The cat was racing for them like an arrow. Had either of them had a bow on them, one well-placed shot, and the cat would be down, but with their blades as the only weapons, the cat came dangerously close, its eyes not on the Fae but, as Gandrett realized to her horror, on her.
Her hands were steady as she assessed the movements, the weak spots in the cat’s anatomy, its throat, its neck, the soft part on the back part of its abdomen…
She was still sizing up the death on paws as the cat leaped, and as it catapulted itself toward her, it slammed into an invisible wall and dropped to the ground where it remained motionless. She gaped, her mind lagging behind what her eyes beheld. “How—?”
With a flick of his hand, Nehelon indicated it had been him.
“Magic,” was all Gandrett was able to say. He had done it with his magic. An invisible shield.
And then, shame came over her. While she had been calculating the odds that the desert lion may rid her of her new master, he had actually saved her life. She should be thanking him, but her mouth remained immobile and didn’t comment when Nehelon slipped off his horse and strolled to the unconscious cat with the comment, “As I spent my savings on you,” wearing a twisted grin and a shrug, “their furs pay well,” and drove his sword into the animal’s chest then skinned it.
Nehelon could taste the horror and disgust in the air between them. Good. If only for a second, he’d seen it there in her face, the hope the lion would go for him and end him. And she would have let him bleed out and made a run for it. He checked her expression as he rolled up the desert lion skin and tied it to his saddle, her features slowly returning to the schooled indifference she wore most of the time.
He could still hear it. The thrumming of her heart as it raced in her chest. She had trained with swords and fought people, but had she truly ever been exposed to the threat of a wild cat-like the ones living in those ruins? Had she ever killed? From the look on her face, she didn’t have that type of blood on her hands. Her fighting so far had been all in training, sparring; not the real thing. Though, even when she had found him climbing the wall, he hadn’t doubted for a second that she was capable of driving that blade through his chest or slitting his throat. The Meister had been right. And if she were to assist him in his mission, he would need both sides of her—the virtuous vessel to Vala as much as the ruthless fighter who was ready to let a powerful opponent bleed out.
Without another look at the carcass lying in a puddle of blood, he mounted his horse, and once more, they set in motion.
The sun was slowly disappearing, and no other threats were within hearing distance as they were almost out of the desert. Almost. Before them, right where they passed between the two towers of Ithrylan, a seam of spring grass spread to the north as if someone had drawn an arbitrary line in the dirt, forbidding the grass to grow beyond it.
Beside him, Gandrett gasped at the sight, forgetting her self-chosen muteness, and commented, “The Meister told us about it, but I never believed…”
“Never believed it was true?” Nehelon finished for her and found her head bobbing from side to side in a definite no.
“Never believed it was possible,” she corrected.
Her incredulous look almost let him forget the blood on his hands and leathers, but as he glanced down at the cushion of greenery, he caught a glimpse of his crimson fingers and decided that as soon as they got out of Ithrylan, he would find a place to wash up and let the horses have some well-deserved grass.
“I heard the legends as a child that the Calma Desert was not a natural desert but one caused by a war… some magic gone wrong…” She chose her words carefully. “And then, the Meister kept speaking about Vala’s circle of safety for the children. A ring of barren land to keep out any danger for her sacred vessels. I didn’t see it on the way to Everrun all those years ago…”
He could tell by the way her nose crinkled that she hated it, the thought of having been sacrificed, of being a vessel, of belonging to anyone. It was there in her eyes, the secret yearning for freedom, the years and years of discipline and order. And that despite the clear title she held, an acolyte of the Order of Vala, a fighter, she was so much more—and she didn’t even know it.
Chapter Ten
Gandrett couldn’t remember what a village looked like, so she set one shaky step after the other, guided by Nehelon, whose broad shoulders hid what lay ahead of her. But what lay around her, what she could see…
What she could smell…
And taste in the air…
And the sounds, so new and yet an echo of a long-lost life…
“Let me do the talking,” Nehelon ordered over his shoulder, and for once, she was grateful for his demand. For Gandrett was in no shape for talking, wouldn’t even know what to say, what anyone would expect of her—
The wooden buildings of Elste reminded Gandrett of the outskirts of Eedwood. She had been there once—the day of her consecration—before they had handed her off to the Order of Vala. And the people, even if darker in skin tone than in Alencourt where she had grown up, spoke the same language, a dialect she had difficulties deciphering at first, but it was her language. The tongue of the north.
She absorbed every word she could overhear as they approached the center of the town, their horses already taken care of in the stables close by, and took in the colorful attire of the townsfolk. Despite the late hour, most people seemed to be out on the streets where music was streaming from the open windows along with the smell of roasted vegetables and freshly-baked bread fanning in the light breeze. Even with night fallen upon the town, the air remained a lovely temperature compared to the rough cold of the desert nights. Gandrett smiled, her nervousness only second to her anticipation of warm food, a bath, and a soft bed to sleep in.
The dark wooden tavern door groaned as Nehelon pushed it open. He almost entirely filled the doorframe with his height, his muscled arms and broad back, his hands casually dangling near his sword and knife, always prepared, even if a flick of his fingers would probably be enough to make the building collapse. Gandrett followed suit as the Fae male stepped inside and walked up to a blackened bar where a middle-aged woman with a low-cut blouse was cleaning glasses.
“Sit there,” Nehelon hissed at Gandrett and nodded at a small, crooked table near the kitchen entrance, “and wait for me.”
Gandrett did as she was told, her eyes assessing the rest of the room. People were eating and drinking, all of them dressed in something better than usual travel clothes.
As she relaxed her back in her chair, her hand resting on her hip just above the hilt of her sword, which Nehelon to her surprise hadn’t demanded back, she felt eyes on her and scanned the room.
She was familiar with the feeling of being stared at; for the simple reason that she was the best fighter in the Order of Vala—the Meister had told her that even with all the fighters on missions, she remained the best. Not that it had earned her any privileges; just envy. People can be cruel when they envy someone. So, when she noted the men’s gazes on her, sizing her up from the table next to hers, studying her from head to toe, Gandrett turned her focus right at them, a challenging flicker in her eyes, and said, “Never seen one of us around here, have you?” She noticed how they eyed her linen uniform, giving away where she had come from as much as a coat of armor would.
“Never seen one as pretty as you, for sure,” the shortest of them said, his eyes watery from too much ale and his words drawn out to a lull.
Gandrett knew then that it might have been better to remain quiet, for the men all grinned at her widely, some with less yellow teeth than the others, but there was something in their gaze that told her she wouldn’t make it out of there in one piece—not if it was up to them. And raising attention might not be what Nehelon intended. So Gandrett stared down the men—no fear on her face—and waited.
That was when Nehelon stepped between the two tables, closer to her side and towering over the men, and said with a grin. “You should be
honored to have a Child of Vala in your midst at the Fest of Blossoms.
The men shrank at his mere size.
With a casual gesture, Nehelon pulled out the chair at the head of the table and settled down between Gandrett and the men, blocking her from view. His eyes remained on the men, for once freezing someone else with their diamond-cold.
Gandrett hid her smugness. For one, because she knew that she could have taken on the men, especially when they were drunk, but observing the world shrink at Nehelon’s obvious power? How could she not have noted the instant she’d found him climbing that wall? Maybe he had purposely hidden it, like the glamour that made his features look less… she couldn’t even tell less what. Since the moment she had discovered he was Fae, it was like that glamour was coming on and off like a costume he slipped into when needed. Right now, he seemed to need to impress those men and appear more like the powerful male he truly was. Gandrett couldn’t help but feel a pang of affection for him. Even if she didn’t need it. If she could defend herself. He was doing it for her.
As if he felt her stare, he turned to face her, one eyebrow raised as if questioning why the sudden interest.
Gandrett lowered her gaze to study the patterns in the wood of the table. “I know, it would be a waste of investment if you let them drag me behind the tavern.”
Nehelon’s hands lay in front of him on the surface, considerably clean after he had washed up at the stables.
He kept his gaze on her even as the barmaid set down two bowls of steaming stew and two mugs of some honey-colored liquid. The woman wiped her hands in her dirty apron and bent down to inform Nehelon that she had found a room for them.
He nodded and handed her a small bag of coins, eyes still on Gandrett as the woman disappeared back to the counter.
Much to her surprise, Nehelon didn’t return to brooding silence but kept his face polite as he picked up his mug and drank deeply. “Bothenia ale,” he explained as he noted Gandrett’s questioning look.
Bothenia, or what they called it in Sives: the potato of the poor. Her parents had drunk bothenia ale on the holidays, unable to afford better. With a shaky hand, Gandrett picked up her own mug and led it to her lips.
The taste was bitter, making the inside of her mouth feel like leather. She grimaced.
“Not the milk and honey you’re used to from the priory, is it?” Nehelon commented, his voice authentically amused.
The sound alone was enough to make Gandrett look up.
It was probably the first real emotion she had seen on his features. His lips, tugging upwards on the sides, gave away that there was something deep down in the Fae male that wasn’t designed to destroy, but to live. It was enough to give her the courage to ask, anyway, “How do you know so much about the order?”
She had considered asking before, during the hours of riding in silence. But whenever she had glanced at him, ready to speak, his cold glare had made her reconsider. Not that she backed down easily, but with a ticking Fae male time bomb as a conversation partner, she found it better to not take any risks.
The amusement remained—superficially. Behind the hard blue diamond of his eyes, a hint of nostalgia broke through. “Everything in time, Miss Brayton,” he said formally, the mention of her last name like a private joke to him curling his lips a little more. He lifted his mug again to drain it. And that was that.
Gandrett ate in silence, the vegetable stew a welcome heat in her empty stomach. What she would have given for Nahir’s rice-and-spice dishes, for Kaleb’s smiling face across the table, Surel’s elbow in her ribs for every grin she drew from the boy.
When dinner was done, Nehelon drained his ale, pushed away from the table, and got to his feet. He flashed a feral smile at the men who were still eyeballing Gandrett as she rose with him and followed him to the counter where the barmaid held out an iron key and instructed them to take the stairs and follow the hall to the very end.
The darkness didn’t hide anything from him, but he felt Gandrett stumbling and cursing lowly behind in the lightless stairwell. He found their room and shoved the key into the lock, clicking it open with one swift turn before he stepped into the candlelit room.
Gandrett stopped on the threshold, taking in the same thing he did—
One bed. Wide enough for both of them to lay without noticing much of the other. But still, one bed.
“Come in, and close the door,” he said, keeping his voice low. All kinds of people came to a trader settlement like this, and not only the noble ones. He had seen enough scum on the streets, scanning the new arrivals—especially Gandrett’s curves—and potentially already plotting to ambush her if he let her out of his sight for even a minute. Thus, he’d insisted on one bedroom to host both of them, even if he’d much rather prefer a night of solitude. He had even paid the barmaid handsomely to give them a room with an integrated bathing chamber—overpaid, he now realized when he looked around the small space adjacent to the sleeping area. He hoped that she would do better at the second task he had paid her for.
Gandrett was beside him a breath after the door closed, her eyes weary at the sight of the bed.
“Take a bath,” he ordered and sniffed. Days of riding through the heat and dust, nights sleeping on the ground had left their odor on her, and now that the constant wind was no longer scattering the smell, or the scent that bread and ale and stew wasn’t covering, it pooled in his nose.
Not unsurprisingly, Gandrett walked right to the bathing room and locked the door behind her.
Bastard. Gandrett couldn’t think anything else for a long minute until she took a whiff herself and had to admit he was right. She reeked of sweat. And if his senses were truly more sensitive than human ones, she even pitied him. Still, he had no right…
Fueled by anger, she half ripped her satchel and clothes off, her sword clanking on the stone floor as she dropped everything in a heap, then turned on the water and stared into the bubbly flow until the small bathtub was filled enough to soak and scrape down her whole body.
With one hand, she tested the temperature while the other reached for the soap on the rim of the tub. Milk and Honey, she read the label and chuckled as she slid into the water, hair and all, and released a groan of comfort at the heat enclosing her sore body.
She could hate Nehelon all she wanted, but he had given her something no one else had in a decade—a private bathing room. She tuned out every thought that threatened to push to the front of her mind and closed her eyes.
Chapter Eleven
How long could a human girl bathe? It wasn’t a rhetorical question. He had seen the women at court disappear into their bathing chambers and remain for hours and hours, servants scrubbing down their bodies with soft sponges and massaging their scalps with fine soaps and oils.
But this was a shabby tavern with a couple of rooms for shady travelers. Money paid—no questions asked. How long could a human girl remain in a sub-standard tub?
And why, by the gods, did it bother him that she still hadn’t come out?
A knock on the door interrupted his pacing, making him leap across the bed to quickly reach the entrance.
It was the barmaid herself, a bundle of cloth in her hands and a knowing smile on her lips as she scanned the room behind him, her eyes not finding the girl. Her glance returned to his face, and her eyelids shuttered before she flashed him a tentative grin.
“In case she returns.” She handed him the bundle, rough skin brushing his hand. “And if she doesn’t…” She let him finish the thought as she turned around looking at him from under her lashes.
Nehelon nodded his thanks—for the clothes, not the offer of a warm bed—and shut the door behind the woman. It wasn’t that he hadn’t noticed her supple body, her assets plainly displayed with her low-cut blouse. And it wasn’t because of the mild lines on her face. He’d had them all—young, old, pretty, mousy, the shy, the bold, the rich, the poor… All of them had their advantages and disadvantages. On his journey south, he might have e
ven considered taking her offer, but then something had happened—
Gandrett had happened.
And she had broken open something in him that had been sealed for a long, long time.
She had seen him. Seen him. And it had shaken him. Deeply. All that cunning, careless, audacious self he had been displaying these past years—decades. And no one had gotten a glimpse of what he was. He had traveled the lands, never stopping until Ackwood. Until he had met a broken man and sworn an oath to help him.
He unfolded the bundle, extracting a simple gown and fresh underthings from it—the size seemed about right—then laid out the clothes on the bed before he pulled out his own set of fresh garments from the pack he had brought and put them on the chair by the window.
Outside, the town—town was too much of a word for it, the village—of Elste was still full of life, people starting the Fest of Blossoms early—Vernal Equinox. The holiday of Vala. Tomorrow there would be celebrations all over Neredyn, and for the first time in ten years, he would feel the guilt ease off his shoulders.
The click of the bathing room door saved him from a journey down the pain of memory lane.
The girl padded into the room on bare feet, her body wrapped in a thick, generous towel, wet hair hanging over her shoulders and her back, down to her waist. He stifled a cough at the sight and turned around to pick up the clothes he’d procured for her, tossing them at her before she could say anything. Then, he crossed the room, avoiding the desire to let his eyes wander to the seam of her breasts visible above the towel, grabbed his bundle from the chair, and slid through the half-open bathroom door behind her.
She had washed her clothes and hung both sets of them on the edge of the bathtub. With the steam in the room, they wouldn’t dry overnight, so he used his magic to summon a breeze. Just enough to ensure she’d have something comfortable to wear when they got back in the saddle.
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