“In health. I bear a message from him.”
The message she delivered, the Skullmen’s location, the terror in the southlands, the magic wards on Karok’s body, jabbed into his belly with ice. Though her words were sweet, lyrical and tinged with music, they infuriated Taric. He paced, long strides slamming his booted feet hard against the marble floor. At one point, he held his hand up to halt her and slipped into his study, returning with two parchments crumpled in his fist. His waved hand continued her tale. He spread wide one paper and studied the drawings as she spoke. Myla growled, the low vibration of barely contained fury.
His finger tapped the triangle holding the cat’s eye. “I never thought to read or describe each mark aloud. I’m sorry, Myla. I didn’t know you couldn’t see it.”
“That is how magic works. It loses potency if you see the trick.” Myla’s gaze sped over the markings and a high-pitched hiss seeped from her teeth. “This evil must die.”
“No argument, my love, and die he will. Salome, show me where.” She stepped to the map and pinpointed a spot nestled deep in the mountains. Her descriptions of the Skullmen’s hideout thrust his mind back to old history lessons. History was his poorest subject. Bryton was the one who’d breathed the tales of the past. Taric rubbed his forehead. The ruins sounded like some forgotten holy place. Perhaps there were records at Sotherby or someone who knew the old carvings could tell him more. Damn, he needed Bryton here.
“So what does he want from me?” Taric stretched back, the high throne pillowing his aching head.
Salome’s neck angled sharply, like a bird’s. “Nothing. He simply felt you should have this information should he fail. And he will.”
Myla’s gaze snapped up. “You have no foreshadowed knowledge. You do not know he will fail.”
“He cannot see the mark.”
“His powers are passive, a gift only. He can use his human strength. He’s a most skilled warrior.”
“I hope you are correct but I sense I shall not be in this world for long.”
A catch in her voice narrowed Taric’s gaze. Her sharp chin thrust out defiantly, bravely, but a shimmer of pain deepened her eyes to charcoal. Understanding twisted something under his ribs. She loved Bryton and was preparing herself for his death. It was a stance Taric knew too well.
Myla walked to her and took her hand. They spoke in words Taric could not understand, the sound like dueling instruments at a fair. Myla nodded, paused and dropped three notes lower. Salome’s jaw snapped tight and she blinked her eyes rapidly, the sheen of tears bright in the wash of morning light. Whatever answer she piped back closed Myla’s eyes in sadness.
Taric cleared his throat. “Ladies, I’m feeling a bit left out here. If there’s something I should know about Bryton, I want to hear it.”
“You already know how stubborn he is,” Myla grumbled. “Mule-headed fool.”
“He says the same of you.” Taric hid his chuckle.
“Ta!” A small wet smack on his shin yanked his head down. Jana grinned from her knees, tiny seed-pearl teeth shining.
“Where did you come from, little mouse?” He picked up the crawling toddler before she could dart behind the dais. “I bet your nurse is looking for you.”
Jana jabbered, all babble and baby talk, as her frantic nurse rushed into the hall. Flour coated her cheeks and gown, but the relief on her face was visible. “I’m sorry, sire. I put her down for one moment to get Batu out of the flour bin and, when I turned, she was gone.”
“The flour bin?” Myla asked.
“Yes, Your Majesty. The children wanted a snack and Cook is making maple tarts. I turned my back to pour them some milk and Batu…I’m having a bath drawn for him now.”
Taric fought a groan. His son was perpetually dirty or in the bath. He seemed to find messes and, if none were to be found, created them. If he survived until manhood with his skin intact, it would be a blessing. Taric handed off his ward and tugged her curls. She giggled at him.
“Cryssa, I told you, find someone you trust and feel could help you, and bring her to me. They’re too much for one nurse, I think.”
“Yes, sire.”
Salome took a step forward, awe and wonder clear on her face. “Is this Bryton’s child?”
“Yes.” The longing in her gaze tugged at his heart.
Salome reached out and drew one finger down the little girl’s nose. “Be at peace, little one. I wish you a long and happy life.”
Jana laughed and lunged toward her. Salome raised her arms but the nurse had turned away, holding the toddler tight. Salome’s empty arms fell to her side. Her gaze lingered after the child as they left the hall. Suddenly her stance stiffened and she drew a steadying breath.
“I must return to him. I bid you farewell.”
Lilac smoke enveloped her and a falcon leaped for the window. She was high in the clouds by the time Taric crossed the room to glance out. The bird rose toward the sun. Arched wings unfurled and she glided, sailing on an ocean of air. When he could no longer make out her shape, he turned and scowled at his wife. “Myla, what did you do?”
“Only what I told you. I called for a peacemaker.”
“A peacemaker, huh?” He crossed his arms. Myla studied the paper, her furtive glance at him dipped his brows. “Sounds like you’re playing
match
maker. And what was all that magic chatter?”
Myla laid the parchment in his throne and crossed to him. “Woman talk, about men and their desires. Things I am quite certain you did not wish to hear.”
“You’re right,” Taric mumbled. His eyes fell to the discarded chess rook on the arm of his throne. A bitter pang stabbed his chest and he rubbed it absently. “I feel helpless.”
“I may not be able to see that whimpering dog Karok, but you hold Bryton’s future in your hands.” She gripped his arm tightly and her eyes pulsed with mystic green. “Go, my heart. Take up your bow and go hunting through the darkness. The kiss must not land.”
Sharp rock bit into his back but Bryton refused to budge, fitting the hide-wrapped spyglass tighter to his eye. The precarious ledge he crouched in afforded an almost eagle’s-eye view down to the front of an ancient temple. The crumbling reliefs and weather-worn stone held enough majesty to still command respect but the dried-blood splotches desecrated it. Bryton forced his gaze to the filleted body still spread along the marbled front. The girl would have been no more than fourteen. His jaw cracked from the force of his anger.
Is this what became of the females they took? What horrors had that child lived through before becoming some sort of pagan offering? Her blond hair shone like gold, a glorious top to a gruesome scene. A flash of Jana’s fair curls popped before him and his heart stuttered. This girl had been some other man’s child. The father in him screamed in agony. Fathers protected their children, would die for them, worked themselves to the raw bone to bring their children what they needed. The instant the midwife had placed that tiny screaming still-womb-wet bundle in his arms, he’d vowed to keep Jana safe. She gave back to him an almost pristine joy.
Jana didn’t walk yet, scooting everywhere at arrow-fast speed on chubby knees. She was fascinated with the most mundane things, the buckles on his boots, a dropped leaf, a blade of grass. Granted, she tried most things with her mouth and he’d learned to be vigilant, but the riotous laughter when she’d untie his shirt lacing or the wonder over soap bubbles humbled him. How innocent she was. To think another child had that innocence stripped away and then was gutted like a deer boiled revulsion and fury in him. Bryton swore no other father would lose a daughter to Karok and his band of vultures.
His knuckles tightened on his bow. If one Skullman left that collapsing church this minute, he’d plant an arrow through his worthless, stained hide. But none came. The air lay still and heavy, malice weighting the wind to a bare trickle. These hyenas preyed on the weak, on women and girls, for their own despicable pleasure. He’d feed Karok his own tongue for his crimes.
His eyes jerked from the torn body and traveled up the crude bird scratching. It did look like an eagle, one with spread wings and hard eyes. No wonder Salome had been moved to act. Just imagining her gentle heart seeing the horror before him cramped his gut. She was too naive, too tender, to view such ugliness.
Not so naive now. His chin dropped. There should be guilt for loving with her, for taking her innocence, but he couldn’t find any. Fates or destiny or some other force he had no control over had pushed them toward each other. Salome felt right in his arms, he felt right in hers. The pure devotion in her smile knotted his chest and he couldn’t draw breath. Only in the deepest, darkest regions of his heart could he admit he loved her. That love felt somehow wonderful and terrible at the same time. He’d loved one woman and had failed her. He couldn’t fail again.
Careful to not displace the tiny rocks and pebbles lining the pathway, Bryton climbed down the mountain face, using hands and feet rather than more secure but more noticeable rope. An ache formed in his shoulders before he reached the ground but it suited his purpose. It kept him focused on the anguish he’d deliver to the Skullmen and their leader.
Of all the punishments he’d ever meted out, all the battles he’d seen and the warriors he’d killed, never in his life had he harmed a child. He’d never even spanked one. He’d never dealt death lightly and wouldn’t now. They deserved their sentenced penalties. That festering knowledge remained as he threaded a spool of silk onto a hook. He couldn’t stomach the idea of cleaning game right now and opted for fishing instead. The crystal stream lulled him with a peaceful cadence.
Thoughts rushed him—the bloody rags he was never meant to see after his father returned from battle, the liniment his mother rubbed into a stiffened shoulder on cold winter nights, her tears when Mactog was gone for too long without word. Mactog had done his best to shield his family from the ugliness of his position but even the most cautious man had to face this children growing up and understanding.
A strange memory welled. He’d been only nine and Taric nearly eleven.
“We’re gonna get caught,” he’d warned. Taric shushed him and crept closer to the balcony railing. Below, a trial was ending. They peeked over the glossy handrail. “What’s happening?”
“Sentencing,” Taric whispered. “One of Marchen’s soldiers was found guilty of rape.”
“Rape?” Bryton scrunched his brows. “What’s rape?”
Taric frowned. “Not sure. It has something to do with sex, I think.”
“Oh.” Sex was a foreign thing, something for adults that actually sounded kind of gross and messy. His eyes scoured the court, searching for his father while tense formal words boomed below. “I see your papa, where’s mine?”
“I guess he’s below already. Wait here.”
Taric slithered out of the balcony into the hall and Bryton leaned higher, still searching. King Balic had a red face and white lips. The man before him cried. Angry words Bryton didn’t understand flew around the room, all the adults loud and heated. Women wept. But where was his father? Mactog never left Balic’s side and why would he be below as Taric said? There was nothing in the underchambers but darkness and scary, eerie noises.
“Come on,” Taric hissed, holding a key on a large ring aloft. “Let’s go exploring.”
They had to bounce around grown-ups, wait for the hall to clear and then dart glances to check for guards, but they made it. The lock didn’t even squeak. The two nosy young boys snuck down the dark stairs. The screams stopped them both.
At first Bryton thought it was an animal wailing in pain but animals don’t talk, they don’t curse and plead for death. The smell turned his stomach. Human waste, blood and sweat clung to the stone walls like a gruesome tapestry and seeped into his skin. Taric trembled, his tunic shimmying in the torch-lit staircase. Bryton’s bones shook just as hard. A thud of something hitting flesh brought another scream.
A hand fell on Taric’s shoulder. The prince yelped and jumped back, knocking Bryton on his rear end. King Balic scolded, swatted Taric on the ass and chased them both upstairs but not before Bryton saw.
A metal door swung open and his father stepped out carrying a length of iron-studded leather. Wet crimson smeared along his forearm. Inside the room, bent and tied over a wooden bar, a naked man wept while shiny red blood dripped down his back. Suddenly Bryton knew what it meant to be the King’s Might. Mactog caught Bryton’s gaze and resignation darkened his father’s features.
Bryton waited all night for his father to confront him, to discipline him for sneaking where he shouldn’t have been. He’d always wondered why Taric got spanked but he never did. Now he knew. Mactog would never raise a hand to his children, not when he had to use that power to inflict harsher punishment.
Mactog never came. The next morning he’d simply asked if Bryton wanted to talk about what he’d seen. He hadn’t and they’d never spoken of it again. But Bryton never forgot the sadness in his father’s eyes as he watched Bryton’s innocence slip away, helpless to stop it.
A tug on his line snapped him back to the present and he hauled in a redgill as long as his forearm. Nature-crossed between a salmon and a trout, the thick-bellied fish would make a nice pan-fried supper. He gathered some dandelion stalks and other wild salad greens before heading toward home. He shucked off the memories like a snake sheds its skin. He’d chosen his path and knew it had been right, even if it did carry a tarnished glow with it.
A deep twinge under his ribs stirred thoughts of Jana, of bright blue eyes and biscuit crumbs coating her lips. She was one thing that he regretted having to leave behind. But it was for the best. What did he know about raising a little girl? He had three nephews and a godson. She was better off with Myla and Taric. At just over a full summer, she’d forget him in time. She might have forgotten him already. She discovered her toes anew at least once a moon.
His feet slowed near the cliffside. Home. The crude cave with very little comforts did feel like home because Salome stood in the opening, waiting with her wide, sunny smile. He took the ease she gave and held it tight to his heart, like a dying man hoards his memories.
“I saw your daughter. She is beautiful.”
He nodded. “She is. She looks like her mother.”
“No. Her hair, perhaps, because I saw no copper, but her eyes are yours and her chin. I wished her peace.” Salome cocked her head and prodded. “What are you doing?”
Leaf crawled over her, pawing at her hair, her face, her gown, anything to get attention and another bite of redgill. Already her belly was round and plump and Bryton had said no more or the cat would be sick. Still, Salome snuck the feline pieces of fish when he wasn’t looking.
Bryton glanced over the top of the twig he was sanding, caught her and shook his head with a grin. “Making arrows, and if she gets sick, you’re cleaning it up.”
She sat the kitten aside. “You have a dozen arrows in your quiver, why make more?”
“To look like this. Do you know what feathers those are?”
Salome took the missile and fingered the stiff black fletching. “Raven. Why?”
“That’s a Skullman’s arrow. Imagine the confusion when one dies and they have no clue who did it and the weapon is one of their own. I need to hunt a raven for feathers.” The coarse paper slowed on the thin shaft and a frown marred his brow. “Salome, can you not shift tomorrow? I don’t like not knowing what bird you are and aiming to kill one.”
“You do not have to kill a bird for feathers, my charge. I can give what you need and no animal has to die.”
“Salome, these are tail feathers. Even if you got pissed off and shook your ass, that many feathers won’t fall out.”
“So pull them.”
His mouth gaped and his eyes rounded. “No, I am not…plucking you like a goose for a table.”
“You would rather kill than accept a gift?”
“No, I just…I mean…” He floundered and she arched her brow. His sigh slumped his shoulders. “Do you realize how many feathers I need? It would hurt you.”
“Temporarily perhaps, but I heal. Would you like them now?”
There was no answer, just worry edged along his forehead. In a breath of summoned magic, Salome shrank and darkened. Leaf hissed and darted behind the bedding, yellowed eyes peering over the pallet. Salome tucked her wings, walked to Bryton and hopped on his leg. She thrust her tail toward him.
“I don’t like this.” A warm stroke down her sleek back closed her eyes. How gentle his touch was. “Please, Salome, just…come back. I’ll figure something else out.”
Salome stuck her tail higher in the air, shaking it. His palm slid down her spine and over her tail feathers. The caresses continued for several more passes. He drew a deep breath, cupped one hand under her breast and swallowed. “Okay, I’ll do it fast. Ready?”
She bobbed her head and tried to stay still. Sudden ripping pain surged through her and a cry burst from her beak.
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry, Salome, I’m sorry.” His murmurs bounced off the agony radiating from her body. A few feathers dropped beside his leg and he clutched her, cradling her wings against his chest. “No more. Come back.”
He didn’t have half enough feathers for the number of wooden shafts he’d prepared. She had no power to grant him peace, could only guide him through his struggle, could barely comfort his body but this, this she could do. Drawing her fortitude tight, blinking eyes that could not weep, she squirmed and thrust her tail at him again.
“No! No more.”
He would not deny her this, the only gift she could give him. She rammed her beak into his thigh. He spit a curse then gripped her breast. “All right, birdie, you win. Ready?”
Twice more the fiery pain rippled through her. Her wings quivered and her strength gave out until she lay limp on his legs. He stopped, breath roaring from his lungs like a battle song. Did he understand? Could he feel the love brimming in her spirit? Did he know that with each feather he took, it was a fraction of a drop of the love she held for him?
If he plucked her bare and left her broken, shuddering in pain and one breath from death, she wouldn’t care as long as his needs were met. This was all she could do for him, the only true power she held, the offering of her body. Salome weakly inched her scorching hind end toward him again. His lips thinned and once more he yanked. A whimpered squeak fell from her limp beak.
“Enough, sweetling, come back to me, please.”
Salome pulled hard and magic slammed with a dizzying force. Bryton’s hold never lessened. When her cheek formed, she pressed it to his chest and wept. Harsh sobs racked her, her human fingers digging into his arms. Her behind and thighs screamed in pain. Bryton shushed and rocked her, then grew still. Horror hallowed his voice.
“Salome, you’re bleeding.” Red streaked fingers trembled and he gripped her arms. “Wind, Salome, now. Heal, please. Oh, shit, please heal. I’m so sorry.”
“You took only what I gladly gave with love.” Through her tears, her words rasped like his sandpaper on the twigs.
Bryton shook her, frantic shock paling his face. “Go. Your gown is soaked and the bleeding isn’t slowing. Go, sweetling. If you love me, go and heal.”
Wind whipped from the cave, sucking all the air and extinguishing the fire. Only one pale sea lantern glowed, highlighting the torment lining his damp face. She shot to the clouds in a tight stream, twisting and funneling until the pain seeped away. She had traveled far and that alone told her the wound had been ghastly.
Silvery moonbeams rained on her and the ground below took on the glistening radiance of nighttime. Simple pleasure prolonged her flight. The beauty of slumbering animals mixed with awakening nocturnals. Bats searched for insects, cats preyed in grasses and raccoons washed their faces. Life went on, though sleep hushed the night.
Suffering channeled through her, the taste of Bryton’s kiss tinged with salt. He ached. She turned, soaring toward home with a frantic drive.
Bryton rubbed his nose with his forearm, the glass flask clutched tight in his hand. Shit, his bones vibrated like a tuning fork struck on marble. What in the hell had he done? The fletchings weren’t worth her pain. Had his mission encompassed him to the point where he stooped to hurting those he cared for? The wet blood pool on his breeches stuck to his skin, pulling with each move. He’d plucked his share of birds, but always for food. He’d never imagined doing it to a live creature, to a woman who meant too much to him to examine.