Now, if he occupied this keep, how would he go about defending it? Hal honored the crumbling wall by entering through the ruins of the old gate instead of climbing up and over.
There wasn’t much left of buildings inside the wall, either. It appeared that the original structure was built largely of wood, and centuries of punishing weather had returned it to the earth. All in all, to call it a “keep” was being generous. This reminded him more of manors and hunting lodges in the gentle south of Arden, built for beauty, not for strength.
Hal stood, hands on hips, studying on it. The best way to defend this place was to prevent the enemy from reaching the walls in the first place. He’d clear away the trees that had crept in, all around, then position bowmen at the corners with—
“I’d dig a moat,” somebody said, “and fill it with watergators.”
Hal spun around, groping for a sword that wasn’t there. It was Gray. She was perched in a niche in the wall, one knee bent, the other leg extended, a sketchpad on her lap.
“That would be a start,” he said. “But it wouldn’t keep them out for long.”
“At least I’d get to see some of them eaten,” Gray said, displaying her fierce smile.
“It puzzles me,” Hal said, picking up a loose stone and tossing it over the truncated wall. “How did they ever expect to defend it?”
“It never had to be defended. This is a relic from a different time. It was once the council house for representatives from all of the Seven Realms. The Gray Wolf queen convened them here once a year, at the summer solstice. The entire vale would be carpeted in pavilions flying banners from the different realms. It was like a massive fair, with people wearing their ceremonial garb. They held tournaments. . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“I’ve never heard about that, ma’am,” Hal said honestly. It was difficult to imagine a time when Arden and the Fells had a shared history. “That must have been a long time ago.”
“It was. Before the Wizard Wars. Before the Breaking. Before the New Line of queens. I’m sure the scholars in the empire like to downplay that history. I’ll wager that Gerard knew about it, though. That’s why he sent you here this summer to destroy it.”
Running her hand over the stones, she said wistfully, “According to the old manuscripts, the interior was like a woodland cathedral. At midsummer, the sun never quite dipped below the horizon, so they would dance all night in the twilight.”
“You know your history,” Hal said.
“The upland clans say that it’s important to remember the old stories,” Gray said. “As soon as you forget a story, it comes around again, and you have to relive it.”
Gray was obviously proud of her homeland’s past glory. Hal found himself feeling a bit guilty about Arden’s role in its decline.
Empires come and go, he thought. Dynasties rise and fall. It’s the way the world is made. It’s nobody’s fault.
His father had said that the never-ending war against the north was rooted in King Gerard’s personal grudge against the witch queen. Captain Gray claimed it was because Queen Raisa had spurned Gerard’s offer of marriage.
It’s not worth it, he thought. From what he’d seen, there was nothing up here to justify the spending of more lives and treasure. We should leave the north alone and consolidate and manage the territory we have. Let the thanes tend their farms and rebuild their livelihoods. If we reestablished trade with the north, everyone would prosper, north and south.
He hoped this change of heart wasn’t a result of the fact that he was falling hard for his gaoler.
He tried to tell himself that it was simply a recognition of her natural talent for command. She clearly had the respect of her soldiers, and made sure they were taken care of. Even better, she seemed to have even less interest in politics and social niceties than he did. He loved the way she gave no quarter in the practice yard, fighting each match with grim determination, as if it were a life-and-death struggle.
He loved the way she threw back her head and laughed until tears leaked from her eyes. The way she tracked down Bosley and confronted him when he treated her like something less than a real soldier.
He loved those long legs and her tightly muscled—
No.
She is an enemy soldier, he repeated to himself for the thousandth time. He might be attracted to her, but she had no interest in him, except, perhaps, as a sparring partner. She was brusque, abrupt, openly hostile at times. They’d be having a conversation, and they’d seem to be getting on well, and then it was as if she suddenly remembered who he was, and that was the end of detente.
Hal looked up and Gray was looking down at him, her hands on her knees, studying him with the intensity she brought to every task. He realized he’d fallen silent for too long.
“What are you drawing?” he said, eager to change the subject. He was always needing to change the subject with her.
She held the sketchpad out to him. He took it and studied what she’d drawn. It was clearly a rough sketch, but the structural detail was amazing. She’d rendered the ruins as they were, but she’d extended them with smoky lines to create a ghostly image of the building as it had once been.
“You are . . . I am . . . I had no idea you were an artist,” Hal said.
“You don’t have to sound so surprised, Captain,” she said. “Anyway, how would you know? I don’t have much time for art these days. I think my legacy will be written in blood, not in oils and watercolors.”
“This war won’t last forever,” Hal said.
“The question is whether I’ll survive the peace.” She slid a look at him. “Maybe the key is to live in the moment. It’s not like we can control the future anyway.”
A year ago, he might have disagreed. He’d been raised to believe that if a man worked hard, played by the rules, and kept his word, he could make a good life for himself. It was that kind of thinking that had brought him here.
Arden always needs capable officers, he thought. They recruited talent from every subject realm. Gray was clearly devoted to her homeland, but she seemed like a practical sort. Maybe he could put in a word once the war was over and find her a command somewhere, maybe in the down realms.
Gray began gathering up her drawing supplies and sliding them into her carry bag. “You sure spend a lot of time thinking, Captain Matelon,” she said. “That’s unusual in a southerner.”
“Don’t quit working,” Hal said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I’ll go, and leave you to it.”
“It’s getting too dark to see now, anyway.” Gray leapt nimbly down from her seat on the wall, setting her carry bag at her feet. She leaned against the wall next to him, her shoulder just touching his, seeming in no hurry to go back. As the wind sent eddies of snow swirling from the tops of the walls, Hal was suddenly aware of how alone they were, in the ruins of the old council house at the dying of the day. Although he could still hear the faint sound of voices from the campsite, it felt like a million miles away. He wavered, pondering what to do.
The truth was, he wanted to kiss this northern girl, and go on from there. He wanted her more than any woman he’d ever known. It had started back in Delphi, and it had only gotten worse. At the same time, every element of his upbringing, every rational bone in his body said that it would be a big mistake. Probably the mistake of a lifetime.
This wasn’t like him—it wasn’t like him at all. Maybe it was the mountain air, or the witchery all around him, but he needed to leave this place before he did or said something dishonorable or unforgivable or suicidal.
He couldn’t say why Captain Gray got under his skin the way she did. Though strong and well made, she was no great beauty, compared to the women he’d been introduced to at court. Yet, when they were together, she elbowed everything else out of his mind.
“Matelon?”
He looked up, and she was studying him with her amber eyes. Did she know that she had this effect on him? He prayed to all the gods she did not.
?
??Would you like to kiss me?”
This came as such a surprise—more of an ambush, really—that it took a while for Hal to organize a response. It didn’t help that the blood had deserted his brain and redeployed to other regions.
Was this a trick question? The best response he could manage was a hoarse “Why do you ask?”
She huffed her breath out. “Because you keep staring at my lips.”
Hal’s cheeks burned. “Oh. Ah. I’m sorry if I gave the impression that I—”
“Was I mistaken, then?”
Hal opened his mouth to lie, and then stopped, and shook his head. “No. You’re not mistaken.”
“Oh.” Other girls he’d known might blush and flutter, but not Gray. He waited for her to punch him instead, or laugh, or tell him how stupid and arrogant he was.
Instead, she said, “Well, then. Go ahead, I don’t mind.”
“You don’t mind?” This was totally outside Hal’s admittedly limited wooing experience.
“No. I don’t mind,” she said with a shrug.
“Oh. Well, do you want to?”
“Forget it,” she growled, spots of pink coloring her cheeks. “Let’s walk back. I’ve spent less time dickering over a horse.”
Hal’s father always said that a good soldier adapts to a changing battlefield.
“Wait.”
When she turned back, he cradled her chin with his gloved hands and kissed her. Her lips were warm and rough and perfect. Encouraged, he slid his arms around her and pulled her close, extending the kiss. They were of nearly equal height, and they fit together like the two halves of—of something fine. Even through several thick layers of clothing he noticed the way her breasts pressed into him—he’d thought she was all muscle—and the tidy way she curved down to her waist. She smelled like fresh air and sweat, metal and horse—perfect.
When they finally broke apart, she studied him a moment, then took his face between her warm hands and kissed him again, long and deep, their hearts thumping between them.
With a kind of growl, Hal pinned her to the wall and answered her with a longer, deeper kiss of his own. And then it was like a kind of madness took them, a frenzy of kissing, a sudden frustration with the layers of cold-weather clothes that separated them.
Hal wasn’t a total novice, but he wasn’t a deft hand at this, either. He should have made a better job of it, since she wore men’s clothes, after all. Finally, he yanked her shirt free of her breeches and thrust his hands underneath. His hands were rough with calluses and they must have been cold, but she didn’t seem to mind. Instead, she slid down the wall, pulling him down with her, then rolled on top so she sat astride him, pawing at his clothing, fumbling with his shirt buttons, trying to find a way in. When she ripped his shirt open, he heard buttons plopping into the snow all around them. And then she was kissing and nipping at every bit of bare flesh she could get at. Though still fully clothed, they were somehow belly to belly, skin to skin.
He was beginning to regret not being the sort of man who carried a sheath around. Besides, how could he possibly go about asking whether she might be willing to—?
“Captain Gray!” someone shouted, frighteningly near at hand. “Where are you?”
“Matelon!” somebody else shouted.
They sprang apart like bolts shot from a bow. Gray’s cheeks were flushed, and her braid was all but pulled apart. There followed a frenzy of buttoning and fastening and tying and tidying. Hal buttoned his coat over his buttonless shirt just as a mob of bluejackets boiled around the corner of the gate, Bosley in the lead.
“There you are!” Bosley’s eyes swept the scene inside the perimeter. By now it was all but too dark to see. Which was a blessing, since it made the spot where the snow was packed down less obvious. Hal planted his foot over two dark spots in the snow. Buttons.
Bosley’s glare fastened on Hal. “What are you two doing out here in the dark?” he demanded. He sounded more like somebody’s enraged father than like a betrayed lover.
Hal decided he’d better let Captain Gray answer that question. When he didn’t respond, Bosley turned on Gray. “You shouldn’t be out here alone with him! What’s the matter with you? If the queen were to see you like this, she—” With that, he stopped on his own, as if unable to find a path forward.
Gray slowly turned her head, as if she couldn’t believe her ears. “Are you addressing me, Lieutenant?”
“Somebody needs to speak up, for safety’s sake,” Bosley said, looking to the bluejackets for support and getting none.
“And you’re thinking that someone is you?” Captain Gray cocked her head, as if she was just now figuring that part out. “You are out of line, Lieutenant. How and where I choose to interrogate a prisoner of the crown is none of your concern.”
Of all the terrifying stories Hal had heard about northern torture tactics, this particular interrogation technique had never been mentioned.
“You expect us to believe that you were interrogating him?”
“I have absolutely no expectations of you, Bosley, except that you return to your tent and stay there. While there, I suggest that you study the Officer’s Rules of Good Order. Pay special attention to the chapter on the chain of command.” She waved her hand, dismissing him.
Bosley stood frozen for a long moment, fists clenched. Then got off a salute and stalked away. As he passed Hal, he delivered a look so venomous that Hal all but made the sign of Malthus.
Bosley means to kill me before we get wherever we’re going, Hal thought. I need to be gone before that happens.
34
AT CROSS-PURPOSES
Lyss crawled into her tent, her heart still pounding, the blood still raging through her veins. Her lips felt slightly bruised from kissing, her skin sanded and sensitive from Matelon’s touch. Desire was still burning so hot inside her it seemed she would never put it out.
Should I go out and roll in the snow? Would that help?
Her mind was a battleground of conflict—the memory of her guard’s shocked and worried faces, embarrassment at being surprised like that, the eerie sense that she’d been possessed by the kind of romping jilt who would take advantage of a prisoner of war. She wanted to do things with Matelon that she’d never contemplated before.
This was mingled with an intense desire to push Bosley over a cliff.
When my mother told me to win Matelon over, this is probably not what she had in mind, Lyss thought. But she’d given Lyss an impossible task: keep the thaneling prisoner, but make friends with him.
What must Matelon be thinking? Did this confirm everything he’d heard about the women in the north? He’d seemed enthusiastic enough, but maybe he felt like he had to go along. Was he worried about what might happen next or was he cynically looking forward to it?
Her answer came two days later when Matelon bolted. Lyss had called a halt for the midday. Matelon went off for a piss, and never came back. He’d staked his pony a short distance away, and so it was some time before he was missed. His hands were still shackled, but that didn’t stop him.
It took the best part of that day to track him down. He was smart. Instead of retracing their trail back south, he’d continued east, apparently planning to round Alyssa Peak and cross the plateau to Spiritgate. He knew the territory, after all—he’d come that way in the fall with Karn’s army. But one rider is easy to spot on the expanse of a snowy plain. When they ran him down, it took four soldiers to subdue him, and all parties ended up bruised and bloody. When he was finally pinned, Lyss had to intervene personally to prevent Bosley from pounding him to a pulp.
When the healers were done with him, Lyss went to see him in the makeshift tent they’d put up for the purpose. He was sitting on a trunk, his manacled hands dangling between his knees. They’d stripped him to the waist so they could wrap his broken ribs and get at his many cuts and bruises. Around his neck, he wore a silver thimble on a chain—an odd ornament for a soldier.
The muscles that layered his shou
lders and arms were inscribed with the remnants of past battles overlaid with the fresh wounds of today. Lyss longed to trace that history with her fingers so she could read the man beneath.
Haven’t you done enough damage?
Matelon looked up, and caught her staring. “My swordmaster used to say that the scars a man carries are the evidence that he let someone get too close.”
“He was right,” Lyss said. “But that’s how we fight in the north—in close.” She paused, and when he didn’t respond, said, “You shouldn’t have run.”
“You should have let me go.” He looked away.
“I can’t do that. The queen forbade me to . . . The queen made it clear how important it was to keep you from escaping.”
“What do you—what does your queen intend to do with me?”
“I don’t think she knows. It depends on what happens between your father and the new king.”
“So I’m to be imprisoned until that’s sorted out? That could take years.”
“This war won’t last forever,” she said, echoing Matelon’s words in the ruins of the old castle. She paused, and, then, in a rush, said, “Captain, I’m sorry about the other night.”
His eyes met hers. Steady, honest eyes that made her feel worse than ever. “I’m not.”
“That should never have happened. It was wrong to put you in that position.”
“I rather liked that position while it lasted,” he said, without a trace of a smile. If he’d smirked, she would have had to kill him. “I didn’t run because of what happened in the ruins. In fact, that was the one thing that might have persuaded me to stay.”
“I should not have misled you about what can happen between us,” Lyss said, the words all but catching in her throat. Why was it so damned hard to do the right thing?
“Didn’t you say that the key is to live in the moment?” Matelon said.
“That’s the excuse people use for foolish behavior.”
“I am not a giddy person,” Matelon said, and the whole notion was so ludicrous that Lyss might have laughed if she hadn’t had this big aching hole inside. “But I’ve never met anyone like you. We have so much in common, and yet you’ve made me question everything I thought I knew. It’s . . .” He looked down at his hands. “It’s painful, but I want to keep on with it. I’m teachable, and I think we could be good together in whatever way makes sense to you.”