And yet… Derek couldn’t in good conscience leave now, when war was about to break, if it hadn’t already. He felt partially responsible for it having started, though he’d had no say in the matter. Callan had done everything he could to stop it, and Derek had been right there by his side. Despite their falling out, abandoning Callan now would feel like a betrayal.
He recalled Leandre’s anguished cry as she fell off her horse, Mathis’s gasps of pain, and the sticky warmth of his blood on his hands. So many other people were going to suffer, lose their lives and their livelihoods for no better reason than their rulers’ pride and obstinacy. If there was any chance of him stopping a war, he would take it—politics and heartbreak be damned.
Everyone raised their gazes from a map they’d been studying when he all but burst into the duke’s study. The room was brightly lit, both by the huge fireplace and a multitude of candles that dispersed the darkness now that the window was shuttered against the biting wind. It was a large space, but it felt crowded with all the people gathered around the table, including Bergen and Callan. Derek recognized Rema and Gella; the others must have been the duke’s own lieutenants. To his surprise, Lady Elsie was also there, her delicate hand resting on the edge of the map. A strange expression flickered in her eyes as she looked at him, but he had no time to focus on it.
“Derek.” Callan took a step toward him. “You’re still here.”
Derek’s heart did a flip. He’d tried so hard to reconcile himself to the idea that he wouldn’t see Callan again, or that if he did, Callan would treat him with cold scorn. Yet here he was, his breath catching at the sight of Callan’s effortless beauty as if for the first time. Like a precious gem, it couldn’t be marred by dirt, bruises, or despair, because the inner shine was always going to come through—as it did at this moment, with Callan’s eyes lighting up with relief and tentative hope.
“Yes,” Derek said.
“But—”
“You two may have your lovers’ quarrel after we’re done,” the duke interjected dryly, glancing at Derek with an unreadable expression. “He’s here, so he might as well be of use.”
Derek walked up to the group as Callan fell in beside him, close enough to feel the warmth of his body, but not touching. Despite his earlier determination, Derek was slightly shaken and unsure as to what he was supposed to do. The grim set of the faces of the seasoned warriors around him reminded him too acutely of his own youth and inexperience. Perhaps he’d been deluding himself as to his ability to make any sort of difference. Why do you think you can succeed where so many have failed before you? a voice that sounded suspiciously like his father’s whispered in his mind. What could he possibly contribute? And if he did, why would anyone listen to him at all?
He swallowed against the slimy bitterness in his throat, self-doubt less an option now than self-pity.
“How many ships?” he asked Callan in a low voice, focusing on the map of Mulberny’s rugged shoreline instead of looking at him. This tension between them was a living, breathing thing, coiled like a poisonous snake ready to bite, but there was no addressing it in their current situation.
“About a dozen or so, fast approaching,” Callan replied. “We’ve dispatched scouts up and down the coast in case there’ll be more landings.”
A strong gust rattled the window shutter, and Derek nearly jumped at the noise.
“How can they even set sail in this weather?” he wondered. “Aren’t they running the risk of crashing ashore?”
“They use their magic to navigate troubled waters when they can,” Callan said. “Considering the scope of this attack, I’d say they have several witches with them.”
Witches. Magic. The words resonated deep inside him, triggering a reaction Derek didn’t fully understand. It was like a half-coalesced thought slipping away from his grasp the harder he tried to pin it down.
He was still mulling it over as Bergen dictated dispatches—to Bryluen, Venara, and Shylor, where most of the Mulbernian troops were currently stationed after the Battle of Laurel Falls—to be sent out immediately to call on reinforcements and to man the outer defenses. Despite his resentment toward the man who’d almost sacrificed him on the altar of his formidable will, Derek couldn’t help but admire the duke’s efficiency. He was clearly in his element, single-handedly coordinating a military campaign with an authority that suffered no opposition.
On the other hand, Callan was uncharacteristically reserved, offering little to no input. He blended into the background, listening intently but without comment, his expression that of grim resignation bordering on defeat. Derek stomped down the ridiculous temptation to move closer to comfort him.
“We are being forced into a defensive position, which puts us at a disadvantage,” Bergen said, addressing the other soldiers. Some of them, including Lady Elsie, nodded in agreement. “But we must turn the tide on this. Aegir is launching this attack as a preemptive strike against our potential initiative; even if the Council of the Chieftains is backing him, which I doubt, he hasn’t had time to properly prepare for it. He’s counting on a swift victory, but we shall not be caught unawares. If we want to gain the upper hand, we should settle for nothing less than a complete annihilation of his forces.”
“Can’t it be avoided, though?” Derek asked. He flushed as all eyes turned to him, regarding him with various degrees of disparagement, but made himself push through. “Clearly, it was an ill-advised decision. Aegir is driven by grief over his daughter and anger at the man whom he believes to be responsible for her death having slipped through his fingers. But surely, others in his camp must realize this is verging on suicide. If they could be reasoned with—”
“Even if they were inclined to talk, there’s no chance of arranging a parley, is there?” one of the duke’s older lieutenants, Xarin, said. “It’s too dangerous to send out a ship or a boat in such weather, even if we were to disregard the risk of them sinking it. And once they reach the shore, there will be no talking, I assure you.”
Derek felt Callan’s gaze on him, heavy and scalding, but he refused to meet his eyes to find out the intent behind it.
“The time for negotiations is over,” the duke said firmly before Derek could counter, cutting off all further debate on the matter. “We will meet them here.” He tapped on a point on the map just south of Irthorg, and everyone tore their gaze away from Derek, both to his disappointment and relief. “Where the beach allows for easier landing. Every minute is of the essence. We ride in half an hour. Dismissed.”
Derek stepped out of the way as people piled out of the study in a hurry to see to their respective duties, watching them helplessly with mounting frustration. It seemed no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t do anything right. He knew all too well that when men were raring for a fight, words of prudence carried little impact. It was too late, unless—
“Come.” Callan’s hand was like hot iron, burning his skin through his clothes. He jerked at the touch but let his husband lead him away from the duke’s study into a small drawing room nearby. The fire in the hearth was too feeble to either warm or illuminate the space properly, so everything was half-shrouded in shadows. Callan’s tall frame seemed to blend in with them as he leaned against the door, out of the reach of light.
“Listen, Derek, before I go, I should tell you—”
“There’s no time.” Derek cut him off in part because he was afraid to hear what Callan had to say and in part because he couldn’t waste precious moments on rehashing a conversation that’d make them both miserable. “We need to stop this war from happening.”
“I don’t think we have any choice in the matter.”
“But what if we did? If there was a way to stop the bloodshed before it began, would you take it?”
“Of course,” Callan said without hesitation. “Of course I would. Gods, Derek. You know I’ve never wanted this to happen. My father thinks force is the only language the Agiennans understand, that this is the only way to deal with t
he Danulf once and for all. Perhaps he’s right, but in my heart, I don’t believe it.”
The desperate urgency in his voice pierced right through Derek’s soul. Somehow, over the course of the last few weeks, Callan had become not only his lover, but his closest friend, the one he could confide in, the one he could comfort when things got rough, and it all being taken away from him hurt more than he ever thought possible. Derek yearned to reach out to him, to take his hand and kiss him and promise him it would be all right.
And how silly was that? Callan was the one who’d made it clear Derek was little more than a burden he’d come to tolerate. Surely any such displays of affection would be unwelcome. Callan needed Derek’s comfort as little as he needed Derek himself.
He bit his lip and remained in his place, the distance between them a physical ache.
“I want to protect my people,” Callan continued, visibly getting a hold of himself and striving for calm. “I will fight for them as I’ve always done. But having to fight now, after both sides paid such a high price for peace, is a failure whether we win or not. If there’s a way to avoid another war…yeah, I’d take it.”
Derek drew a deep breath. That was what he was hoping to hear, but he knew what he was about to propose might elicit a whole different reaction.
“In that case, I may have a solution. I’m not sure if it’s going to work—and I’m rather certain you’re not going to like it. But we might not have another option.”
Callan pursed his lips. “Go on.”
“You said there are witches aboard these ships using magic. Well, we have magic at our disposal too.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Callan said, his tone instantly becoming wooden.
“Yes, you do,” Derek insisted.
“I doubt I can call upon the wolves to attack the Agiennan longships,” Callan said caustically, dropping his voice as if he was afraid someone was going to burst in and accuse him of witchcraft at the mere mention of it.
“No. But your abilities aren’t limited to the wolves alone, are they? Remember what Logitt said about mindbending. The magic runs in the blood, taking different forms, different talents.”
The Agiennan witches used it to tame the waves and sharpen weapons and see through birds’ eyes while Callan, like his ancestors, communicated with wild animals. But these were all facets of the same ancient magic, as old as the Outer Isles themselves. Magic wove through the generations, even when people spread across the sea and made other lands their home.
“I don’t understand,” Callan said with a touch of exasperation. The shadows hid his face completely, and Derek found it easier to talk when he couldn’t see the hard gleam in his eyes.
“You could connect to the other witches’ minds the same way you can connect to the wolves. Make them speak to us. Make them see.”
Callan recoiled as if Derek had struck him.
“I can’t,” he said, his voice hollow.
“You can. You just don’t want to.”
It was harsh, and perhaps it was unfair—if “fair” was a consideration in their current crisis. It hurt Derek to say it because Callan must have been hurt by it, and as angry and grief-stricken as he was over their breakup, he didn’t wish to cause Callan pain. But it was the truth, and he could think of no other way to drive the point home before it was too late.
“You don’t know what you’re asking of me,” Callan said after a long pause.
“I do know.”
“No. You heard all the rumors when you arrived here for the wedding. People saying that I’m a murderer, that I’m cursed. Well, I’m not cursed. I am the curse.”
Callan bit his lip and averted his eyes. His expression was so vulnerable that Derek involuntarily held his breath so as not to shatter it.
“I’m the reason people around me get hurt,” Callan continued. “Maybe it’s some kind of punishment for my gift, and if I dare use it again—”
“No.” Derek stepped up to Callan and took his hand, realizing with a sort of jolt how comfortably familiar his touch had become in so short a time. “Listen to me, please. None of the tragedies that have befallen you are your fault. I know you’re afraid that the magic will drive you mad. I know you’re so afraid of exposure you’d rather people believe you a murderer than a witch. But I also know you. You’re brave enough to face those fears if it means stopping more innocent people from being killed.”
Callan took a step forward, and the light of the fire reflected in his eyes, the irises so wide they appeared completely black.
“Why do you care? This isn’t your fight. You were ready to leave not an hour ago.”
Derek bit his lip. It was a good question. Why should he care, really, for the fate of a fiefdom that had been so hostile to his own, whose ruler was hard set on having him killed for the sake of his own political stratagems? Why should he care for the clans of the Outer Isles, who’d shown him nothing but violence and hatred? They could very well fight it out among themselves, as they’d been doing for generations.
But during his short stay in Mulberny, Derek had grown attached to its people in a way he hadn’t thought possible. He was their ruler and their champion by marriage only, and a spurious marriage at that, but the tenuousness of his authority didn’t make him any less responsible for their safety. He remembered his own prideful promise to Callan, that he wasn’t the sort to let his spouse shoulder all the burden, and realized he was going to hold himself to his promise.
“Sometimes we leave because we care too much to stay,” Derek said quietly. “And yes, I was going to leave. But I’m here now, prepared to do whatever it takes. Are you?”
Callan’s lips hardened into a grim line.
“All right. Let’s do this.”
Chapter Eighteen
THE COURTYARD WAS in a frenzy, with restless horses, shouting men, and running servants. Heavy rain slicked the cobblestones, and the smell of wet leather hung in the air.
About one hundred and fifty people were ready to ride out to meet the Agiennan fleet. It wasn’t a large contingent, but the duke wouldn’t leave the castle and city unattended, and he counted on reinforcements from the country estates joining them along the way.
Callan’s troop was gathered closest to the gate, with the duke’s personal guard beside them. Farther down, Callan glimpsed the Camrian soldiers under Hamlin’s command in a tight circle around Derek and the two young lordlings. He’d have preferred they stay behind, but Derek apparently had no qualms about bringing the boys into battle.
Callan shook his head. Derek seemed awfully sure his plan would work, but Callan wasn’t quite as certain. No plan, no matter how skillfully and well laid, had ever survived the clash with reality. So many things could go wrong, especially when their desperate scheme hinged on something as volatile as magic.
Magic. He still couldn’t believe he was seriously considering calling on it, but when Derek pleaded with him, his eyes dark with emotion, Callan knew he couldn’t refuse him. He couldn’t refuse Derek anything.
He still hadn’t had the chance to apologize to him, and there might be no other opportunity for him to do so. But hope was a weed that thrived on the most barren soil, and Callan still clung to it, weak as it might be.
Duke Bergen, sitting ramrod straight in the saddle, nudged his horse toward the gate, and Callan signaled his troop to make way and then follow him. He’d barely exchanged a few words with his father after their conversation on the battlements. There was still a lot more left to say, but all fateful decisions and resolutions would have to wait for later along with everything else.
The streets were all but deserted as they rode through the city. The people had been instructed to stay indoors and bar their doors and windows as a precaution. In an emergency, if the city walls were breached, the castle could provide refuge for those in need, but that hadn’t happened in the last hundred years or so, not even during the last war. Callan hoped it wouldn’t be needed again.
Once they we
re out of the narrow streets and past the main gate, the company picked up speed. The wide band of the south road hugged the rocky beaches, so close to the edge of the water the sound of the waves mixed with the rush of the heavy rain all around them. The storm lay on the sea like a thick blanket, shrouding the waters in almost complete darkness. Spotting ships at a distance would be all but impossible in these conditions, even if they’d guessed the chosen landing site correctly.
Nonetheless, the troop kept a steady pace as the ground became more level and the shoreline curved into a sort of a wide bay. It was too shallow to serve as a natural harbor for tall ships, but several fishing villages clustered along the stretch of beach, some boisterous enough to have grown into small towns, with newly built roads connecting them to large settlements farther inland boosting local trade. Their lights flickered in the distance like tiny swarms of fireflies huddling together in the darkness.
An outpost lay at the far south end of the bay, complete with its own quay, but it was too far away still to be seen from their current location. A messenger had been dispatched there earlier, so the garrison would soon be on high alert and joining them.
A cry went up at the lead, and gradually the entire troop came to a halt. Followed by Rema, Callan spurred his horse, rushing to join his father at the head of the column. The duke’s guards gathered around him were little more than shadows, their black cloaks and the dark coats of their specially chosen horses making them all but invisible if not for the occasional glint of moonlight on polished armor.
“What is it?”
Bergen thrust a spyglass into Callan’s hand.
“See for yourself. They’re here.”
Callan lifted the device and looked out over the waves. The rain obscured his vision, but finally he saw it—the regular shapes that were slightly darker than the background, moving toward them. Sails.
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