Soulseeker

  Hamon saluted Wravon with the hilt of his sword. “Cousin.” His tone held more mischief than menace, despite the seriousness of his expression.

  Wravon nodded, saluting in turn.

  Then they exploded into motion.

  Rian felt his jaw drop with astonishment, feeling quite sure that many around him did much the same.

  It was wondrous, poetry, dance, song, every movement concise and controlled, yet with a fluidity that bound the eye and lifted the soul. They did not seem earthbound—the touch of a foot to the soil and they were in flight once more. Swords touched, a whisper of steel, before sweeping past flesh so closely that it seemed impossible that there could not be a wound, a flash of red.

  Yet there was not.

  They twisted and turned in midair as though they were as much bird as man, and now, with his new knowledge, Rian could see flashes of energy that seemed the reason for their otherworldly maneuvers.

  There was no intensity to either the energy or their motions. It was evident, as it had been with Dramon and Navren, that they were not extending their greatest effort.

  It was beyond comprehension that there could be more.

  Arran folded his arms, a small smile tilting his lips, as Rian looked at him, stunned by the sign of humor when he would have expected contemptuous disinterest.

  “Makes you realize why we never conquered them, why the best we could do was broker a truce.” The smile widened. “I think more to the point would be that we were fortunate they did not have a similar intent to overrun us. It is quite obvious that they could have.” There was respect in the tone, wonder in his eyes. First and foremost, Arran had always been a warrior more so than a king.

  As abruptly as it had begun, it was over. The two stood with barely heaving chests, grinning at each other before bowing.

  The shocked silence shattered into a cheer, the sound raucous and heartfelt.

  Rian watched dazedly from the sidelines, unsure how much time had passed, as Wravon actually coaxed Arran into a discussion of martial maneuvers, both of them motioning and walking out whatever they were speaking of.

  The other Hawks and their guards were spread out, either talking with the troops who came to them or some sparring lightly with staffs in painfully slow motion, as though demonstrating.

  Hamon was walking toward him.

  Rian swallowed hard, wishing he was anywhere else. He felt worn thin, as though his hard-won control was on the edge of collapse. Hamon and his presence was the last thing he needed.

  There was a sort of compassion evident on the Hawk leader’s face, but there seemed also a determination. Of what, Rian could not decipher.

  Hamon nodded to him once he was within arm’s length, and Rian found the strength to nod in return, though he felt off-balance, his movements strange and jerky.

  “Come, spar with me.” Hamon’s tone was gentle, but his eyes were lit with fire. It was evident he wanted this greatly, though Rian could not begin to understand why.

  Rian glanced over at his brother, but Arran was completely focused on whatever Wravon was telling him, his expression relaxed, almost…happy. Arran lived for martial skills. To be taught something new must feel very strange to him now, when he had reached the point when few others could match him. The pleased look made him appear younger, more the brother of long ago Rian remembered.

  He swallowed hard and followed Hamon into the ring, feeling self-conscious. He was a good fighter, perhaps a little above average, but he would never compare to Arran or to a great many of the older, more experienced fighters in the army. To have to display his mediocre skills, especially beside someone who had just demonstrated such amazing ability, made him cringe.

  Hamon bent to pick up two staffs, handing one to Rian with an amused glint in his eyes that made Rian hope this was not just a premise to humiliate him. He’d had more than enough of that in the past, mockery about his height and reach. It had made him fight more fiercely, become better, but he did not want a repeat of that any time soon and certainly not in front of the troops he led.

  The Hawks’ leader drew close, laying a large, calloused hand upon his shoulder. He leaned in so they were eye to eye.

  “Energy, Rian. Think of the energy you have learned about, visualize it, bend it to your will. You will find you can almost foresee movements, that your own maneuvers will quicken.”

  Rian frowned disbelievingly. Mind you, it had seemed a stretch about ghosts as well, and he had done that, would do more in the future if the gods willed and he could work around Arran.

  His nod was uncertain.

  Hamon stood, golden and powerful, like some god come to earth, his smile meant for Rian alone…

  The prince shook his head, scattering the irrational thoughts.

  Hamon tapped his staff against Rian’s, bringing him back into reality.

  “Let your feet follow your instincts. Don’t try to control them.” Hamon’s voice was strong and even. He would make a wonderful teacher—or an equally wonderful father.

  And wasn’t that a thought.

  Here was a man he could almost trust with his children.

  Almost.

  He tried to remember Hamon’s energy teachings, letting mind and body relax, letting things flow through him.

  At first his motions were jerky and uncoordinated, but determination won through and he eased into a slow, measured copying of Hamon’s guidance.

  The staff felt heavy and cumbersome in his grip, as though he had forgotten all his training, but then, in a heartbeat, it meshed. His training, the energy, he found himself following it in slow grace.

  Hamon grinned in response, and Rian felt his spirits rise.

  He could do this. Not ever to the standards the Zala might possess, but certainly to a level that satisfied his own wants and needs.

  The sun was setting by the time he came back to himself, sweat sticking the tunic to his spine.

  Hamon offered him water, and he gulped it gratefully.

  Men milled around them, the Hawks interspersed here and there, talking, demonstrating.

  Rian could still see Arran with Wravon.

  Hamon took his arm, guided him with swift steps into the thick, nearby trees edging the river that ran through the middle of the camp.

  Rian followed blindly, without resistance.

  Hamon took them deep before turning and pushing Rian back against a tree, hard hands holding him there with ease as he leaned down and initiated a scorching kiss that curled Rian’s toes in his boots.

  He lit to fire in an instant, need swamping every thought.

  He wanted more, wanted possession, wanted Hamon to drive away every touch from the past, until all that remained was Hamon himself.

  Rian made a noise in his throat, all he could manage, and Hamon seemed to decipher it correctly because he groaned, deep in his chest, and acted quickly to loosen the ties to Rian’s pants.

  They dropped, and Rian struggled to toe off his boots, finding an almost hysterical laugh bubbling in his throat at the clumsiness of it all.

  Free at last, he was swept up with ease, his legs wrapping around Hamon’s waist as he was pressed up against the tree, bark digging into his skin.

  Hamon held him with one arm only, his strength amazing, his other hand milking Rian’s cock, gathering slick moisture upon his fingertips, before he reached down, letting a finger slide into tight heat.

  Rian arched, fear getting a foothold.

  Immediately, Hamon paused, bending his head to nuzzle along his throat. “We do not need to take it this far, now or ever. I would be glad to know only your touch…”

  Rian felt a snarl curl his lip. He would not let the past take this from him. If only once, he would know what it was like to take a lover he wanted, desired.

  His grip around Hamon’s neck tightened, and he leaned forward, licking those lips wantonly, pressing down onto that finger.

  Hamon gasped into his mouth, and Rian could feel minute tremors of need coursing throu
gh the larger man. A feeling of power swept through him, that even with his inexperience, he could bring Hamon to this so quickly.

  Another finger, stretching, scissoring deep within him. No pain, only a feeling of fullness. He did not quite understand why others seemed to find pleasure in the act… but the intimacy was pleasant.

  The fingers crooked—and fire burst over his nerves. He reared back, smacking his head against the tree, half stunning himself, but he could not stop moving, writhing. It was as though his body was possessed, his mind only a shocked bystander.

  Lips caressed his throat, then a whisper against his ear made him shudder head to toe.

  “So beautiful. So responsive. That, my little one, is why men are blessed.”

  Rian could only agree.

  He moaned, trembling with need, tiny broken words escaping his lips, pleas.

  The fingers withdrew, leaving an aching emptiness, then he was filled with something more that slid smoothly into him, hitting that bundle of nerves with unerring accuracy that sent him into ecstasy.

  It was only when Hamon began to thrust that he realized he had been breached fully and completely.

  No pain. No sense of shame and humiliation. Nothing but heady, potent pleasure that surged along every nerve ending until there was no thought, only sensation.

  He arched and softly cursed under his breath, a steady stream of imprecations that made no sense but seemed worthy at the moment.

  Hamon’s breath was harsh and uneven, his mouth open as he panted, intense stare fixed upon Rian’s face, watching every nuance of expression.

  The snap of his hips against Rian seemed inordinately loud in the peace of the trees, and some small, far away part tried to bring forward a fear of discovery, but pleasure battered it down.

  Hamon’s hands spasmed upon him, then the Zala let his head fall back, his teeth gritted as he fought the cry that obviously struggled for expression.

  Rian felt a surge of warmth within him, then white-hot sensation overtook him and he turned his face into Hamon’s neck, trying to stifle his own scream of completion.

  Hot tears ran down his cheeks; he did not remember shedding them.

  Cleansed, he felt cleansed and renewed, made into something more than he had been before.

  “Mine,” he whispered, forcing a trembling hand to stroke over Hamon’s thick hair.

  Dark eyes met his, a blinding smile from his lover making the tears run faster. “Yours, as you are mine. Only mine.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Rian could not believe the temerity of what he had just done.

  And yet, could not regret it either.

  The pain of a scraped back, the ache between his thighs, was something he bore proudly.

  They returned to the tumult of the training area, and none seemed to have noticed their absence.

  Arran was still working through maneuvers with Wravon, and Rian heaved a sigh of utter relief. What would happen if Arran should see the marks was something Rian thrust from the moment. He would savor this for as long as the fates allowed.

  Darkness descended and men dispersed, called to food and drink, cheerful conversations floating on the breeze.

  So normal. As though nothing had changed, when for Rian, everything had.

  It was hard to step away from his lover when the hours fled and it was time for sleep. So much he wanted to express…

  He stepped into the pavilion, Arran at his heels.

  “Where did you learn to use energy?” Arran’s voice was calm and cool behind him, and Rian froze, dread seeping through his veins.

  There was deep silence, then the sound of Arran’s footsteps as his brother passed him, striding over to the sideboard and pouring himself some wine before turning back to watch Rian with expressionless eyes.

  Like the predator he was.

  Rian felt panic rise over him like a tide. He had never been good at lying. Arran always knew, always…

  The truth.

  The truth could be deadly, or it could divert Arran into other thoughts—or a rage beyond rages.

  Rian had been beaten so often by his father for even a mention of his ability to see spirits. He had learned, painfully, that it was not a topic that could be shared with others, ever.

  But it occurred to him now, that Arran himself had never brought up the matter.

  “The Hawks…” his breath was ragged, his words almost whispered.

  Arran’s eyebrow arched. “They seem to have become quite close to you. Very swiftly. Do not trust them, brother. They might have many reasons to choose you for their lies and duplicity. It is well known that they came here to spy by the will of their High Chief, Hamon’s father.”

  Rian lost his voice for a moment, feeling a cold wave of fear overcome him.

  Surely not…

  “You knew this?” He was proud that his tone remained steady, his thoughts clearing. Did Arran truly believe that Rian would fall for this? When Arran himself had set them at Rian’s side?

  “Of course. Did you think I would ask them into the country without complete knowledge of them? I am not a fool, Rian. Although it seems you may have been. I thought I taught you better than that. To trust so easily…” He shook his head, took a sip of the wine.

  Rian felt his chest ache, almost believing the words for a moment, and then he bit his lip, the pain steadying him.

  “They may or may not be spies, but they have taught me something of great importance, Arran.”

  The king looked up, a faint frown gathering as he studied Rian’s resolute expression.

  His silence goaded the prince into further speech. Whatever the results, whether or not lies surrounded him on all sides, for once, he would speak utter truth. Let the fates choose what would result from that naked honesty.

  “They tell me I am a soulseeker. I have traveled upon the soul plane, brother. I have seen Valen.”

  A stark silence fell, Arran’s frown slowly turning into something dark and fearsome.

  Rian stood firm. The whole thing sounded so foolish spoken out loud, so completely improbable. He hardly knew how to explain all that had happened, all he had experienced. There was no way to…

  The frown smoothed out. “Ahh. I am glad you finally spoke to him. He has tried for years to work his way through your hatred.”

  Rian gaped, blinking.

  Arran met his disbelief with a shrug of his shoulders. “I do not understand the ‘soulseeker’ they speak of, but it does not surprise me that you could do it. We both carry the talent.”

  Rian sat down hard in the nearest chair, too shocked to respond.

  Arran watched him, a small, rather sad smile tilting his lips. “You were not the only one beaten for seeing things, little brother. I have said nothing since Father’s death. There seemed no point. What good could such an ability possibly be? Now you tell me that there is purpose, at least in the eyes of the Zala.”

  Rian struggled to push the new revelation aside and focus on how to explain his new status. “They do not believe that their souls go home to their gods without aid. A soulseeker is the one that guides them, ensures they pass through.” His voice dried up under Arran’s intense, calculating stare.

  “So you are of great importance to them then. Vital even.”

  Rian felt dread loom as he heard the calculation in his brother’s tone. “It would not be just for them, Arran. I am sure that some of our people have been lost over time. This means I could guide them home. If I have this talent, surely it means I should use it to aid others.”

  The king swirled the wine in the cup, watching it without expression.

  “I have seen them, Arran. Seen the spirits over the years, felt their distress. I cannot just ignore the fact that I can now help. Please don’t ask me to let this go.” He let out a quavering breath. “I can help Valen. Send him to the other side.”

  Arran let out a chuckle, laying his head against the back of the chair, his dark eyes meeting Rian’s. “You think he would let you?
He has no desire to move on. He is powerful where he is, and he will not leave you. He has made that perfectly clear.”

  Rian wanted to protest, but in this, Arran probably knew far more about his twin than he himself did. “I can help others then, if not him. Please.”

  Arran watched him for a long, painfully drawn out moment. “If this brings Rashma power over the Zala, I will use it, Rian. The fact that they can fight so well and now know that we are not up to that standard, means that we must have a lever against them. You will be that lever. You will aid them only when I give permission and when I feel that the Zala have given enough in return.”

  Rian was speechless for a moment, before he gathered his courage once more.

  “The souls need me. Regardless of what race they belong to, they need help. There has been no soulseeker for far too long and there are so many lost. Please, in this, do not turn my aid into a bartering tool. At least let me help those who have been there longest.”

  Arran merely finished his wine.

  Rian clenched his fingers until his nails bit his palms but did not speak further. He knew all too well how excessive speech could drive Arran in an opposite direction.

  “I will think on this.” Arran rose abruptly from the chair, startling Rian into flinching back. The king stepped closer, took Rian’s chin in hand, and turned his face up so he had no choice but to meet his brother’s eyes. “Until my decision is made, do not think to do anything at all. If you do, I will know, and I will not be kind in my punishment. Is that clear?”

  Rian swallowed with difficulty, before managing a small nod despite the grip on his chin. “Yes, my king.”

  Arran nodded, released him, before turning to stride from the pavilion.

  Rian sat there, trembling, wondering whether his honesty had brought about any sort of good or had merely roused the beast within Arran.

  He needed rest, tomorrow he would need strength for the battle they faced, but sleep came hard and fitfully.

  * * *

  Rian rode with downcast eyes and dread hampering every breath.