He bit his lips to stop from calling out Callan’s name, and hunkered further in the shadow of the wall. But there was no one around, not even a single guard. Callan was alive, his chest rising and falling steadily. It wasn’t too late to save him.
After assessing the path was clear, Derek hurried toward the pillory, keeping low. The boards were held together by a metal pin through two metal loops—not an intricate lock, but one the prisoner had no hopes of reaching with his hands sticking out alongside his head. When Derek tried to pull it out, however, it wouldn’t budge. It had probably been hammered in place with a mallet rather than pushed in by hand.
Callan lifted his head slowly, roused by the noise.
“Derek?” he whispered. His eyes widened in alarm, but the corners of his mouth tugged in a smile, so incongruous in his dirt-smeared face. “How?”
“I’ll tell you later.” Derek wrinkled his nose. “What’s that smell?”
“Piss,” Callan said succinctly.
A wave of anger rose in Derek as he guessed not all of it was likely Callan’s. Irrational, seeing as the main point of a pillory was public humiliation. But he couldn’t reconcile himself to the thought that Callan, always so poised and dignified, had been forced to endure it.
“They tortured you?”
“Not really.”
He had been beaten, though; ugly bruises were starting to form on his face and arms. Considering Callan’s state, Derek dearly hoped he’d never have to see what the aftermath of “real torture” looked like. At least he didn’t appear to have been flogged.
“Damn it, it’s too tight.” Derek huffed in frustration as his nails scraped against the rusty metal when he tried pulling on the pinhead.
Raised voices came from behind the main hall, the fire having no doubt been discovered. Derek had to do something fast, before someone came running through the yard and caught them in the act. “Damn it!”
“What’s happening?”
“There’s a fire in the prison.”
Giving up on attempting to pull the pin out, Derek grabbed a stone from around the fire pit and hit the underside of the pin, forcing it upward through the loop.
“You set the prison on fire?” Callan asked incredulously.
Derek risked a quick look at the strange expression on Callan’s face, suspended between bewilderment and admiration. It made something hidden and repressed in Derek’s soul unfurl.
He averted his eyes, concentrating on the task at hand before he was driven to distraction. In any case, it wasn’t as if he could take full credit for Logitt’s unexpected assistance or the guard’s lack of vigilance.
The commotion was growing larger, and with it the danger of discovery. And still the damn pin was stuck in the loops. Derek hit it with everything he had, giving up on keeping it quiet. With all the racket coming from the backyard, it hardly mattered.
Callan’s hands flexed in the pillory holes, curling into fists.
“Leave it. They’ll be here any second. You have to get away.”
Derek didn’t deign to respond. Instead, he dropped the stone and pulled at the now protruding top end of the pin, grunting with the effort and scratching his fingertips raw against the rough metal. He staggered backward when it came loose and hurried to fling back the upper board that pressed down on Callan’s neck.
Finally free, Callan stepped back with a moan, raising his head and flexing his back. Derek could practically hear his cramped muscles unlocking, but he had no time to ogle his husband’s powerful frame. He took Callan’s hand, and they ran together past the stockade into the dark woods.
Chapter Twelve
CIRDA WAS AN island. There was nowhere to go save for the thick forest that covered the higher northern area, in the opposite direction from where the longships and boats were moored. At some point they’d have to double back, most likely running into the search party hot on their heels, but it wasn’t as if they’d had a chance to think their plan through.
They were running hard, hands still clasped, stones and twigs biting into their bare feet. Derek’s labored breathing, interrupted with curses as he stumbled and nearly fell, filled the air. Callan’s vision adjusted easily to the darkness, always had. He didn’t want to dwell on the reason, but at the moment, it was a blessing rather than a cause for concern. He pulled Derek along, choosing the easiest path in the undergrowth over mossy stones and wet earth as the ground gradually sloped upward. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest, but he didn’t let himself slow down until they were far enough from any signs of habitation. By now, the Danulf must have found both their prisoners gone. They would see that no boats were missing from the harbor, and the next step would be hunting them down. As big as the island was, Callan doubted he and Derek could outrun the hounds.
“Stop,” Derek panted, and Callan halted. Tall pines loomed around them like the pillars of some mysterious chamber, silent and ominous. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled, a lonely, desolate sound in near complete silence. It was so quiet Callan was sure the frantic beating of their hearts must echo through the woods, betraying their whereabouts as surely as their scent.
Without saying another word, Derek tugged on his hand, drawing him closer into an unexpected embrace. Callan hesitated for only a heartbeat before closing his arms around him, squeezing so hard it was bound to hurt, but Derek didn’t pull away. Instead, he buried his face against Callan’s shoulder and shuddered as a sob tore out of him.
Callan closed his eyes, reveling in the feel of Derek’s hair against his cheek, the sensation of stubble rubbing against the skin of his neck in time with Derek’s ragged breathing. They were both filthy, stinking like something dragged out of a refuse pit, but neither of them cared.
He didn’t know how long they stood there, holding on to each other on the boundary between shade and moonlight. Finally Derek stepped back, looking up at him, his eyes slightly puffy, but didn’t let go entirely, his hands lingering on Callan’s upper arms.
“What now?” he whispered.
Callan took a deep breath. Derek had done his part, and now it was up to him to come through if they had any hope of getting off this island alive. He had to put aside the unpleasant memories of being pilloried and the guilt and grief over the death of his dearest friend, and focus on what lay ahead. Derek was with him, unharmed and well, and that was all that mattered. Callan had been perfectly willing to accept whatever punishment Aegir would mete out, but Derek’s determination to rescue him fueled his own resistance to this fate.
“We can’t hole up and wait for the storm to pass,” he said. “They’ll tear Cirda apart searching for us. We must leave, and the harbor is the only way out.”
“Wouldn’t they be guarding the boats, though?” Derek frowned. “Even the fishing sloops. It’ll be nigh impossible to steal one if they’d be expecting us to do so.”
“We must get to one, but not to steal it,” Callan said. “If we cut it loose, it’ll create a distraction that’d shift their attention elsewhere while we get onto one of the larger ships and hide in the cargo hold.”
“Like stowaways?”
Callan nodded. “These ships are not exactly spacious, and we’d be at a high risk of exposure. But I don’t see any other way. We’d stand a much better chance of slipping by unnoticed at any other port but here.”
“All right.” Derek finally released him, and then looked around, as if taking in their surroundings for the first time. “How do we get back from here?”
He seemed to have taken Callan’s plan in a stride, despite how shaky it was. Callan wasn’t sure he deserved the vote of confidence, but he was grateful for Derek’s willingness to go along with his proposal.
Had Callan really thought him timid and spiritless? He should fall on his knees, thanking every deity he could think of for bringing Derek into his life. He’d believed no one could compare to Idona, and Derek was so different than her. But they shared all the truly important things—courage, intelligence, ki
ndness. Callan had never wanted to marry Derek, but as it turned out, he couldn’t have wished for a finer man as his husband.
Maybe, just maybe, he could hope to get to know him even better, both as his friend and his proper spouse. And all he had to do was keep him alive. Keep them both alive.
Callan knew Cirda Island well enough, but the majority of that knowledge was theoretical. He hadn’t spent nearly enough time in these woods to be certain they wouldn’t end up lost. But there was no other choice but to pick a direction that would take them to the harbor while keeping them safely away from the main village and the surrounding homesteads, closer to the island’s eastern shore.
“Gods, I’m so thirsty,” Derek muttered when they started out at a much slower pace than before. “Should’ve drunk some of that water before spilling it.”
Callan smiled despite himself, ducking under a branch. This was the first time Derek had complained about anything in his hearing, and he was unexpectedly touched by the small show of trust.
“I’m thirsty too,” he confessed. “And I’d kill for a bath.”
“No kidding,” Derek said, following closely on his heels. He was groping blindly in the thicket, struggling to keep up. “Next time we’re captured by formidable clansmen with a personal grudge against you, could you at least choose the ones who might not take you for a chamber pot?”
“I’ll be sure to do that,” Callan said, matching the mock gravity of his tone and swatting low hanging branches out of his way.
Soon, however, the terrain became too rugged for divided attention, and they fell silent as they trudged through the blanket of fallen pine needles. The trees grew sparser as they climbed steadily uphill, and the stars peeked from behind the branches, dispassionately following their path.
After about an hour they stopped to rest and assess their progress at a stony outcrop. The island was spread before them, the thick forest a slightly different shade of black than the sea that surrounded it, most of its vast expanse lying behind them to the north. To the southwest lay the main village where fires had sprung up despite the late (or rather early) hour. The curved line of the natural harbor was invisible from this vantage point. The more distant farms and smaller hamlets, connected to the larger settlement by a network of narrow roads that cut through the woodland and whatever pastures the island had to offer, were still asleep, oblivious to the prisoners’ arrival and their unlikely escape. To the east, far beyond the calm sea, the edge of the sky was suffused with the pale gray light of predawn.
They’d have to climb down again, but at least now Callan had a clear idea of the direction—going by the side of the eastern cliffs would take them to the harbor without risking coming too close to the village, even though it would be quite a detour. Considering the state they were in, it’d take them much longer to cover the stretch of ground, and the danger of discovery was growing by the minute, but there was hardly any choice.
After a short while, they came upon a tiny stream, half-hidden amid tree roots and foliage. The water was a little muddy, but they drank anyway before continuing on.
“Cirda is actually one of the isles closest to the coast of Mulberny. Most of Agienna lies farther north and to the west,” Callan said, mainly to distract himself from his bleeding feet.
“I’ve never traveled by sea before,” Derek said. “The farthest I’ve been from home was when my father took me to Oifel for the High Queen’s vicennial reign celebration.” He hesitated a fraction before adding: “That’s where I first saw you, actually. I remember you arriving at the welcome banquet with the duke.”
“Really?” Callan frowned. “The celebration was five years ago.”
“I don’t know if anyone has ever told you, but you’re somewhat hard to forget.”
Callan snorted, but he was weirdly pleased by the compliment. There were quite a number of people who’ve had a hard time forgetting him and letting go of their grudges, but he knew that wasn’t what Derek meant.
He wracked his brain trying to think back on that long-ago visit to Oifel. Adele had been too young to go and be introduced to the court properly, so it’d been only him and his father at the Queen’s celebration. Derek couldn’t have been much older than she was now. But Callan couldn’t remember him at all. He didn’t even recall seeing the late Count Johan there—not that he’d been socializing much with the other courtiers. It’d been a fraught time, with the war with Agienna still raging, and their stay at the capital barely extended beyond paying their respects to the Queen.
If he’d only been paying attention then, his life could’ve been different. If he’d met Derek then—but no. Back then he would’ve been too dismissive of the shy youth Derek must have been, just like he’d been dismissive of the man when he’d first met him. They both would’ve been too young to see beyond the superficial, and now…now it might be too late for them to explore the opportunity. Perhaps it’d been too late for them even before they’d been brought to this gods-forsaken island.
“What’s that?” Derek said, stopping.
Callan shook off the extraneous regrets and halted as well, listening to the rustles of the forest around them. Now he could hear it too—the far-off sound of barking.
“Fuck,” he muttered. They were being hunted, and if they could hear the dogs, that meant pursuit was already too close on their heels. “Run!”
“Running” was probably too grand a name for their renewed mad dash through the trees, stumbling and falling and pulling each other up again. They were tired, bruised, and desperate, and there was no place to hide. The barking was getting closer, enough for Callan to discern shouts and raised voices behind the dogs.
Just half a step behind him, Derek stumbled over a thick root and fell, sprawling awkwardly. He grunted and rolled onto his back, drawing his leg up.
“Damn it!”
“Come on, get up,” Callan said, grabbing his hand, but Derek shook his head, his face shrouded in deep shadow.
“No, don’t. I think I sprained my ankle. I’ll slow you down.”
Callan would’ve been offended at the suggestion if they’d any time at all to spend on hurt feelings, but as things stood, he could only bodily lift Derek up and drag him along, supporting his weight as much as he could without actually carrying him. Cursing under his breath, the other man limped beside him, slinging his arm around Callan’s naked shoulders as they struggled to keep going. Derek’s heart hammered against his straining rib cage like a frightened bird, echoing Callan’s own.
A wolf howled somewhere close by, in either a warning or a taunt to the hounds. Derek stopped so abruptly Callan missed his step, sending them both nearly tumbling again.
“Did you hear that?”
“I think the wolves are the least of our problems right now.”
“No, listen.” Derek gripped his hand, as if afraid Callan might recoil. “The elder, Logitt. She told me about your ancestors, that they were witches, mindbenders, whatever that meant. She said they used to run with the wolves, and the bond was still there. Maybe you could…reach out to them.”
For a second, Callan thought someone must have struck him without him noticing, because all the air seemed to have been knocked out of his lungs, leaving him unable to breathe.
“There’s no bond,” he somehow managed to push out. “That’s an old wives’ tale, nothing more.”
“You’ve done it before!” Derek said. “There’s a wolf’s head on your coat of arms, for gods’ sake!”
“Lots of nobles have animals as their sigils! It doesn’t signify anything! Yours is a sparrow—does it mean you can fly away?”
“You were with me that night when I came upon the white wolf in the woods. You talked to it!”
“I did not ‘talk’ to it!”
“Well, you did something! And if you could ask it to stand down, or whatever it was you did, you could ask the wolves to help us throw off the hunters,” Derek said, his voice stern and pleading at the same time. “You could—”
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“No.”
Couldn’t Derek bloody see what it was he was asking of him? Consorting with wild animals, using the dark magic of his feral ancestors that not even his father and his grandmother, the previous duchess, had openly acknowledged to him—it was a sure path to the madness of witchcraft. Every book he’d ever read on the subject warned against its inevitability. Even now he could feel the dark magic’s tantalizing pull, the allure he’d resisted, consciously or not, his entire life. If he gave in to it, would he emerge as himself again, or would he succumb to the frenzy completely, becoming no more than a beast in human form?
Derek’s grip on his hand tightened. There wasn’t enough light yet to clearly distinguish the expression in his eyes, but the smell of his fear and frustration was palpable. The sounds of pursuit drew closer, the excitement of the hounds and the crash of human bodies through the thicket ripping through the night.
“If you are a witch, so what? I know you, Callan. You’re far too decent to abuse your power. Whatever…potential, ability—call it what you will—that you have, it’s a blessing, not a curse. What matters is how you use it.”
Callan drew a shaky breath. Derek’s eyes were nothing more than gleams in the darkness, but there was no guile in his voice.
“I trust you,” Derek said, and those three little words, more precious and meaningful than any others, hit Callan like a battering ram, shattering all his carefully erected defenses.
His skin burned where Derek touched him, the awareness of his warmth seeping into muscle and sinew. It coursed through his blood, filling him with such buoyancy he felt like he could fly, while rooting him to the ground, anchoring him in the here and now rather than letting him roam the darkest recesses of his mind untethered. He closed his eyes, surrendering, welcoming the state of utter calm that had always been his companion in battle.
The world shifted. His pulse thrummed along with that of every living creature around him, the scent of their passage through the underbrush sharp in his nostrils. The eagerness of the dogs and the anger of the humans who ran behind them rippled through him, his heart speeding with the urge to flee, to hide from the coldness of their steel weapons, deadly and utterly foreign in these woods that teemed with life.
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