Second Son

by Brenna Lyons

  Mik closed his eyes. He never knew that. He never knew how she chose his name. It was a name dear to her. She must have loved him. “Michael,” he repeated, committing it to memory. “Thank you, Susan.”

  She touched his knee, a tentative touch of a shaking hand. Susan still feared him. “Talk to Joel. He’s worried about you.”

  Mik hazarded a glance at her. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. Was she frightened, or was it concern for her husband? Mik found it hard to form a response. He had never wanted to see Susan cry again.

  “I want my eight years. Tell Jole— He had his time. I just want mine. Promise me you’ll tell him.”

  Susan removed her hand. “I promise.”

  Mik nodded and steered Frelang toward the door.

  “Go South, Michael. There aren’t many troops that direction.”

  He nodded and swallowed a bitter lump. “I am sorry, Susan.” Mik didn’t ask for forgiveness. Even if he deserved it, it was unlikely that Susan would ever offer it.

  “I know.”

  He wound his way toward the mountains, smiling when the village fell away behind him. Michael laughed. “Michael,” he mused. “A new man deserves a new name. Perhaps Michael is who I would be if my mother had raised me.” In any case, he couldn’t use the name Mik and hope to hide long.

  *

  Susan stood in the semi-darkness of the stable, biting back tears. She suspected how brittle Mik had become when he touched Joseph the night before. She was sure that he was broken when he fled the stage. Now she had her proof.

  She should call the soldiers, but she couldn’t do that. Mik wasn’t dangerous. He was lost, sad. He needed what he was doing. And, if he hurts himself in this bid to find what is missing in his life? Susan wouldn’t think about that. Mik was a man, and he needed this journey. She wasn’t his mother or his nurse.

  Susan retrieved an implin fruit from a bin near the door and went to the stall that held Jole’s war-buck. The male hottel nuzzled her face and ate the offered treat. She stiffened as she heard Pyter’s voice.

  “He had to have come this way,” he growled. “The merchant saw him not a quarter of an hour ago.”

  A shadow fell over Susan. She ignored it. Pyter would be furious with her. He worried too much.

  “Princess Susan.” His voice was edged in concern. “Where is Bell?”

  “With Barri and the babies.”

  She felt Jole’s presence before he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to his chest.

  His voice caressed her ear. “This isn’t safe, Susan. These soldiers are with us for your protection. Mik—”

  “Is searching for something. He doesn’t intend to harm me or anyone else. He needs this, Joel.”

  Jole turned her toward him. His face was tense. “You’ve seen him.”

  Susan nodded slowly, raising her chin a notch. She met his eyes fully. Jole could read her well. He’d know she had nothing to fear from his brother.

  Pyter strode to her, trying to mask his anger. “He could have—”

  “He won’t,” she assured him.

  “You can’t know that.”

  “I know,” she whispered.

  Jole took a calming breath. “What did he say to you?”

  “He’s searching for something. Please, let him do this.”

  “What is he searching for?”

  “Home. Family. Someplace meant for him.”

  “I don’t understand. He has a family.”

  “Does he?” she asked pointedly.

  Jole grimaced, dropping his eyes. She knew he distanced himself from Mik for her comfort, but Mik was left with no one.

  “He wants his eight years, Joel. Mik wants what you had.”

  “He’s insane,” Pyter decided.

  “No,” Susan assured him. “I think this is the first sign that he’s finally sane.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Veril 24th

  Michael slowed Frelang, taking in the figure walking along the mountain ridge in curiosity. He couldn’t see much of the man between the long travel coat that reached his knees, the knit cap, and the high boots. Michael smiled. The mysterious traveler seemed to be as determined to hide as Michael was.

  He slipped easily into thinking of himself as Michael. Mik was someone loathsome to his peers, his people, and himself. Michael was someone new, someone who could be the man he’d always wanted to be. He’d have to hide the winter, ride it out in whatever manner he could. After that, he would blend in to the populace and make his way. He had skills. Michael could work as a teacher or advisor. If it meant his freedom, he’d work in manual labor. At least it would be honest work.

  Michael sighed. He had to show himself to people eventually. The merchant in Fint had recognized him but only because Michael was clean and barely unshaven. He was road-traveled now, unwashed and covered in a fine layer of dirt. There was soil under his fingernails and charcoal from the fire staining his hands.

  The traveler would see him soon. It was time to learn if a week’s worth of a beard and his disguise were enough to hide his identity. At least the man was small, hardly a challenge in a fight.

  “Greetings, sir,” Michael called out jovially.

  The other man turned, weapon drawn. The dagger was sharp, showing tender care in maintenance. It had the look of an officer’s dagger, like the one Michael left behind because it bore the royal seal in its hilt. Michael wished he could see it clearer, but that would be foolhardy until he diffused the situation.

  Michael looked at the man’s face and gasped. It was a woman. She wore a travel coat like his own and a man’s tunic. Her hair was hidden beneath the laborer’s knit cap. She didn’t wear trousers, but with her coat closed, no one would be able to tell she wore a trouskit, a female’s split riding skirt.

  She looked around warily, as if she expected an ambush, then eyed him suspiciously. She offered no comment and asked no questions.

  Michael felt his anger spike. “Where is your guard?” he demanded.

  She snorted and rolled her eyes. “I have no need of a man to protect me from the likes of you.”

  He smiled. She had fire. “It is not safe for a woman to travel alone,” he reminded her.

  “I do well enough.”

  Michael sighed. Her stubbornness would get her killed one day. “Come along,” he ordered.

  She shook her head and motioned with her blade. “Move on, sir. I have no need or want of your company.”

  “I cannot leave you to travel alone.” He could. Mik would have. She was a common woman. But, protecting women was deeply engrained in Michael, and Michael was who this woman would deal with. Michael remembered the oaths he took. Michael lived by them, damn it!

  “You owe me nothing,” she growled. “I would prefer not to find myself in your debt.”

  “You are right, but you would owe me nothing. I owe the gods that much.” And, perhaps they would be kind to him in the long winter months if he showed this kindness.

  She scanned her eyes over him slowly. “You don’t look like a cleric,” she decided.

  Michael laughed heartily, patting Frelang with his hand when she shied at the sound. “I’m not,” he assured her.

  She nodded. “Then you owe them nothing for my sake.”

  “I do. Now come. This is growing tedious.”

  She held her ground, glaring at him across the clearing. “You don’t even know where I’m going.”

  “Since I had no destination in mind but where the winds of chance would take me, perhaps I should look on this as a sign.”

  “I don’t believe in chance or signs.”

  A most unusual woman. Most women of Michael’s acquaintance were tirelessly involved in portents and signs, except Susan, but Susan was born on Earth.

  “And I made a vow once to protect those who need me,” he countered.

  Her eyes widened. “You’re an officer in royal service?” she whispered. That seemed to frighten her when it should have given her comfort.
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  Michael was intrigued. He bowed his head. “I was. I am no longer.”

  “You’re awfully young to retire.”

  “I didn’t retire. I left service.” He grinned. Considering his training started with dagger at five, he was permitted to order troops at ten, and he was granted command above all but his father and brother at adulthood; Michael had served almost twenty years in service. That was enough for any decent man to retire.

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t like taking orders.” That was true enough.

  Her mouth twitched, as if she was trying to hide a smile. She took a step back. “I don’t believe you.”

  Michael growled a curse on stubborn women and slid off his hottel. He stalked toward her, reaching beneath his coat to draw his sword. The laser-edged blade was proof of what he claimed.

  Her eyes widened, and she launched at him with a battle cry. Michael released his weapon. He hadn’t expected her to attack, but perhaps he should have. Women never did precisely what you thought they would.

  He blocked her blow with his forearm, deflecting the blade that would have taken his throat, determined to handle this without resorting to his own weapon. She spun, changing her attack like an expert soldier. Had Michael not been as well trained as he was, he might have lain dead after that move.

  Instead, Michael captured her wrist in his left hand and wrenched her dagger free with his right, tossing it a short distance away. She didn’t hesitate. Her leg came up toward his groin.

  He smiled as he swept her support ankle and sidestepped her blow. Mik could have done this to Susan when first they met if he’d realized that women would have training and fight as dirty as a man. Not having sisters had worked to his disadvantage with Susan. Michael had no disadvantage. This poor girl would be treated gently, but no blow would be unanticipated. She fought like a man. He cushioned her fall then straddled her thighs.

  She tried to butt him in the face, but Michael dodged and pushed her back. She landed with a light grunt and went for his eyes, her fingers like claws. Michael captured her hands and transferred both wrists to his left hand. The girl cried out in frustration, trying to wrench her hands free.

  Michael pulled his sword, and she stilled, eyeing the laser-edged blade in fear. The blue glow reflected in her black eyes. She shook her head, and her cap fell away. Dark curls spilled out from beneath it, cascading over her shoulder.

  He locked his eyes on her face, trying to ignore the breasts heaving with every ragged breath she took. This was no girl. She was a woman, and she was definitely a woman he shouldn’t tempt himself with.

  Tears traced down her cheeks. He cursed himself for scaring her. Michael released her hands, wary of attack.

  She looked at him, swallowing hard and nodding. “It appears you are what you say, sir. Men who steal blades like that do not care for them well. I apologize for calling you a liar.”

  Michael sheathed his sword, reeling at the sincerity in that apology. This woman wasn’t seeking just to convince him to release her. She meant what she said, and that was priceless to him.

  He nodded. “I meant only to show you my blade. You should never assume you know your opponent’s mind. You should never attack prematurely, no matter how skilled you are.” Michael met her eyes. “And you are skilled.”

  She darkened at the compliment. Surely, she wasn’t ignorant of how rare a woman of her fighting skill was.

  “Who trained you?”

  She shook her head. “No one — formally. I — watched the soldiers train. My father thought it best if I practiced what I saw.”

  “Your father was in royal service?” He had to look at the blade he threw. It would tell him the man’s rank and award.

  “He’s dead now.” The bitterness in her voice stunned him.

  “You are traveling to family?”

  “No. To a childhood friend who will allow me to earn my keep.”

  “Where is this friend?”

  She hesitated. “Caran.”

  Michael startled. It would take her until the end of winter to get there on foot.

  “So, you see. I am sure you are headed nowhere near my destination. If you would set me free, I will trouble you no more.”

  He shook his head. “I will take you there.” If he didn’t, she’d freeze or starve before the month was gone.

  “You owe me nothing.”

  “I owe your father. Out of respect for him, I will do this.”

  “You don’t even know who my father is,” she replied weakly.

  “I know all I need to know. He served.”

  *

  Danellan stared at the strange man over her in shock. He was unwashed and unshaven, dressed in a laborer’s clothing. But, he carried the sword of a high-ranking officer, and he was highly trained. His movements were graceful and strong. He never faltered in attack or defense. It took years to develop reflexes like those. His body was all lean muscle and angles. He was beautiful in some way an artist might capture in a fantasy scene, as if he were apart from the natural world.

  There was an uncertainty in his eyes that belied his outward calm. The black depths were shadowed. He kept his eyes locked on hers. Aside from his initial examination of her, he hadn’t looked at her body. He’d made no move to molest her. He was a most unusual man.

  “What is your name, sir?” she requested.

  He eased off of her and offered Danellan a hand to her feet. He turned from her and retrieved her father’s dagger from the ground. “A general,” he whispered. “So many years in service and highly decorated.”

  He stroked the hilt fondly. Was he recalling his own dagger? Danellan wondered what rank and honors his would have listed. He turned and placed the blade in her hand with a bow of his head.

  “I am sorry for your loss,” he told her. The sincerity in him surprised her.

  Danellan sheathed the dagger. “What is your name, sir?” she repeated.

  “Michael.” He darkened, as if saying his name was somehow an embarrassment.

  She furrowed her brow. “A most unusual name but pleasing.”

  “A family name of my mother’s clan,” he dismissed her question. “And your name, fair lady?”

  She took a deep breath. He’d not listed a family relation for her. She owed him no more. “Danellan.”

  “Come Danellan. We have a long way to travel.”

  Danellan nodded and headed for Michael’s hottel. She ran a hand through the mare’s silky locks. “She’s beautiful.”

  Michael placed his hands around her waist, and she startled. He pulled her back to his chest slowly.

  “Shhh,” he soothed her. “I won’t hurt you.” Michael lifted her to the hottel’s back.

  She felt her cheeks heat. “I can’t ask this of you. It’s not right.” She couldn’t ride his beast while Michael walked. It was bad enough that he lifted her to the mare’s back as if she were a child when Danellan exercised her father’s war-buck on a regular basis.

  He smiled a devastating smile. “We’re riding double, Danellan.” He motioned her to move back onto the rear hump to give him room to mount.

  “But—” She shifted back hurriedly as he moved.

  Michael swung his leg over and pulled her arms around his waist, sliding her back into the natural indentation that kept her pressed to his body. “Frelang is strong, and it is the fastest mode of travel we have.”

  Danellan sank her cheek to his back as the hottel started moving. Frelang? How appropriate a name for the beast.

  She yawned and closed her eyes. Danellan was tired, more tired than she’d ever been in her life. She’d been running for three weeks. Tranol hadn’t found her. Danellan thanked Fion every night in her cold blanket that she was still free.

  “Danellan?” Michael asked quietly.

  “Hmm?” She yawned against his shoulder again. He was warm. She thanked the Merciful Mother that she could share in that heat.

  “Why didn’t you use a portion of the benefits to trave
l by public transport?”

  Tranol. No. Michael won’t understand. “I had no benefits. I wasn’t Father’s heir.”

  “A portion should have been yours by law.”

  “No. Not in this case.”

  A portion of it should have been hers. That was true, but Tranol had other plans for her. Danellan would rather die at the hands of bandits than submit to Tranol’s plans for her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Veril 32nd

  Michael stared at Danellan across the fire, still stung by her outburst as they left the village and her silence during their long ride into the heavily forested foothills above, still unsure what angered her. She was such a mystery to him. Michael didn’t understand her drive. He didn’t understand her anger. He wished he understood her.

  “Why did the woman in the village upset you?” he asked carefully. That was the only thing he did understand. Danellan bit back tears at the sight of the pregnant woman leading her children through the marketplace. She couldn’t drag Michael away fast enough.

  Danellan gazed into the fire as if she could read futures in the flames. “She’s being made old before her time.

  “How? I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t,” she snapped. “You’re a male of a noble family.”

  “I don’t see what that—”

  “When you return to your life, you’ll make an advantageous contract and build your perfect little world. If you’re lucky enough to love your bride, you might decide to have more than your required heirs, but you’ll have servants to care for them.”

  “Is that what this is about? The fact that the woman had five children?”

  “And no decent way to prevent it,” Danellan shouted. “A husband without the healing magic and not decent food enough to keep her from feeling the pains of pregnancy almost every day.”

  Michael shot her a look of disbelief. “There are clinics. One is not far from here. There are sterilization procedures and Walla teas. We’re not uncivilized. The procedures are free, Danellan.”

  She looked at him in stunned horror. “You really don’t know the laws. Do you?”

  “What laws?”

  “The law works differently for the poor, Michael. The procedures and Walla teas are only free if one or both parties in a contract show a high enough level of genetic decay. Unlike the rich, they have not the luxury of hiring servants to care for the children they are forced by situation to bear. They have not the means to pay for the medical procedures or drugs to prevent it that the rich take for granted.” Tears glistened in her eyes.