Embers in a Dark Frost

Embers in a Dark Frost Page 13

Immediately I thought of the War Raven. “Where’s the raven? I saw it from the tree. I saw it leave you.” My ire returned in a flash. “You could’ve been killed.”

“I’ve faced far worse.” He ran his hands over his face. “We’ll speak of this later.”

“How do we even know the Lia Fail still exists?” I asked, remembering Nox’s words. “For all we know it was lost.”

A fiery glare struck me silent. Balen dragged his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair, making it stay back off his head. “It exists. The foretelling—”

“Oh, aye, the foretelling,” I echoed, angry that his fate and mine, apparently, rested with a mad queen. “And you’ll just ride to your doom because your prophet said so.”

He reached out and snagged my reins, pulling my horse and his to a halt. “Do not trivialize my death,” he lashed out. “I don’t want to die, but I will if it means saving our world. What would you have me do, Deira? What?”

I shook my head and tried to pull the reins from his hand but they didn’t budge. He wouldn’t let me retreat so easily. “I would rather die trying,” he said, his expression grim, his eyes glittering with the force of his convictions, “than to grow old and watch my land, my people, those I love perish. I would lay down my life this very moment if it meant turning back the frost.”

And that, I thought to myself, is what makes you a hero and me a coward.

Tears stung my dry eyes. I kicked my horse ahead of him, wishing the darkness would close in and swallow me up.

Would that I’d grown up with people who loved me, in a land where I felt such loyalty. Would that I felt such strong convictions. My people had tried to kill me and when they couldn’t, they shunned me. I’d grown up an outcast, an embarrassment, things that did little to inspire loyalty like Balen’s.

All the confusion, all the uncertainty and inadequacies sat like a heavy weight upon my shoulders. I was not the one in Balen’s foretelling.

Unless I could defeat Nox with my pen and notebook, I was useless.

CHAPTER 9

Finally, we halted in a small area protected by trees on one side and the river on the other. We worked silently, stripping the horse's tack, rubbing them down, before preparing a spot to rest. We’d left the main encampment so quickly that there had been little time to bring much, but we had my satchel, blanket rolls, some food, and water.

After spreading out the blankets, Balen gathered wood as I rooted in the sack for the remaining bread and cheese that we ate by a small fire.

After, Balen headed to the water, sat down on the bank, and began removing his armor, slowly and stiffly. Awkwardly.

The sight of him doing something so domestic and natural, held my attention for a long time until I began to feel uncomfortable spying on him. I focused on the campfire, but the flames only held my attention for so long before my gaze returned to him.

He needed help.

I bit the inside of my cheek. Any warrior could remove his armor. It was designed that way. Balen had said “no” when I’d asked him earlier if he was injured. He’d never appeared in pain, but then he had his pride. He wouldn’t show it if he was.

An airy sensation bloomed in my stomach as I made my way toward him.

His fingers attempted to undo the buckles along his side that would allow the chest plate to be removed.

I’d been a servant for so long that helping him should be a simple task, but it was not. Not to me. I rolled my eyes to the starry night sky, and took a deep breath. “I can do that for you.”

Balen glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow cocked and his body still. I thought he wasn’t going to answer, but then he inclined his head and I set to work.

“The War Raven did not desert me,” he said at length.

My fingers worked less-than-deftly at the buckles. “It left you to fend for yourself. I call that desertion.”

His deep sigh sounded resigned. “I told it to leave.”

I fumbled a buckle. Balen looked back at me with a half-hearted smile. “It’s complicated . . . our relationship.”

“And what,” I said gently, “you thought you could take thirty Fallen on your own is that it?”

“Aye.” I was a simple, honest answer.

I stared in astonishment, not understanding why he wouldn’t want the help, and why he’d risk it. Males. That was an oath I’d often heard in the palace, and I found myself using it now as I finished the buckles and pulled off the chest plate off; surprised the weight of it. Balen’s shoulders sagged in relief as I set it on the ground.

He removed the sword belt that held his short sword and then undid his leg guards. After those, came the black chain mail tunic, which caught on his hair when he tried to pull it over his head.

“Here, let me…” I said.

The chain mail was surprisingly warm to my touch. My finger brushed the back of his neck and his skin was hot. As I worked the damp strands of hair free from the link, I tried to ignore how intimate the moment felt. “There,” I whispered, not trusting my voice.

“Thank you.” He set the mail atop the pile of armor.

“That must happen often,” I blurted, instantly regretting the inane comment.

“More than you know.”

He removed his boots and socks, wiggling his toes in the cool air. I noticed a sword nick on his neck and one long slice just above his elbow.

“You’re wounded.”

“No matter. It’ll heal. It just takes longer these days…”

The Light was the heartbeat of our world, the thing that sustained and healed, the thing that kept our land in perpetual summer and warmth. Wounds, both in the land and in our people had become tougher and tougher to heal.

Balen stood, grabbed the ends of the padded black tunic, and began to pull it up. I watched, riveted by the play of muscles in his back and then his bare arms as the tunic went over his head. He let it drop to the ground.

My breathing was shallow, and tiny beads of sweat clung to the small of my back. He was muscular but not bulky, not an ounce of idleness anywhere. He looked . . . dangerous with the blood streaks and dirt on his neck and hands.

No wonder he could move and strike so fast, was as strong and unwavering as the trees that towered over us. He was built for it.

What fascinated me most, besides his form, was the intricate marking that coiled from beneath the waistband of his leggings up the left side of his torso to cover the shoulder, neck, the tip of his ear and temple, and then down over the bicep and forearm. It depicted a War Raven in dragon form entwined with flame, as though they were one and the same. I couldn’t tell where one began and the other left off.

“You may want to cover your eyes, Deira,” he suggested as his hands moved to his front.

While I couldn’t see what he was doing, I knew he was unlacing his leggings. I spun around, his soft chuckle ringing in my ears.

A splash sounded.

I doubted Balen’s women reacted so innocently. I wanted to groan but didn’t dare.

At least I did not cavort with a tent full of females. Did he need that many?

I turned back toward the stream. Moonlight lit up the water so that his head and shoulders were clearly visible, the water just coming to his armpits. He dunked under and then broke the surface, his hands smoothing back his hair and I was caught by the way his biceps flexed at the movement.

“Get a hold of yourself,” I muttered under my breath, before stalking back to the fire.

He behaved like no leader I knew or read about. Not that I knew so many, but I knew my grandfather and the other royals of our house. I settled on my blanket before the fire and finished gnawing on a tasteless chunk of bread.

“Deira,” he called. “Would you bring me my bag please?”

I tossed his bag toward the river bank then sat back down, trying not to hear him moving around.

Eventually the bag dropped next to me, startling me from my thoughts. I looked up to see him in a fresh shirt and leggings, his feet bare and his hair wet.

He sat down. “There’s clothing in there for you as well.”

Curious, I grabbed the bag. Inside was the red tunic trimmed in gold and the sheer gown. Neither one was suitable for the journey, and I sure as Dagda was not going to take a swim like he’d done. I closed the bag, set it aside, and then arranged myself on the blanket to sleep, facing the fire, one hand tucked beneath my head.

From my prone position, I watched Balen take a long drink from the water bag. He stretched his arms high, worked his neck a little from side to side, and then dropped back down to the blanket.

The ground wasn’t hard, but it was still cold and uncomfortable. I imagined what it would be like to sleep, entwined, held in arms like Balen’s…

I rolled over, annoyed with myself and my growing interest in him, and curled in to a ball to sleep.

I dreamt that I walked through a long, black corridor, finding my way by my hands alone. The wall was smooth and cold under my palms. So cold.

The sheer gown did little to keep me warm. My feet were bare and frozen. My hair fell loose down my back. The only sound was my uneasy breathing and the shuffling of my feet.

I stopped and glanced over my shoulder. No light behind me.

No light ahead of me.

Just darkness.

Still, I continued as though I knew something must lie at the end of the tunnel.

I heard whispered voices. Moans. Grunts.

Urgency. Pleasure. Pain.

An unwelcome tremble went through me. My face and skin grew hot. The voices, both male and female, became louder, echoing through the corridor and wafting over me as I moved. I covered my ears, wanting it to stop, wanting to end the flood of awareness flowing through me.

But it didn’t help.

My body was changing. Emerging. I felt languid, graceful in my movements and achy all over.

I knew those sounds. I understood what I was walking toward.

Why couldn’t I stop and turn around?

A low, wicked laughter caressed my mind. I faltered and shook my head, trying to keep it clear. “Go away,” I whispered, feeling the wall again.