“Peace, Claudio,” Lady Eira called to him. “Lord Hart is welcome here.”
Claudio hesitated, but didn’t counter Eira’s words, and Alistair quickly pulled the rest of Mercer, and Fitch along with him, into the room.
“What’s this?” Claudio gaped at Mercer.
Alistair glanced back at Fitch. “Let’s put him down. And then shut that door.”
They laid Mercer on the floor while the other occupants of the hall gathered around. Fionn, per his office as a cleric, carried a scroll in his hand. He gazed calmly at Mercer as though the unconscious man were a puzzle to be solved.
Lady Eira spoke first. “What happened to Mercer?”
Before Alistair could answer, Fitch blurted out, “Have mercy, my lady. I swear I’ll confess all.”
“What do you have to confess, Fitch?” Eira asked, her voice cool.
“I’ve done wrong. I thought to betray the cause. But I know I was misled now. I seek to make amends.” Fitch gulped, but when he opened his mouth to speak again, he suddenly yelped.
A hand had wrapped around Fitch’s ankle. Mercer’s eyes were open. With a jerk of his arm, Mercer pulled Fitch off balance. Fitch tumbled to the ground, and Mercer was on him, snarling like a wildcat.
Claudio shouted in surprise and backed away from the struggling pair. Fionn ran across the hall to take cover behind the sacred tree. Eira didn’t move, but neither did she try to interfere.
“Traitor,” Mercer spat as he struck Fitch. “I’ll see you in hell for this.”
“I’m no traitor.” Fitch grasped Mercer’s tabard, trying to shove Mercer off. “You’re mad for believing them. They’ll be the death of us.”
“Stop!” Cian’s clear voice rang out.
Alistair, who’d been about to grasp Mercer from behind and wrestle him away from Fitch, wheeled around. He hadn’t noticed Lady Eira’s sister in the hall. Cian leapt from the far corner of the room and closed the distance between herself and the tangled knights in a few long strides.
With a movement of such grace and strength that it stunned Alistair, Cian took hold of Mercer and Fitch—one in each hand—and threw them in opposite directions. Mercer rolled over once before jumping to his feet. He had no weapon to draw, but his fists were raised. Fitch, either reeling from Cian’s sudden intervention or still shocked that Mercer had regained consciousness, fell back onto his hands and heels.
Cian’s sword hissed out of its scabbard. “What is this talk of treachery?”
Mercer stared at her, and without breaking her gaze, he pointed at Fitch. “There is your traitor.”
When Cian glanced at Fitch, his eyes bulged. He began to crawl backward like a crab. “You… you—”
“Yes, traitor.” Cian moved toward Fitch. “You should fear me.”
When Alistair realized Cian’s intention, he rushed at her. “No! Wait!”
He didn’t reach her in time. Cian brought her blade down in a clean arc, and Fitch’s head toppled from his body.
“Damn your impatience!” Alistair watched blood pour out of Fitch’s severed neck. “He was the one who came to me seeking aid. Why would you kill him?”
Unruffled by Alistair’s fury, Cian said, “Your companion claimed he had a confession to make. One must sin to require confession. Fitch’s face spoke to me plainly of his guilt. I’ve no doubt that his sins were great.”
Alistair was shaking with outrage when she walked away from him.
Mercer stood still, face pale and fists raised. His expression was resigned, as though he expected to meet the same end by Cian’s sword.
“You’ve seen how we deal with traitors.” Cian spoke slowly to Mercer, holding his gaze. “Perhaps you would like a chance to confess, and if your contrition proves genuine, you’ll be shown mercy.”
Drawing a sharp breath, Mercer said quietly, “You cut him down like a common thief. I desire none of your mercy, and I have nothing to confess.”
“Very well.” Cian raised her sword.
“Put down your sword, Cian,” Eira commanded. “When did my sister become a barbarian?”
Cian paused, glancing at Eira. “Death is the penalty for traitors.”
“Of course it is,” Eira answered. “But we’ve yet to learn the cause of these accusations.”
“Lord Hart brought the men.” Cian turned to Alistair. “I assume he has the answers we need.”
Alistair jumped forward, speaking as quickly as he could. “I found Fitch in the stables. He’d beaten Mercer senseless and claimed there was a conspiracy against Conatus.”
“Is there any truth to his story?” Eira asked him.
Alistair looked with regret at Fitch’s headless body before he answered. “I don’t know, my lady. Fitch desired to make a full confession to you personally. That’s why I brought him here.”
“You shouldn’t have killed him,” Eira told Cian. “It was reckless.”
Cian returned Eira’s stare without flinching. “To my mind, they’re both traitors. The only difference between the two is that Fitch was clearly the coward. I took his head to make a point. A necessary one.”
“You let your temper get the best of you, and you dishonor yourself by making excuses for it.” Eira regarded her sister coolly. “Go with Alistair and take Mercer to the stockade. Secure him there until we know the truth of this.”
Cian pursed her lips and then said to Alistair, “Wait here. I’ll bring irons to bind him before we go to the stockade.”
Alistair nodded. The chaos in the room gave way to an uneasy quiet. Alistair heard Fionn retching behind the tree.
Claudio approached them cautiously. He eyed Mercer, gauging whether any threat remained.
Mercer stared blankly ahead, giving no sign of worry that Alistair stood close by with his sword drawn in case of any trouble.
“You’re going to question him, then?” Claudio asked Eira.
“I know one more suited to the task than I,” Eira answered. “I’ll ask Lord Mar to join us shortly.”
Eira walked in a slow circle around Mercer, looking the knight up and down. Her smile made Alistair shiver.
STEAM ROSE FROM THE horses’ bodies, mirroring the mists that veiled the hillsides. The sun wouldn’t show her face today, Ember thought. Though it was still night, Ember could almost feel the weight of low clouds pressing down upon them.
Leaning into Caber’s strides, Ember tried to gather her wits. The stallion’s hooves threw clods of damp soil into the air with each strike against the earth. Though the wind brought tears to her eyes, Ember had a hard time shaking the sense that she was caught in a dream. This breakneck flight from the Conatus keep of Tearmunn was too wild and frightening to be real.
But it was that fear, churning beneath her ribs, that made Ember all too aware that this midnight ride was not the stuff of dreams. Glancing over at her companion, Ember tried to muster courage. She could barely make out Barrow’s features in the dark, but she could see well enough to take in his unusually rigid pose astride Toshach. He kept his eyes on the path ahead, urging Toshach to an even faster pace. As she watched Barrow, conflicting impulses wrestled within her. Barrow seemed incapable of fear. He led them into the night without hesitation. Ember trusted him. In brief moments when the terror of what she’d done released her from its grip, she reveled in the knowledge that she was riding abreast of the man whose company, whose touch, she’d come to believe was something she would never have. No matter how much she wanted it.
Joy surged in Ember’s blood, like lightning strikes, but that ecstasy was chased away by the chill of doubt. They were running from friends. From sworn allies, beside whom she’d fought and bled. From a duty she’d come to believe was sacred. How could it be that they were fleeing Conatus? For years, Ember had longed for a life other than that which her father had planned for her. At Tearmunn, Ember had been granted that once-impossible dream, and she’d only begun to glimpse the wonders that serving Conatus offered. Now, only a few weeks since she’d arrived in Glen Shi
el, she was running away from everything she’d ever wanted.
Everything except the knight who rode beside her. If it weren’t for Barrow, Ember wondered if she would have been able to leave Tearmunn.
Despite her faith in Barrow, Ember wasn’t at ease with the events of the last several hours. It had all happened so fast, and in a blur of such confusion. From the heat of Barrow’s kiss in the woods to the attack on the village that had led to Sorcha’s death, the night had brought Ember heaven and hell. And then there had been Alistair’s unexpected appearance in Ember’s cell. Her mouth went dry when she remembered the way he’d stared at her, his face tight with desire as he took in her half-naked form.
It hardly seemed possible, but Alistair’s words had been even more disconcerting than his intrusion in her chamber. Not only had he spoken of them being together, as lovers, but he was in a frenzy over Conatus itself—the plans Eira had laid, the possibilities of a new order. None of it had made sense.
Ember wanted to face the night with courage, but as the hours of hard riding took their toll, she fought a losing battle against her uncertainty over the choice to leave. Though she tried to remember the reasons she’d been compelled to join the small band of rebels in their escape, Ember wished that the bearer of ill tidings had been someone in whom she had as much faith as she did in Lukasz and Father Michael. But their informant had been a stranger, a woodcutter whose mind seemed frayed at best.
Could any of what that disturbed man had told them be true? Ember would readily admit that Eira exuded strength and ambition, but how could she survive—a rare woman among the leaders of Conatus—without such traits? What could drive her to do anything to put those things most sacred to her at risk?
As Ember pondered these questions, she felt her confidence slipping away. A shout rose in her throat. She could stop this. All she needed to do was call out to Barrow and halt their mad dash from the keep. But when Ember looked at her companion, the panic swelling in her chest lessened. How could she behave with such cowardice?
“That is all your strength and none of mine,” Barrow had told her just before they’d fled Tearmunn.
He’d said more, as well: “And that is why I love you.”
The memory of his words, the quiet strength behind them, kept the early morning chill at bay. Ember welcomed the fresh resolve that she could be the warrior Barrow believed she was.
A sudden shout jolted her out of her thoughts. Toshach had stumbled and squealed, either in pain or fright, knocking into Caber’s shoulder. Barrow had called out as he worked to steady Toshach. Caber pinned his ears back, but Ember quickly checked the young stallion before he could bite the other horse.
Reining Toshach in, Barrow slowed their pace to a walk. The horses blew clouds of hot air, and their chests were lathered from the hard run. Barrow kept Toshach moving forward. He sat tense in the saddle, waiting. A moment later, he swore and swung down from the saddle.
Ember brought Caber to a halt, watching as Barrow knelt by Toshach’s right foreleg.
“He’s favoring this foot,” Barrow told her without looking up. “If we keep riding, he’ll pull up lame soon enough.”
Barrow cursed again. “I’m sorry, Ember. I knew it was a risk to press the horses this hard at night. It’s too easy for them to be injured by stones or branches on a path they can’t see.”
“What should we do?” Ember asked, trying to remain calm.
“I have the means to make an herb poultice that should give Toshach some relief,” Barrow answered. “But we’ll need to rest him for a few hours, and when we continue, we’ll be traveling much more slowly.”
Ember nodded, swallowing the hard lump in her throat.
“We’ve covered a lot of ground,” Barrow said. “With luck, this delay shouldn’t put us in any more danger than we already face.”
He scanned the valley floor that buttressed the narrow path. “Let’s head to that copse of pines. We shouldn’t stay in the open.”
Barrow led Toshach from the path and toward the cluster of trees. Ember stayed in the saddle but followed at a slight distance. Caber snorted and tossed his head, confused and frustrated by the sudden change of pace. Leaning forward to rest her head against the stallion’s neck, Ember murmured soothing sounds until Caber’s protests subsided.
When Barrow led Toshach into the copse, the pair suddenly vanished from sight. Arriving just behind them, Ember was grateful for the shelter the trees provided. Huddled together as if for comfort, the tall pines bent inward. At their upper reaches, the branches and needles tangled together. Ember might have wagered that if she jumped from the top of one tree toward the center of the ring, the branches were so tightly woven they’d break her fall, catching her in a net of fragrant greenery.
“Should I unsaddle him?” Ember asked as she swung out of Caber’s saddle.
Barrow shook his head. “We’re not likely to be surprised by an enemy, but it would be foolish to take anything for granted. We should be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”
Ember settled for freeing Caber of his bridle and giving his ears a good scratching. Barrow gathered herbs and a strip of cloth from Toshach’s saddlebags. He laid the cloth flat on the ground, measuring the herbs into a heap at the center. He hunted the soil until he found a stone that matched the size of his hand and, adding a bit of water from one of the skins, crushed the herbs into a paste.
“Ember.” Barrow beckoned her to join him as he crouched beside Toshach’s injured leg.
She knelt alongside him as Toshach watched them, flicking his ears in curiosity. Barrow held the poultice in one hand and gestured for Ember to crouch beside the stallion. He pressed her palm against the muscles just above Toshach’s fetlock.
Toshach snorted, and Barrow spoke to him gently. “Easy, old boy. We’re only trying to help.”
Barrow looked at Ember. “Do you feel that heat?”
Ember nodded. Beneath Toshach’s coat, his muscles radiated a strange warmth that pulsed against Ember’s skin.
“That’s the injury,” Barrow told her. “The only way to cure it is a good rest, but the poultice will ease the swelling and some of the pain.”
Ember watched as Barrow wrapped the poultice tightly around Toshach’s leg. When he finished, Toshach whickered, lowering his head and blowing into Barrow’s face.
“I know, friend.” Barrow laughed. “It’s not your fault.” He patted the stallion’s bowed neck.
Toshach swished his tail and wandered to the spot where Caber was foraging for spring shoots.
Though the copse of pines felt well protected, it was also very dark. Ember rubbed her arms, trying to chase away the sense of isolation that crept over her.
“We can’t risk a fire,” Barrow told her. “I’m sorry for the chill.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Ember said. “Of course we must stay hidden.”
Though she didn’t want to, she shivered. The tremor hadn’t been brought on by cold, but by a heightened awareness that many more nights of hiding awaited her.
Tentatively, Barrow reached out for Ember. She smiled, surprised that he’d worry she’d do anything other than step into his embrace.
Once Ember was close, Barrow folded her into his arms. She took a deep breath, noticing the way the astringent scent of pine mixed with the warm spice of his skin. He held on to her, his fingers running over her hair, down her neck.
Ember lifted her chin. Barrow looked down at her. She could barely see his face in the darkness. Raising her hand, she found the curve of his cheek and let her fingertips run over the rough stubble of his jaw. When she touched his mouth, his lips parted in a sigh.
“Kiss me,” she breathed, taken aback at her willingness to voice her desire so boldly.
But Barrow was already bending close. She felt his breath on her lips for the barest moment before his mouth touched hers. Her hand moved from his face to wrap around his neck as he kissed her hungrily, discovering the contours of her lips and neck with his
teeth and tongue.
Ember’s limbs began to quake. She gripped Barrow’s shoulders, no longer trusting her legs to hold her upright. As she swayed, Barrow slid his arm around her waist and lifted her off her feet. He was still kissing her when he took them to the ground. Ember looked up at the tangle of branches that stretched over their hiding place like a canopy of ebony lace. Barrow paused, looking down at her, hesitating.
Grasping the front of his tabard, Ember pulled Barrow to her. When his weight pushed her against the earth, Ember swallowed a moan.
“Ember.” Barrow kissed her temple, her ear. His hand moved over her, tracing the shape of her body from her collarbone to her hip. His other arm slid between her back and the ground, lifting her up against him.
“Please,” she murmured, shuddering as this strange longing took hold of her body.
Barrow unbuckled the leather belt that held Silence and Sorrow. It fell away and he slipped his hand beneath her tabard and then her shirt. His fingers rested briefly on her stomach, making her draw a sharp breath. His lips touched hers softly as his hand moved up. When he found the edge of the cloth that bound her breasts to her ribs, he traced the line of fabric.
Ember swore, and he laughed.
“I didn’t know that was a word you used, Lady Morrow.”
“Only when it’s appropriate,” she answered. “I’ll have to take my tabard and shirt off. There’s unwinding to be done.”
She felt his smile when he kissed her again. “Perhaps… or…”
Barrow’s hand moved away from the tight wrapping of cloth around her chest, his fingers traveling along her skin, over her stomach and down. Ember went very still, suddenly unable to breathe.
Her hips moved, and she drank in the cool night air, its contrast sweet against the heat of her blood.
Ember reached for Barrow’s hips, drawing up his tabard. Her palms molded against the strength of his thighs. She slid her fingers up, wanting to learn what it was to touch him.