It made River pause for a moment as he passed, remembering one of the Father’s lessons.
Laughter is for the weak
, he had said, with a swipe of the lash. River had flinched, his movement provoking yet another stinging lick of the scourge.
It reveals the hearts of men, and they too are weak. Your heart must be stone, like the pebble on the riverbed, unyielding, immovable
.
He had often wondered what it must be like to share such mirth with another man. River had brothers, true, but he shared no brotherhood with them. They did not laugh like others, and they shared no love.
Such things were not for him. He was not weak like other men. He was strong,
like the current after spring rains
. Not prone to the failings that afflicted the weak. It was why he could not be stopped.
Up and up he went, the pattern of the corridors vivid in his mind. He knew his way before he reached a junction, could see the route laid out, forming before him even though he had never trodden these hallways before. Here and there were patrols of guards; here and there were courtiers and serfs going about their night time business, but River was a shadow, moving about them like a hushed breeze.
The door to her chamber stood ahead of him. There was no one there to guard it, no one there to stand in his way. He grasped the handle and the door opened with merciful silence, and in a short breath he was inside, greeted by the near darkness within.
A single candle guttered by the window, spreading a soft light across the chamber. Stairs led up to a huge bed which rested on a raised dais, its four posts carved of thick oak, a canopy of woven fabric covering its top. River didn’t move, allowing his eyes to adjust, allowing himself time to focus on his mark. He could hear her soft, even breath through the blackness and as he took a tentative step forward he pulled a single blade from its sheath.
Then he stopped.
A thought seemed to press in his head, a doubt he had felt before. More than once.
This girl was innocent.
But the Father of Killers had condemned her
.
From what little River understood of it, this was her father’s war … the king’s war. Nothing to do with her.
But River could not disobey the Father of Killers.
She had committed no crime.
If he did not do as he was bid, he would be punished.
Granted another scar to join those already displaying the shame of failure and weakness on his face
.
He took another step forward, creeping silently towards her, feeling the reassurance of the blade in his hand. This was what he did. This was what he was made to do. He was River,
the unstoppable river
, who lived to carry out his Father’s bidding.
But what right did he have? No matter how many times he had been reminded with the word and the lash, he still could not justify it in his head.
Another step took him up the stair to the dais on which the bed stood. Her breath was so soft, her dreams clearly untroubled. River could not remember the last time he had slept untroubled by nightmares, the last time he had not been plagued by terrors
.
But to succumb to them would only show weakness, to admit to them would only bring his Father’s wrath.
He was at the bedside now, and she was within arm’s length. It would take only a single swift strike. One quick cut to end her life before she even had time to wake. River pressed forward as the flickering candlelight showed him her face.
A face he knew.
As his heart filled with a horror worse than a thousand night terrors, the blade slipped from his hand, clattering to the wooden floor.
It was her, the girl from the gardens. His girl: the one of a hundred secret meetings. The girl of a thousand gentle kisses.
Jay.
She woke with a sharp intake of breath, her flame red hair falling about her face. She saw him standing there, a shadow in the night, but she did not scream.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, after what seemed like an age. There was no fear in her voice, and River could only admire her for that.
Slowly he lowered his face so she could see his scarred features in the light.
She smiled, though uncertainly, as she fought with her lack of understanding.
‘What are you doing here?’ Jay rose from her bed. ‘How did you get in?’
He did not answer, could not. What would he tell her – that he had been sent by the Father of Killers? That she was marked for death and he was the one to carry out the sentence? He could not tell her, and instead he stared at her, at that face, that beauty that never failed to make his heart leap.
She moved from her bed and River could only watch her as she took another candle and lit it from the last barely glowing embers of the fire in her room. As she moved back towards him, her beautiful face radiant in the light, she suddenly saw his blade, lying between them on the floor.
‘What’s that?’ she asked, her curiosity extinguished as realisation dawned.
Still he could not speak, transfixed where he stood. His mouth worked, forming words that never came. She shook her head in disbelief. He shook his in denial. This could not be. She was the only one he had ever …
The door to the chamber burst open. River spun to see a young man, little older than himself, come striding in. He was tall, dark haired, walking with all the sureness of a trained warrior, his hand poised over the sword at his hip.
‘Janessa, get back,’ the warrior ordered, seeming unsurprised at River’s presence.
‘Raelan, wait,’ Janessa replied, but the warrior was already advancing, his sword singing from its sheath. River was already moving, though,
flowing with the banks, coursing to the seas
.
The young warrior struck, his blow measured and precise, his arm well practised. River could have dodged it blindfolded, but he allowed it to pass him by a hair’s breadth as he moved in, faster than his opponent could see. Before the man could recover his stance, River had grasped the sword at the hilt, his elbow striking up to hit jawbone.
As his enemy crashed to the ground, River twisted the weapon in his grip and raised it for a killing blow. It was heavier than he was used to, a knight’s weapon, but one he could still wield. It would be a quick death.
‘No!’ Jay cried, covering the young warrior with her body, before River could land that final blow. He paused, holding the sword aloft until he saw the look in her eyes – the fear and hurt and defiance.
River’s heart clenched in his chest. He opened his mouth to speak, but again, no words would come. With a heartbroken breath he sent the sword spinning across the room where it struck the floorboards.
The warrior was still dazed on the ground where Jay stood. Her brow was furrowed in confusion but still she took River by the hand.
‘You have to run,’ she said. ‘Or they will kill you.’
He turned to go, moving towards the open window, but knew he could not leave without some kind of explanation. If he might never see her again he had to make it clear he would never have hurt her. He had not come to this place to kill
her
, but to kill another, a princess. Not her … not Jay … not his love.
‘I—’
His words were cut short by a scything pain in his side. He staggered, his hand reaching to his hip where it came away covered in blood. The young warrior, still dazed but on his knees, was holding River’s blade in his fist, now also covered in blood.
Jay looked at him, anguish writ in her eyes.
River took a step towards her. He wanted to hold her, to tell her of his regret, that he had had no choice in this, but before he could utter a word more figures burst into the room – armoured sentries, their swords drawn.
He spun on his heel, stumbling a little from the pain, but keeping his composure.
He was River.
He had no weakness, no doubt, no thought but that of escape.
In two steps he was at the window.
Another – he had leapt into the night.
‘S
o what do I do now?’ It pained her to ask such a question, Kaira was so used to a life of regimented control. This was a situation to which she was wholly unsuited.
‘I suggest you start by praying he wakes up,’ Buttercup replied. She was treating it like a game, despite the fact that a man might be dying.
The man she had learned was Merrick Ryder lay on her bed in the Pony and Fiddle. Kaira had done her best to treat the man’s injuries – she was no battlefield chirurgeon, but she knew how to stitch and dress a wound. His head was bandaged, both his eyes beginning to swell, his nose bust, probably broken, and his lip split in three places. For the bruises on his body she could do little. If his ribs were broken he would be of little use. Kaira could only hope Merrick Ryder was tougher than he looked.
Right now he didn’t look even remotely tough.
‘And what if he dies? What then?’
‘Then we’ll find some other way to raise you through the ranks of the Guild. Ryder’s not the only card in our hand.’
Kaira glanced down at Merrick, watching his chest rise and fall, his breath shallow but even. What she knew of the man painted a rather ugly picture but she couldn’t help but feel some sympathy. She had been brought up in the Temple of Autumn, trained as a peerless fighter, but also a defender of the weak and helpless. She had been raised alongside the Daughters of Arlor, that order dedicated to the care of those who could not care for themselves. Their gentle and forgiving character served to assuage the martial temperament of the Shieldmaidens, and, despite Kaira’s disciplined upbringing, she could not help but feel compassion for a man beaten almost to death, despite his base, criminal nature.
Buttercup, however, had no such compassion.
‘Look, I’ll be back by first light. If he’s dead by then we’ll wait until dark, dump his body in the Storway and persuade Palien to give you another position. Until then … make yourself comfortable with your new friend.’
She winked and made for the door.
‘You’re just going to leave me here with him?’ Kaira did not relish the prospect of acting as nursemaid.
‘Yes I am. Don’t worry, I think you’ll be safe enough.’ She gestured to the beaten and bandaged form lying helpless on the bed. ‘Or might you find it hard to control yourself? A life cloistered in that monastery, no men around. I’ve heard about women like you.’
Kaira clenched her fists. Buttercup’s suggestion was a quip too far, but she kept control. ‘Get out,’ she said.
Buttercup smiled, but left promptly all the same. Even she realised she was walking a dangerous path by provoking Kaira.
As the door slammed, Merrick gave a moan, his broken lips moving as he tried to speak. Kaira dipped a clean cloth in a bowl of cold water and placed it to his lips, squeezing a couple of drops into his mouth. It seemed to calm him.
She had wanted to intervene sooner. Wanted to take Shanka and his men before they turned Merrick’s face to mush, but Buttercup had held her back. She wanted Merrick grateful, and in no condition to refuse her help, but Kaira certainly hadn’t envisioned that he’d end up almost dead. As they’d begun to beat him, she had moved as quickly as she could, but it hadn’t been quite quick enough. Their only link to the inner circle of the Guild was dancing on a sword edge and might fall into oblivion at any moment.
If Merrick could not help her succeed in her mission, how long might it take to be granted an audience with the powers behind the Guild? Could she be in the wilderness – separated from her sisters and all the life she knew – for months, even years? It was unthinkable.
It pained her that there was nothing she could do about it. Kaira Stormfall would have fought any man or beast in defence of the weak and to carry out the will of Vorena, but in this she felt truly powerless. Her entire future lay with a man who might die from his wounds at any second.
But it was what it was.
‘Are you all right over there? You look a bit concerned about something.’
Kaira started at the weak voice. Merrick was looking at her through his blackened eyes, his cracked lips formed into a sly grin.
‘No. I … er …’ She realised she must have been scowling. ‘You’re awake.’
Of course he was awake, what a stupid thing to say
.
‘Well spotted,’ he replied, shifting his body, trying to sit. It only made him wince with pain.
‘Don’t try to move,’ she said, taking a step towards him. She laid a hand on his chest to settle him back down, but he tried to push her away. Clearly a stubborn one.
‘I’m fine,’ he said, grimacing at the pain. Kaira helped him sit up, positioning his pillows so he was more comfortable. ‘Though it does feel like someone kicked the living shit out of me.’
‘They did,’ she replied.
He looked at her, afresh. ‘You’re my angel,’ he said, his grin cracking the scab that had formed on his lip, making him wince once more.
‘Please don’t talk,’ she said, reaching for the water bowl.
‘You wouldn’t believe the number of people who say that to me. Even when my lips aren’t smashed up like a blind cobbler’s thumbs.’ She offered him the sodden cloth, but he just stared at her. ‘You have the most beautiful smile.’
She hadn’t even realised she was smiling.
Kaira steeled herself. She was not here to make light with the man – especially a man responsible for brokering slaves.
‘Be quiet and take this,’ she demanded. It was a command that brooked no argument, and Merrick seemed to take the hint.
Having dabbed his bleeding lip with the cloth he regarded her again with a raised eyebrow. ‘So, who are you?’
‘My name is Kaira …’
Stormfall. Your name is Kaira Stormfall. But then … you are Stormfall no longer.
‘Kaira, you have my eternal thanks. Do you make a habit of rescuing vulnerable men in the street?’
‘I was sent by Palien to ensure you were kept from harm.’
‘And you very nearly managed it.’ He grimaced as he shifted, trying to get more comfortable. Eventually he seemed to find the position that hurt least. ‘I’ve got to say, his taste in bodyguards has vastly improved of late.’