Soulseeker

  The horses were tethered well within the camp boundaries, fiercely protected. In the middle of the group, in the safest place of all, were Rian’s beloved Islandri horses, the prized bloodlines that royalty had jealously guarded through a thousand years. Tall, long-legged, swift, hardy. Uniformly silver gray, except for a single rare line that shone red as fire. Mirish was from that line. Priceless. Fierce in battle, mares and stallions both, yet gentle with those they knew, their worth was considered beyond measure. To receive one as a gift was a prize only a handful of people had ever enjoyed.

  There were excited murmurs from onlookers as Rian made the other men remain at the edges while he took Wravon alone in with him.

  Eager equine noses reached for the prince, and he delved into his pockets, bringing forth small dried blocks of molasses and oats, giving affection with each offering. He did not speak to Wravon, but let him trail behind, getting a feel for each animal.

  Most of them shied away from the stranger, wary, but a young stallion Rian had been lately training, three years old, stepped forward, ears pricked in curiosity as he took in the newcomer’s scent.

  Wravon hesitated, glancing at Rian for permission.

  The prince nodded, a small smile tilting his lips. Of all the horses he had brought, some older and experienced, some he was working with, this particular colt was the one he had hoped would match with Wravon. They had felt like a good combination when he had considered which horse the Hawk might bond with.

  Wravon put a gentle hand upon the velvet nose, letting the colt thoroughly scent him. They stood in tableau for some time, before the colt took the final step, nibbling at the wisps of hair that had escaped Wravon’s braid.

  The Hawk gave a choking laugh, a hint of moisture in his eyes, before he stroked over the sleek neck.

  A newborn bond.

  Rian felt his own eyes mist. The life had returned to Wravon’s eyes, and that was worth any price at all.

  Hamon and the others were then invited to meet the new member of their group.

  Hamon marveled at the fine lines and sheer height of the magnificent animals that surrounded them. So much taller than Zalan’s powerful, heavy-muscled warhorses.

  He immediately began considering how to get Wravon to allow his new stallion to breed one of Hamon’s best mares. The cross—power and speed combined—would be amazing.

  He eyed Rian consideringly. The prince himself might be convinced to share breeding with his own stallions if the Zala offered a gift or two of their own bloodlines.

  This cultural exchange just kept showing more benefits.

  If the boy really was the soulseeker, that would be the cap on it all, an incredible bonus to this day and the gift Wravon had just received. To see his cousin smile again, his grief tempered, if never completely gone. He would always be grateful to Rian for this. The guilt had never been the prince’s, but he had chosen to give a priceless gift anyway, the only thing that could have brought Wravon back to them so swiftly.

  This prince held such hidden depths, a quiet honor that Hamon admired. His background and bloodlines should have produced another Arran, but miraculously, he seemed to have retained a gentleness, a caring for those around him, but with a core of strength that Hamon could only admire.

  Arran was wrong. He considered his brother weak, that his submission made him lesser somehow. Hamon saw only strength. Someone who would do whatever necessary to protect his people.

  What a king he would make.

  Or was that what Arran realized? Was that why he tore down Rian’s confidence, tortured him into compliance? Perhaps some part of Arran, mad or not, knew that the boy could stand against him if given half a chance, not for himself, but for those who suffered under the current rule.

  Hamon’s eyes narrowed, his thoughts conflicted.

  Rian as king would save Rashma, but not the Zala.

  Rian as soulseeker would help only the Zala.

  Was there a way, unrealized and unseen at this moment, that could possibly see both benefit?

  He wished he had enough faith and confidence to believe such a thing was even remotely possible.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The army moved out early the next morning, and Rian was not surprised to exit his pavilion to find the Hawks already packed and mounted, slouched casually upon their horses. There were near identical expressions of boredom and impatience upon all their faces, men and equines both.

  Rian could not prevent a small smile from forming as he watched.

  There was bustle all around him, his pavilion coming down only moments after his exit.

  He stepped away from the orderly chaos toward Telan, who had appeared, leading a fresh and high-spirited Mirish, alongside his own calm, steady black stallion, massive, in even proportion to his rider.

  Rian noted how the Hawks’ eyes widened as they viewed the black’s powerful form, their lackadaisical attitudes immediately sliding into utter fascination.

  He shook his head as he slid a leather glove over his hand. The Zala and horses—one and the same creature.

  No doubt Telan would be receiving some outrageously high offers this day. The Hawks would learn soon enough that Telan loved his black as much as any Zala. There would be no sale.

  Perhaps then, stud fees might be negotiated, keeping the day lively. Rian could only be thankful that there seemed to be a wary liking on both sides, so things should stay reasonably civilized.

  He watched them as he reached Telan’s side, a hope beginning to rise. If things became worse in Rashma, perhaps Telan and Zacar could find sanctuary with the Zala. Perhaps, in secret, he could convince the Hawks, pay them mercenary fees if necessary, to ensure such an event. If there was no freedom for him, there could, at least, be solace in his friends’ final safety.

  “There is a lot of lust being directed your way, Telan.” He mentioned it casually, with humor he all too seldom displayed.

  The large man handed him Mirish’s reins, one thick eyebrow rising in silent question, before he glanced over his shoulder at the Hawks’ intense stares.

  His chuckle was deep, almost a physical rumble within his chest. “Many desire my beauty. If they know what is good for them, they will retain a respectful distance.”

  The huge black, Nator, was not known for showing a friendly disposition to any other than Telan himself. More than one admirer getting too close had fled teeth and hooves. Hopefully, the Hawks would have more sense.

  Rian mounted Mirish with swift ease, biting back a gasp as his back pulled. The stallion danced under Telan’s firm hold, eyes rolling, as he protested the sudden weight with a petulant buck.

  Rian regained his strength, settling into the saddle despite the antics, gathering the reins from Telan.

  They whirled on the spot for dizzying moments, Rian pandering to the horse’s restless fire that needed expression before his gentle heels eased the chestnut into a wider arc, working out impatience and excitement.

  When at last Mirish could find it in himself to stand still, tail flagged, eyes wild and bright, bugling at the other stallions, Rian clapped a hand on the gleaming neck, sympathizing with the stallion’s desire for action.

  The smile on his lips was still present when he looked up, encountering hot, brown eyes.

  The other Hawks might be drooling over the black. Hamon’s intense stare was centered upon Rian himself.

  The prince flushed, his stomach clenching. For some reason, that stare made him breathless rather than frozen with dread.

  Why did he react so strangely to desire from Hamon? The difference made no sense to him.

  The trek that day was somewhat slow-paced. They were winding up a steep trail, narrow and often coated with scree, which shifted dangerously under the horse’s hooves and made them stumble and slide.

  It was doubly difficult for the poor horses pulling carts. They harnessed the horses in single file, while men pushed the heavy carts from the back.

  Rian was everywhere, helping harness nervou
s horses, rotating exhausted men back, bringing fresh people forward. He was of little actual use, hindered by his wounds, but he did what he could. He had admitted to Hamon that, although he held pride in his captains and knew full well that they were more than capable of directing operations, Rian himself was terrible for wanting to have a hand in all things regardless.

  The Hawks had laughed at Rian’s admission, jostling Hamon as they did so. Seemed their leader was equally unable to sit back in a proper position of leadership.

  Hamon’s somewhat shame-faced admission that the same was entirely true of him as well, charmed Rian, and during the day as the army worked its way wearily up the trail, he watched with rising pleasure as all the Hawks stepped in quietly, without fanfare, aiding where ever needed.

  He saw his troops gradually lose their hostility, working side by side with the Hawks, bonding through adversity. Instead of fear at this integration, Rian found a quiet satisfaction, as though this were important in some fashion he could not yet comprehend. He shook his head at his own fancies.

  Telan was always at his shoulder, helping as needed. Once, he single-handedly heaved a loaded cart over a rut, those around him watching in silent awe that turned to cheers when he achieved the feat.

  Everyone was completely exhausted by the end of the day when they finally reached the summit. Too worn to go further, they set up camp, a difficulty all its own on the rocky, windblown exposure.

  It was a long, cold, mostly sleepless night.

  Yet with Hamon resting at his back, Rian found even a few hours restful, and yet again, his twin did not appear.

  It was wondrous.

  First light had everyone up, wolfing down cold food, eager to descend to more temperate climes.

  The trip down was cautious and just as slow as the day before. Now there were ropes tied to the back of the carts to slow their descent and each step was just as treacherous. But now spirits were high, since they could look down and see their destination, a sheltered valley with a winding river and acres of grass for the horses, a nice change from having to feed them hay.

  The temperature warmed as they descended, so that they were sweating profusely by the time they reached the valley floor, heat draining their energy as much as the cold had.

  The troops set up camp with relief when they reached the valley, faint cheers to be heard as Rian declared they would rest here for at least three days before continuing on.

  Rian watched their reactions with a weary smile. They were too close to the enemy to overtax the troops. They needed to be fresh and ready. Too much rested on this final push. It could well mean the end of the long-term conflict, something that was dangerously draining the resources of Rashma. He was looking forward to peace, but felt torn by the possibility that the war could, unbelievably, be over, that life could resume without death and danger being a daily event.

  For his people, he could wish for nothing better, for them to be able to return to their families, or even to begin one. To take up their lives once more. No doubt there would be a surge in the population, a blessing, considering how many they had lost.

  For himself, cessation of war would be the final loss of himself. Once there was no need for him as a commander, he would have no other place than as his brother’s companion and a breeder of heirs.

  Or soulseeker…

  For the first time, in his desperation, he truly considered the possibility that the Hawks could be right. The strangeness of his talents being understood, even valued, by the Zala but condemned and forbidden by his own people, seemed too much a coincidence, even by his own cynical standards.

  Whatever it meant to be this soulseeker, Hamon and the others seemed increasingly convinced he possessed such talent.

  Perhaps he would have to expose the whole of his fearful abilities and settle this one way or the other. Maybe then they would leave, realize that he was not what they wanted.

  The pang that thought brought was pure foolishness.

  * * *

  After the camp was set up near the end of the day, there was a general rush to the river to bathe. There had not been such a luxury at their previous camp, and everyone was more than ready to make use of it. There was much jostling and play-fighting as the men gathered at the riverbank, stripping with alacrity and plunging into the cool, running water.

  Telan urged Rian to do the same, but it took some time for the prince to gain the courage. By the time Telan took him upstream away from the troops and their antics, the Hawks had long ago vanished, no doubt to take their leisure elsewhere.

  They wandered along the riverbank, through willows that grew over the water’s edge, the noise of the others slowly fading away into a peace that Rian treasured.

  So beautiful here, so far from…

  They ducked out from under a willow—and Rian froze.

  Ahead, the Hawks relaxed in the waters.

  In the water. Naked.

  In front of Rian.

  Hamon was closest, with his back to them, the water to his powerful thighs, the muscles of his back clearly delineated as his arms rose to scrub at his wet hair, the heavy length for once unbraided.

  His skin was much darker than any person of Rashma, and it seemed stunningly golden in the sun, water droplets coursing down his spine…

  Rian made a sound in his throat, alarm and heat twining together, as he flushed to his toes, turning his head away, having to catch Telan’s elbow as he almost stumbled over a tree root.

  Telan’s low chuckle only increased his mortification, and he struggled to find some sense of ease that would see him through this unexpected and potentially greatly embarrassing scenario.

  “Telan! Rian!” Dramon’s smile was wide and welcoming, as Rian chanced a look, trying to get himself under some kind of control. “Come on in! The water is far warmer than I would have thought. Didn’t freeze my balls off.”

  What in the gods’ name was wrong with him? He’d had no problem walking past scores of naked men just a few moments ago and now he was like some prim youth.

  He swallowed with difficulty, following Telan to the river’s edge in nervous, jerky movements so unlike his usual grace.

  Telan began to disrobe with careless haste, laughing at something Navren shouted. Rian could only envy his normality, because Rian himself could find none of it for himself.

  He turned away, slowly removing his shirt, unease making him hunch his shoulders. It was all right, he reminded himself. These men knew, they would not mock him for his whip marks, for how thin he was, how much less manly than these warriors.

  Still, it was difficult to convince his fingers to untie his pants, to let them drop to the ground.

  He whirled then, almost running into the river—to be met with a face-full of water. He sputtered, blinking hard, staring at Wravon’s grinning face, even as the other man swung his arm, another wave swamping Rian and making him stagger and gasp for breath. Before he knew it, he was retaliating, wading forward and using his good arm to deluge Wravon.

  There were shouts of challenge around him, Telan’s bass voice laughing, as water flew from all sides, all the men joining in, whoops and playful curses plentiful.

  All Rian’s self-consciousness fled, and he found himself grinning, feeling almost lighthearted in the face of this playful rambunctiousness. For the moment, he was one of them, in a way he had never encountered before.

  He stumbled over a rock on the riverbed, arms flailing, before hands caught him, tugged him upright with ease.

  He raked the wisps of his hair back from where they were escaping his braid, blinking away the water. He met warm brown eyes, as big hands steadied him and remained resting lightly upon his shoulders.

  Rian expected himself to flinch back, to feel fear rise at the proximity of this powerful man, who could hurt him without effort, and yet…

  The fact that Hamon had slept beside him, and done no harm, seemed to have built something of trust within him, because he did not step back.

 
“Your back looks considerably better.”

  Rian nodded. “Zacar has a cream that heals amazingly well. If you ever get hurt…”

  Hamon smiled, hard eyes softening into something approximating fondness, reaching out and tapping Rian’s nose, making him scowl and swat the offending appendage away.

  “I think revenge on Wravon is in order, don’t you think?” Hamon’s teeth shone white in his tanned face, mischief in every line of him. Not a leader, not in this moment, but a young man.

  For once, Rian did not overthink the moment. He merely nodded, a smile of his own rising to the fore.

  They turned as one back into the fray.

  An hour later, they hauled themselves up the low riverbank, sprawling out on the grass panting, the hot breeze negating the need to dry off.

  Rian lay there on his stomach with a surprising lack of modesty, with a calm placidity that was completely foreign to him. The sun was low now, a hint of color in the clouds that slowly drifted by. He watched them, musing vaguely on their shapes before a fly found reason to settle on his ear.

  He wafted it away, only for it to return a moment later.

  He turned his head away, frowning, only to come eye to eye with Hamon, who grinned at him unrepentantly, a piece of grass in hand, poised to tickle Rian once more.

  Rian could hardly find the energy to scowl at him, and he suspected his expression was less fierce than he would have wanted.

  Hamon’s grin only widened, his eyes crinkling in the most fascinating way, and Rian could not rouse himself into irritation.

  This teasing, it was like watching Dramon and Navren together.

  Whom he suspected were lovers.

  He froze, blinking at the handsome face so close to his. Long, golden hair, loose and tousled, framed Hamon’s features, softening the severity of his high cheekbones, making him look gentler, more approachable than the tight braid did.