, more and more of his body would have been covered, a reckless, stupid thing for a person whose greatest skill was passing unremarked—but that was the clans, clinging to poisonous traditions, arrogant to a fault. All too often they had reason aplenty to support that arrogance.
Fleeing the mirror, Myra slipped into his dressing room and found more casual clothes to wear—looser pants that tightened at the ankle, soft slippers, and a loose, long-sleeved tunic that he cinched in place with a plain, dark green sash. Pinning his braided hair into a knot, he chose a book at random from his shelves, poured another injudicious cup of wine, and settled on his sofa.
He'd been there perhaps half an hour when a familiar knock came at his door. Gulping down the last bit of wine in his cup, struggling to ignore his fuzzy, spinning head, Myra went to open it.
Charlaine blew into the room the moment the door opened, nearly knocking Myra over. Closing the door, bracing against it until the room stopped spinning, Myra stared at him. "Merry afternoon."
"What is this about your life being in danger?" Charlaine demanded. "All this talk of assassins? Why is everyone being so cagey about where the information came from—and they're not hiding very well it came from you, given that all of a sudden you're here while Piru looks ready to cry and Lesto is mad he's not allowed to murder anyone. Why didn't you say anything?"
Myra scrubbed at his face. "Laine, it's been a very long day and I haven't had the chance to talk to you. I've only barely finished speaking with Their Majesties and everyone else. Would you please stop yelling at me?"
All the anger went out of Charlaine. "I'm sorry." He closed the distance between them and pulled Myra's hands down, holding them tightly in his warm, firm grip. Myra fought the urge to lean in closer, fear and loneliness and alcohol encouraging him, guilt and shame and thoughts of Jac holding him back. Why did every part of his life have to spin out of control at the exact same moment?
"Hey, there," Charlaine said softly, resting one hand against the side of his face. He was so warm, so steadying, Myra was helpless against closing his eyes and leaning harder into that reassuring touch. "What's wrong?" A thread of laughter wove into Charlaine's voice. "Other than the fact you've had a touch too much wine. That won't help anything."
"I disagree." Right then, the wine was the only thing keeping him from losing his mind.
Charlaine chuckled. "Let's get you—"
Another knock came at the door. Myra sighed and moved enough to open the door without letting go of Charlaine's hand, not certain what would happen if he did.
"Are you all right?" Jac asked. "I—" She stopped, eyes staring past Charlaine, hurt and embarrassment flickering across her face before her stern bodyguard expression returned. "My apologies, I didn't mean to interrupt anything. I only wanted to make certain you were all right. I'll cease bothering—"
"You're not a bother," Charlaine said. "I was checking on the fool too. Come in, Jac."
She hesitated.
Charlaine let go of Myra to step past him, grab hold of Jac's wrist and reel her inside. He closed the door behind them. "Now then, Myra, how about you tell us what in the Pantheon is going on around here?"
"Nothing that different than usual," Myra muttered, stepping hastily away from them, the wine making it all too easy to think about how nice they looked standing next to each other and all the lovely ways the situation could be improved if his life was not currently falling apart.
He returned to his place on the sofa and poured more wine—then scowled when Charlaine took it away.
"What's wrong?" Charlaine asked. "You are not generally the sort to drink your problems away. I've only seen you this upset on two other occasions—not long after we met and the following year. Around the same time of year on both occasions, and it's not that time now."
Myra grimaced. "The matters are not unrelated, but I do not want to discuss them. I did so with Their Majesties only because I had to—because people could die if I didn't. Please, I've had enough for one day." He was in no way ready to see Charlaine and Jac hate him for the terrible things he'd done, from killing a man and stealing his identity to living a lie for the past twenty years—never mind all the people he'd killed before he'd managed to escape that life.
Charlaine and Jac were the kind of people born with honor and integrity in their blood, with kindness and loyalty in their bones. It never occurred to them that some people had to learn those traits, and that they often did so only after making a thousand terrible, tragic mistakes.
Sighing, Charlaine sat down beside him, drinking the wine he still held before handing the cup to Jac, who then sat in the chair close to Myra. "If that's what you want, so be it, but we're your friends, Myra. We only want to help."
Myra wanted desperately to lean into him, let Charlaine hold him. Charlaine had always been so delightfully tactile, especially for a man in his line of work. He wanted to pull Jac into his lap and rest his head on her shoulder, let her humor and cheer improve his mood. It felt wrong, though, asking for things they would gladly give him only because they didn't yet know the truth.
"You can't help, but I appreciate and am grateful you want to, never doubt that." He smiled wanly at both of them, then stole back his wine and drained the cup.
"Enough," Charlaine said, and took both cup and pitcher well out of his reach. "If you won't tell us what's wrong—"
"That man in the basement looked a bit like you," Jac blurted out.
Myra jerked as though he'd been slapped.
&n
bsp; Charlaine's eyes widened. "What?"
Jac kept her eyes on Myra. "He looked like you, and I'm guessing he recognized you. That's why you're upset—or part of it, at least. It's also why you know so much about whatever is going to happen at the festival."
Myra pushed to his feet. "It's time for you both to go. I want to be left alone."
Charlaine rose and took his arm. "You're drunk and on the verge of tears, I'm not—"
"Let me—"
"I don't think—"
All three of them stopped at another knock on the door.
"Who is it now?" Charlaine groused.
Myra pulled away and went to answer it, ignoring both of them when they admonished him not to because were they serious?
He opened the door on a tall, broad, imposing woman with dark, black-brown skin and short, curly hair wearing the uniform of Penance Gate, including the rather alarming spiked armor. "Master Myra?"
"Yes. Come in, please. You must be the bodyguard? I wasn't expecting Penance Gate to trouble themselves."
Jac groaned.
Charlaine rolled his eye. "Ugh. Who sent you."
The woman in question smiled fleetingly, toothy and amused, as she stepped into the room and firmly closed the door. She had a sword at her left hip, and he could just see the pointed end of a war hammer strapped to her back. "It's never trouble to do the High Throne's bidding. We rarely get something as easy as protection detail. I'm Second Lieutenant Riker Delamora, assigned as your bodyguard until Captain Chass says otherwise."
"I appreciate it, Lieutenant. I'm going to go lie down. I'd be grateful if you'd see my friends out."
Riker glanced at him, glanced at Jac and Charlaine, then back at him with a faint smirk. "As you will it."
Myra bowed his head in thanks, then turned around slowly and headed into his bedroom, where he shut the door on Riker, Charlaine, and Jac arguing loudly and colorfully. Removing his slippers, he climbed into bed and fell asleep even as the bickering grew louder.
Chapter Five
Charlaine leaned against the wall directly across from Myra's closed door and waited. They should have been enjoying the festival together. Should have been something other than soldier and secretary for a few days. He'd been looking forward to trying that out, seeing if it was something he could do for more than a few hours.
Instead, he was dressed in armor and weapons—though not uniform since he wasn't on duty—waiting to make a fool of himself before heading off to face unknown violence. At least it was assassins, not an army.
Once all this was over and he could breathe again—and not feel like his heart was about to give out from worry and stress—he was going to lock them in Myra's room and shake some sense into that halfwit's head.
Why couldn't everyone be more like Kamir? Why did they all have to make everything so needlessly difficult?
Why didn't he listen to his own advice more often?
Maybe this was a bad idea. But every time he thought that, the memory of Myra's haunted face returned. Charlaine would do anything to banish that look forever.
He was just about to start pacing the hall when Myra's door finally opened. Charlaine pushed away from the wall, ignoring the warning look Riker gave him, focused entirely on Myra, who looked worse than ever. Gaunt. Tense. Like he hadn't slept, or at least not well, and was going to jump out of his skin at the slightest too-loud noise.
"What are you doing here?" Myra asked.
That hurt, but Charlaine took a breath and pushed it away. Myra was acting exactly like everyone else would in his situation. "Supporting a friend, why do you even have to ask?"
Myra flinched. "Sorry."
"Would you just tell me what's wrong?"
"No," Myra said flatly.
Charlaine gathered up his courage, wishing he were anywhere but in that hallway, and finally said, "I was going to confess I wanted us to try being lovers. That's what I didn't want to admit in the garden. Because I backed out at the last minute during dinner, and then Jac asked you to tea, and I didn't want to ruin that or complicate matters."
Myra's mouth dropped, and for a moment he seemed to be his old self.
Then it all collapsed, and he looked closer to tears than ever.
Well, this wasn't going at all the way he'd been hoping. "Damn it. Riker, back off a bit, eh?"
Riker laughed. "Gladly. Anything is better than watching you confess your feelings."
"Like we don't all remember your sappy proposal." To her adorable baker spouse who helped make all the bread that kept the palace fed, in front of nearly every soldier in the military pavilion. No one had let her live the moment down for months, but they'd also chipped in, every last one of them, to make certain the two had a grand wedding.
Riker bared her teeth, gave him a friendly shove and strode to the end of the hall.
Charlaine turned back to Myra. "I'm sorry. I thought if I admitted that, maybe you would open up to me. You look like you're going to your death." Myra gave a brittle laugh, and Charlaine closed the distance between them. He pulled Myra into a tight hug. "Just tell me what's wrong. I hate to see you in so much pain."
"I used to live a very different life," Myra said quietly. "I escaped it and have lived a lie ever since. Now that old life has come back."
"Is that why the bodyguard?" Though it wasn't hard to guess—and Charlaine could make several other guesses, given it was Riker who was protecting him, or was Myra forgetting she wasn't the only second lieutenant who'd been made a bodyguard?
Sometimes Charlaine wanted to throw every last person in the palace into the ocean. Except Kamir and his children, they could stay. Maybe Jader, but only because Kamir would be sad otherwise.
"Yes. I fervently hope she does not die when they come for me."
"Stay here in your room! I'll remain as well and we'll protect you. No one will get past the two of us."
Myra shook his head. "They know of me. They will not rest until they reclaim me. I'd rather face them head on, not hide in my room like a damned coward. The more I hide, the more lives I risk."
"You're a fool. Why don't any of you stubborn asses ever listen to your bodyguards? Kamir listens! So clearly it can be done—why won't the rest of you follow his example?"
A faint but true smile curved Myra's mouth, and then suddenly he was in Charlaine's space, cupping his face and pulling him into a kiss.
And oh, what a kiss. It was worth every moment of agonizing and wondering and hoping and second guessing to feel Myra's mouth slotted against his, the way he so quickly took control of Charlaine's mouth, licking and sucking, pressing deep as though determined to taste and mark all he could. Charlaine groaned and kissed back just as heatedly, wrapping his arms around Myra's waist and holding fast.
When they finally drew apart, flushed and panting, Charlaine nipped at his lips and said, "Does this mean you're going to listen to me, you stubborn ass?"
"It means I'm saying goodbye." Myra kissed him again, hard and biting, then shoved Charlaine hard enough he landed on his ass. "I'm sorry." He strode off down the hall to join Riker.
By the time Charlaine picked himself up and ran down the hall to catch him, Myra was protected by the sharp, pointy wall that was Riker. "Back off, Fathoms—I mean Shattered." She grinned. "How's life protecting the High Commander's spouse?"
"Relaxing," Charlaine snapped. "Myra—"
"Is done here," Riker cut in. "Back off, Charlaine, or I'll put you back on the floor, and we both know you won't get up so easy the second time."
Charlaine grunted but didn't argue or test her. Penance Gate in general was not a group to piss off, but three people especially were to be avoided at all costs: Captain Chass, First Lieutenant Aria and Second Lieutenant Riker. She was Aria's protégé and would someday be her second in command when Aria became Captain. Charlaine could probably beat her in a fight if it came to that, but he preferred not to find out just then. "Fine. Myra, we're not done."
Myra did not reply—did not even look at
him.
Charlaine watched them go, then made his own way out of the palace and to the stables. Mounted up, he made swiftly for the fairgrounds west of the palace and north of the city, a sprawling, chaotic mess of celebration to commemorate the day the Harken Empire officially came into existence, uniting nine warring kingdoms. The festival also drew from myriad holidays of the various kingdoms and religions, a mishmash as colorful and diverse as the citizens it represented.
He kept eyes and ears strained as he traveled, looking for anything even remotely out of place, reaching for a sound that didn't belong.
But all he saw was joy and excitement, the occasionally harried merchant or vendor, or a child overwhelmed by all the people and noise. Lovers. Families. The wonderful scents made his stomach growl: all manner of kebab, from mutton roasted on spits to beef cooked directly on the grill and fish simmering away in pans. Samosas savory and sweet. Charlaine tried to block it all out. There'd be time for tea and samosas later.
A cacophony of cheering drowned out the rest of the chaos momentarily, a roar of celebration coming from the stadium, which meant Sarrica and Allen had arrived to officially start the festival. Charlaine's already racing heart sped up even further as he steadily made his way through the mess to the stadium, eyes watching constantly for anything that might stand out, though if the assassins were even half as good as he'd been told, his efforts were futile.
Reaching the stadium, he handed off his horse to one of the countless attendants, took his ticket to retrieve the horse later and flashed his medallion to get through the gate for special guests.
Charlaine swept his gaze over the seats once he entered, ignoring the fighting taking place in the center of the stadium. Despite his fears that Myra would try to get creative and hide—which rarely worked with assassins of the caliber they were facing—Myra was in the section reserved for important but non-noble guests. All the way at the back, the wall right behind him, Riker between him and the aisle. The seats immediately around them were empty, despite the fact that the stadium was packed. Riker must have charmed them all into moving.