He gave the spyglass back, nodding grimly.
“This is where we make our stand,” the duke said, raising his voice and addressing the troops. “The Agiennans think they can sneak up on us, like thieves in the night, and slaughter us in our sleep. Let them come, but they shall go no farther. We made the sea run red with their blood before, and by gods, we will again!”
Callan didn’t join in with the cheers that went up around him. Instead, he hung back as the main force divided, readying for a sort of a pincer maneuver that would effectively cut the attackers off from the nearby villages.
“My lord? What is our position?” Rema asked. Their short curly hair was plastered to their forehead, but the rain didn’t seem to otherwise bother them.
“Join the front line but keep an eye on the Camrians.” Callan glanced at the jumble of men and horses behind him. “Just…make sure Derek stays safe.”
Rema frowned. The way their eyebrows drew in consternation reminded Callan acutely of their mother, Priestess Nehewia, when she’d listen to Callan’s succinct wartime confessions before sighing and offering her succor and blessings. He’d stopped seeking the comfort of those conversations as he’d gotten older and more jaded with divine providence, but sometimes he missed her soothing words and guidance. In a way, she’d been a mother to him, too, after the Unnamed Goddess had claimed his own.
“What about you?”
“There’s something I have to do,” Callan said.
“Do you want me to accompany you?”
Callan nudged his horse closer and clasped Rema’s arm.
“No,” he said. “But thank you. I want you to know it has been an honor serving with you.”
Rema nodded, their dark eyes mirroring Callan’s own grim resolution.
“Likewise. Good luck, my lord.”
Callan dismounted and threw his reins to Rema before weaving his way toward the low sand dunes topped with swaying grasses. Wet sand crunched under his boots, and the rain trickled down under his collar. His cloak was already so soaked it offered little protection from the elements.
He could see something was wrong even before he got to the water’s edge. The storm raged above, but the sea was unnaturally calm, as if it were a warm summer’s night instead of the middle of autumn, the gentle waves urged forth by a strong, pleasant breeze.
The Agiennan witches’ magic was at work, which meant they were drawing close. He didn’t have much time.
Closing his eyes, Callan reached within, striving for the eerie, focused tranquility he’d previously only associated with priming for battle. The heightening of the senses shifted his perception, making his mind cling to the minute changes around him—the smell of salt so strong it tickled his nose, the distant neighing of the horses and the human voices, the fall of someone’s footsteps on the sand.
He spun around, hand on the hilt of his sword, and came face-to-face with his husband.
“Derek.” Callan made a step toward him but stopped, conscious of everything that lay between them. His chest expanded with something he was afraid to examine too closely but felt suspiciously like hope. “What are you doing here?”
“You really don’t know?” Derek said.
His face was a pale smudge in the darkness, framed by strands of soggy hair, and his eyes appeared almost black.
“I think I do,” Callan said, his voice barely more than a whisper. If he raised it just a fraction, it would crack. “But I’m afraid I’m wrong. Surely I can’t be that fortunate.”
“Fortunate?” Derek arched an eyebrow. “You’re about to single-handedly engage an enemy fleet. That’s hardly the definition of ‘fortunate.’ I’d say it’s downright unlucky.”
“Not single-handedly,” Callan pointed out.
Derek pursed his lips.
“No,” he agreed.
“Derek, I’m so sorry.” The bubble of calm that surrounded Callan threatened to burst at the onslaught of emotion, and, at the moment, he didn’t care if it did. “I was wrong to doubt you. Elsie brought proof of what’d happened. You were right all along, and I…I just couldn’t…”
“You couldn’t believe your father didn’t live up to your expectations of him,” Derek said quietly. “I can understand that.”
Callan took a deep breath. “Is it too late to ask for your forgiveness?”
Is it too late for us? he wanted to ask, but he was dreading the answer even more than the inevitable confrontation between the enemy forces and the feral power that flowed and ebbed deep within, still blissfully quiescent.
Derek closed the short distance and took Callan’s hand, the touch sending a wave of heat up his arm despite the clamminess of his skin.
“It’s not too late,” he said, looking up at Callan. Rain streamed down his cheeks in tiny rivulets like tears. Maybe some of it was tears; Callan certainly knew the moisture in his own eyes had nothing to do with the downpour.
A wry smile tugged at Derek’s lips as he pulled Callan closer. There was no doubt as to what was about to happen, but the touch of Derek’s lips against his still came as a shock, sending ripples through his awareness.
Abandoning any pretense at composure, he drew Derek into a fierce embrace, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. The kiss deepened, a hungry and desperate clashing of teeth and lips and tongues, and they were both drowning in it, locked together in their descent into the abyss that held everything still left unsaid—shame, regret, desire, faith.
“I’m sorry,” Callan gasped when they finally tore apart long enough to catch their breath. “I’ll never doubt you again, I swear.”
Derek rolled his eyes but didn’t hurry to break away.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he said, his tone deceptively light, in contrast to the tension that lurked in the corner of his mouth and in the rigid line of his jaw. “But I know you mean it. I just… I don’t want to have to leave you ever again.”
“I don’t want you to leave.” Callan ran a hand over Derek’s drenched hair and down his cheek, uselessly wiping away the wet streaks. “I love you. With all the heart I’ve got left.”
“I love you too.” Derek gripped his other hand, lacing their cold fingers together. “I’m here for whatever comes. Are you ready?”
Callan nodded. They started toward the beach, their hands still clasped. The rain lashed down hard, but with the high winds blowing far away, they were trapped in the eye of the storm, inside a cocoon of relative calm. Lightning struck somewhere above the sea where the storm still raged, illuminating the outlines of ornate bows and long hulls swaying with the motion of the waves.
“Damn, they’re close,” Derek said, not bothering to keep his voice down. “I hope we’re not too late.”
Callan didn’t answer. It was now or never. As the distant thunder rolled overhead, he closed his eyes and inhaled the crisp night air.
The pungent, sweet smell of the storm mixed with salt reminded him of that terrible night when he lost Idona, and everything changed. He could almost feel the dark water closing above his head, filling his nose and mouth, threatening him with a crushing embrace. Pain surged again, rising up from that deep place where he hid it from the world.
He wasn’t sure about this plan at all. But he owed it to Idona to make things right again for her family, as well as his own. And he’d sworn to Derek he wouldn’t doubt him again. He was damned if he was going to break his promise. He’d learned to trust Derek—with his life, his heart, and now with the lives of his people. And he had to keep his end of the bargain, taking strength from both his grief and his love.
Callan reached within, to that place where serenity warred with turmoil, while simultaneously casting his consciousness across sand, water, and sky. With wolves, he’d known exactly what he was looking for, but with people it was so much harder. He could sense the minds of every person around him, each a shining star of sentience and individuality, drawing his attention every which way. There were so many of them, all different but simil
ar at the same time. They didn’t share the group awareness in the same way a wolf pack did, and for a moment, Callan panicked, not knowing where to focus. How was he supposed to find the right people in this jumble of thoughts and emotions? He would sooner get lost in them, spread too thin with the effort, than pick out the ones who would hear him.
His connection to his own body was so tenuous he couldn’t readily perceive its reactions, but he must have swayed, because the person next to him gripped his hand harder, steadying him. The person—the man—was shining more brightly than any others, maybe because his mind was turned toward him. Callan easily read every emotion in that soul laid bare before him. He wanted nothing more than to bask in the bright warmth pulling him like a beacon, a lighthouse in a storm. But he couldn’t abandon his mission. For now, the man had to be his anchor, not his haven. Callan had to venture far, extend himself even more.
He reached out farther, and… There. The ones he’d been searching for were distant, almost dull compared to the mass of swirling light somewhere behind him, but he could still feel them clearly.
“Can you hear me?” he whispered, gently touching the tiny stars. They were silent, oblivious to his presence, but one or two stirred at his words. There was something different about them, too—a sort of aura he hadn’t noticed before. He zoomed in on them, focusing all his intent, groaning with the effort. His mind seemed about to snap, stretched as it was to its limits.
“Can you hear me?” he repeated, and this time, he felt them respond. It wasn’t in words, precisely, but their attention was certainly on him, wary and prickly hostile. The witches of Agienna; the people who used forbidden magic without a second thought. But there was something familiar about them, too, something instantly recognizable, just as it had been with the wolves. A sense of kinship.
“You know who I am. I’m here to right a wrong before it’s too late,” he told them.
He didn’t know which one of the tiny specs was Logitt. The prospect of falling under her scrutiny again filled him with uneasiness. But he didn’t want to hide anything anymore. He laid his mind bare before his enemies as proof, as a gesture of good faith. No more secrets, no more lies, no more grudges.
“If you care for the prosperity of Agienna more than you care for the destruction of Mulberny, you’ll listen to me,” he continued. “It is time to stop the bloodshed, the cycle of death. Let us find the balance that will bring us peace—together.”
There was a slight shift in their silence, a reluctant interest mixed with indignation, and Callan hurried to press on that interest before the effort of communicating prove too much for him to handle. Already, he was distantly aware of his hands shaking, his body breaking out in sweat despite the chilling wind. He wouldn’t last much longer under the strain.
“I’d offer you a new truce, but what I really want for us is a new way to coexist. One that is fair, one that would allow you to sail the seas freely yet ensure the safety of our coast. One that would unite us again as neighbors and brothers instead of tearing us apart. All I ask is for you to listen before you strike—and I swear I will listen too.”
The silence was so complete that for a second, he was sure they’d shut him out. But no—the witches were still there. Considering. Wavering.
“Please,” he whispered, but didn’t have the chance to add anything else. His consciousness was stretched to the limit, like a rope pulled too taut, and that rope finally snapped. Callan reeled with the unexpected force of the backlash, falling into blackness dotted with colorful lights dancing in front of his eyes. A wave of bile rose in his throat, and he crumpled to his knees onto the wet sand. His ears rang so loudly it took him a while to register the sounds of dry heaving, and longer to realize he was the one making them.
Slowly, his scattered mind came back into focus. The wind, stronger now, was blowing in his face, and someone was holding him, murmuring soothing words in his ear. No, not someone. Derek. He leaned instinctively into his embrace, the warmth of his body comforting even through layers of soaking-wet clothing.
“Are you with me?” Derek asked, a touched hesitantly.
It made Callan wonder what he’d looked like during the past few minutes.
“Yes.”
“Good.” Derek squeezed his shoulders a bit harder, and then let go, sitting back on his haunches on the sand. “Did it work? What did they say?”
“Nothing.” Callan took a deep breath, trying to cool his burning throat. “I didn’t have the chance to get their answer.”
“I guess we’ll know soon enough.” Derek helped Callan to his feet and drew him in for a quick, hard kiss, even though Callan’s lips probably still tasted like acid.
“You two have picked the worst possible time to go frolicking on a beach,” a dry voice called from somewhere atop the sand dunes.
They turned just as Duke Bergen walked down the gentle slope, followed by a dozen guards.
“Father,” Callan said, stepping forward. “What are you doing here?”
“Same as you. Meeting my enemies face-to-face.” The duke tossed his head impatiently. “Our forces are ready to flank them while we draw them in.”
“My lord!” One of the guards pointed toward the sea, and everyone turned their heads that way.
The dark curved shapes cut through the white foam, the sound of oars breaking the surface now distinct against the distant howling of the storm. With a low thud, the bow of the foremost ship hit the swash.
Moonlight briefly reflected off the blade of Bergen’s sword as he unsheathed it.
“The Unnamed is waiting. Let’s see who gets to meet her first.”
Chapter Nineteen
“NO, WAIT!”
Derek stepped in front of the duke and his men, raising his hands in a pacifying gesture as useless as it was desperate. Loud splashes behind him indicated the Agiennans were already on the move. Beside him, Callan wheeled to face them. Unlike his father, he didn’t reach for his sword, and Derek swallowed hard. Poised as they were, Callan and he were trapped between a rock and a hard place, with nowhere to retreat even if they wanted to.
“Please, just wait! Give them a chance to say their piece.”
“What are you talking about?” the duke asked irritably, but at least he halted, and so did the troop behind him. In the back row of their black-clad silhouettes, Derek saw Hamlin’s bulky figure and, beside him, Ivo and Macon’s pale faces.
Damn it. He’d given in to his brothers’ pleas to accompany him but had told them, in no uncertain terms, to stay back. They were going to have words—assuming they’d last the night.
“I talked to them.” Callan’s voice was clipped, and he was watching the dark shadows that amassed at the water’s edge rather than looking at his father. “I offered a truce. They’ve yet to give their answer.”
“You did what?” For a second Bergen was taken aback, the moon reflecting in his widened eyes. But he quickly regained his composure, his posture tensing as murmurs rose from the men around them. At the back, Ivo frowned, looking from Derek to Callan to Bergen, but Derek had no time to spare for his brother’s feelings at the moment.
“He did what he knew to be right,” Derek said, loudly enough to be heard above the startled whispers Callan’s declaration had caused, but he was addressing the duke alone. “Your son has stood by your side his whole life, never wavering, never questioning. Can’t you do the same for him just this once? Before you all go brandishing your swords and axes, stop for a second to hear what the other side has to say.”
“Well, we’re about to find out one way or another,” Callan said dryly.
Several torches flared below them, illuminating the crowd of Agiennan warriors. The ominous glare painted the wicked blades of their axes red, as if in anticipation of what was to come, but like the Mulbernians, they hung back instead of rushing into an attack. A few figures detached themselves from the throng and made their way toward their party.
“My lord—” one of the duke’s lieutenan
ts began, stepping forward, but surprisingly, Bergen silenced him with a wave of his hand.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” he inquired of his son.
“Not really.” Callan glanced at him briefly and then turned back toward the shore, squaring his shoulders. “But I’m going to do it anyway.”
The speculative murmurs hushed as the Agiennans approached and halted only a few yards away from where Callan and Derek were standing. The soldiers shifted uneasily at the sight of their sworn enemies coming so close to one of their commanders, but no one dared engage them without a direct order—which the duke had yet to issue, despite his earlier rancor. For a second, Derek let himself entertain the wild notion that the Agiennans were actually there to take Callan up on his offer and negotiate, until he saw who was heading the impromptu delegation.
One of the Islanders carried a torch, so their faces were clearly visible—and recognizable, despite the swirls of red and blue paint that decorated them. Aegir, flanked by his warriors, fixed his gaze on Callan, who met it steadily.
Derek suppressed an urge to stand closer to him. The air, already crackling with the storm’s energy, was heavy with a tension dangerously close to bursting into flames, and every unnecessary movement could ignite them. Instead, he focused on Aegir’s followers, most of whom had the look of older, seasoned fighters. The patterns on their gear and the plaiting of their hair differed widely enough for Derek to conclude these were the representatives of other clans, perhaps even the members of the council Aegir had mentioned during their captivity on Cirda. That, at least, would explain why they hadn’t been attacked yet. Unchecked, Aegir would be unlikely to exercise such restraint in the presence of the man he’d sworn to kill.
“We received the message,” one of the older clansmen said, his voice low and gruff. “Who delivered it?”
“This one.” Logitt pushed through the row of men and women around the chieftains. Her hair hung around her face in long wet strands, making her appear like an ancient heathen goddess wreathed in seaweed. She pointed at Callan, her eyes glinting eerily in the firelight. “The witch of Irthorg is coming into his own, it’d seem.”
The Wolf and the Sparrow Page 20