Ashyn had gone with Ronan and the others to search for the camps holding the children and shadow stalkers. The remaining warriors had spread out, surrounding the bandit camp. Moria was alone with Daigo and Tyrus, lying on her stomach on the same hillock where they'd watched the camp earlier. The wind sighed through the long grass, and she pushed a stalk aside impatiently as it tickled her cheek.
"I can see the warlord's compound," Moria hissed, scowling at the distant hill, now faintly lit. "Why does he not come?"
"It's farther than it looks," Tyrus said. "The night is dark, and the light carries."
"I don't mean to grumble. You have quite enough to worry about."
He smiled over at her. "But I'm not allowed to grumble. You can do it for me, and we'll both feel better."
She shivered.
He shifted closer. "Cold?"
"No, just . . ."
"Anxious?"
She shrugged. "Perhaps. If the warlord doesn't send his men . . ."
"Then we'll find a place to camp and wait until morning. We may have the strength to fight, but not to fight well enough. Not without sleep."
With so little rest, they should hold off until morning anyway, but the longer they waited, the more chance they'd be spotted. Or that Alvar's reinforcements would arrive.
Blast Jorojumo. Why was he not moving more quickly?
Tyrus eased closer and stretched his cloak over her. "Even if you aren't chilled . . ."
"Thank you."
"You could rest." A wry smile. "I'll not start the battle without telling you. I'd never hear the end of it if I tried."
"I'm fine."
A moment's silence. She could feel him watching her as she kept her gaze on the camp.
"Your first battle," he said finally.
"Yours, too."
He nodded, and she could see the fear in his eyes. Not for the battle itself, but for the weight of it, the responsibility of it. And perhaps, yes, just a little for the battle itself. Now she was the one moving closer, tugging his cloak over them. He reached out, his arm going around her waist, pulling her against him, and when she turned to look at him, his face was right there, so close that with the slightest movement, she could--
She kissed him. There was no forethought. No moment of indecision or even of decision. She saw that haunted look in his eyes, and she wanted to make it go away. So she kissed him.
He hesitated only a moment, not even long enough for her to register that he was hesitating, and by the time she did, he was kissing her back, a deep, incredible kiss that banished every awkward, behind-the-village-hall buss from her mind, as if they could not even be called by the same name. This was what she'd been looking for in those fumbling embraces that had left her feeling as if someone had dangled the sweetest honey wine just out of reach, and she could see it, smell it, but could not grasp it, could not taste it. This was what she'd been aching for. A kiss, just like this. A young man, just like this.
When it stopped, she hung there, eyes still closed, feeling drunk, her mind buzzing. And then--
Tyrus's voice. Rough, low. His words, a mumbled, "I'm sorry." His hands tugging his cloak from over them. Her eyes, flying open, seeing his gaze averted. His voice again. "I didn't mean to do that."
Then the shame. The humiliation and the cold wave of anguish, as if in pulling that cloak back, he'd shoved her into an icy pool.
He looked over then. He saw her face, and he reached for her.
"Moria, I--"
She scrambled back. "I'm sorry. I--I didn't mean--"
"It's all right."
No, it wasn't. She'd shamed herself. Dishonored their friendship. Worse, she could barely even consider that. All she thought of was that kiss, and how it felt, and that it was over, and she wasn't ever going to feel it again.
She pushed up on all fours. Tyrus caught her cloak.
"Moria--"
"There was no excuse. I . . . I'm tired and I'm frightened and I wanted . . . I should go."
He held her fast. "No."
When she pulled, as if to slip out of the cloak and escape, he took hold of the front, gripping the sides together, his hand right under her chin.
"No," he said, his voice soft and gentle despite the iron grip. "You did nothing wrong."
"Yes. I . . . I behaved dishonorably. I did something you did not want. Something you'd made clear you did not want and--"
He kissed her. She was still talking, and he pulled her down and kissed her. It was not the same as before. No deep, delicious kiss, but still so sweet, so achingly perfect.
This time, when he pulled away, he held her close.
"You gave me nothing I do not want, Moria," he said, enunciating each word. "You gave me something I cannot have. You aren't mine. You cannot be mine. Not until I am sure . . ." He loosened his grip. "Gavril is my friend."
Moria yanked so hard she would have tumbled onto her back if he'd let go. He didn't.
"Yes, you do not wish to have this conversation," he said. "We've been avoiding it since we met, because I've known if I pressed the matter, you'd walk away. You cannot walk away here, Moria." He waved at the camp. "So settle in, because we are having this discussion, one-sided though it may be."
She seethed and glowered, but she'd do nothing to give them away.
"Gavril is my friend," he said. "And you will notice I do not use the past tense. I do not believe he's done what he seems to have done. That may make me a fool. But in my heart, I don't believe him capable of this, and I don't think you do either."
"Of course I do. He--"
"That was a statement, not a question. Perhaps, again, I'm wrong. Yet I cannot help but wonder what would happen if he were to appear here now and explain everything to your satisfaction. If he could convince you he'd not betrayed his empire. That he'd not betrayed you."
"Any betrayal of me is trivial and unimportant--"
"No, it isn't." He met her gaze. "Not to you."
"If you are implying that Gavril and I--"
"--were lovers? No, I am quite certain there was not so much as an affectionate exchange between you, let alone a kiss. If Gavril knew all along what he had to do for his father, then he'd not have allowed that. But he wanted to. He'd fallen for you and--"
"No."
"Yes. I know him, and as much as you don't want to believe that I know him well, I do, and I could tell his feelings for you--"
"No." She struggled against a stronger objection. She wanted to snarl the word, to yank from his grip and stride away into the night, slough off this conversation and cleanse her mind of it. But all she could safely say was a harshly whispered, "It was not like that. Not at all."
"Perhaps. I hope it's not. But if I believe he had feelings for you, which could be returned should the circumstances change, then I cannot let anything happen between us. It would be dishonorable."
"Your sense of honor is misplaced."
A quirked smile. "Perhaps. But it's still mine to misplace." He settled her cloak around her. "If my reaction felt like rejection, then you have very little experience of kissing. Quite clearly, it was reciprocated. I . . ." His gaze lifted to hers. "What I feel for you . . . It's not anything . . ." He swallowed. "If you were mine and then he came back with an explanation, and you realized that you loved him--"
"I do not."
"I believe you cannot know that until the option is there. Or until it is clear there is no option forthcoming."
"What if I said it didn't matter? That I want to be with you, and even if he came back, explained everything, and declared himself, I would still want to be with you."
That twist of a smile again, this time with a flash of longing and pain in his eyes. "Perhaps I am a coward for not taking a chance, but I don't want my heart broken. If you do believe me a coward, and if that changes your opinion of me, then I regret that more than anything."
"I think you're wrong." She leaned forward and kissed him, a quick press of the lips. "But I respect you for it. And when
you realize you are wrong, if you still feel that way about me . . ."
"I will. I'm certain of that. Until then . . ." He kissed her nose. "Are we still friends?"
"We are." She turned her attention to the warlord's compound, lit on the hilltop. "If I return to complaining about that, will you return to listening to me complain?"
He smiled. "I will."
Soon after, the warlord's men silently appeared from the rear, escorted by the warrior who'd been sent to retrieve them. The warlord--from the Jorojumo clan, with fierce spiders inked on his arms--was a man long into his fifth decade, though age would not keep him off the battlefield. Warlords were hard men, often not achieving their position until near the end of their careers. Even then they'd never rest on the sidelines in a battle. If they did, their men would abandon them.
If Jorojumo had any qualms about working with a prince who'd barely reached manhood, he gave no sign of it. In truth, after decades of peace, there were warriors twice Tyrus's age whose experience was confined to sparring and mock battles. Together, Tyrus and Jorojumo quickly determined a course of action--split the troops, encircle the camp, and ambush the bandits while they slept. It would not be a battle filled with honor, but under the circumstances, they could not worry about that.
And those circumstances, as conveyed to the warlord? Simply that the bandits had, with a larger troop, invaded both Edgewood and Fairview, decimating the towns for reasons not yet known.
Next Tyrus assigned positions to the warriors. When he did not include Moria, she presumed it was because her position was clear. At his side. She said as much as they walked away from the others afterward.
"No," he said. "You'll be here."
She stopped walking. "Where?"
"Here."
He pointed to the hillock where they'd spent most of the night. He didn't look at her. Nor did he stop walking, and she had to run to catch up.
"You're keeping me out of battle?" she said.
"Yes."
"Was it something the warlord said when you conferred with him? I know he cannot have an issue with women wielding blades. One of his warriors is a woman. I saw her."
"He has no issue with you on a battlefield. I do." He stopped her protest with a raised hand. "I did not tell you sooner because if I had, I'd never have heard the end of it. You've no time to argue now."
She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't force words past the boiling rage. Beside her, Daigo snarled, his tail lashing.
"Watch over her," Tyrus said to the wildcat.
"And who'll watch over you?" she said. "That is what I planned to do, Tyrus. Not pretend I am a warrior. Not get in anyone's way. I am no trained fighter. But I can fight--for you. That's all I wanted."
"And that is exactly what you'll do. From here. With your throwing daggers and your wildcat."
"Then why am I wearing . . ." She plucked angrily at her armor.
"Because I want you to be safe."
He pulled her closer, leaning in to kiss her forehead, but she squirmed away. He sighed and released her.
"If you think I'm doing it because you're a girl, and you hate me for it, then that is your prerogative. But it has nothing to do with your sex, and I'd hope by now you'd realize that has no import with me. You have no experience on a battlefield. And yes, neither have I, but I have trained for it my whole life. Also you are a Keeper. If I was to allow you out there, fodder for a bandit's blade . . . ?" He shook his head. "I'd not be fit to lead battle hounds. I'd like you to keep an eye out for your sister, in case she returns early with Ronan. If you can also watch over me, I would appreciate that." A wry smile. "I fear I'll need the help."
He leaned in again, as if to kiss her cheek, but again she would not let him. With another soft sigh, he squeezed her shoulder and went to join the others.
As she watched him go, her stomach twisted. Daigo's tail whipped against her.
He's right. You know that. If you expected anything else, you do not know him very well. Call him back. Give him a kiss. Wish him luck. Tell him you'll watch over him.
"Tyrus?" she whispered as loud as she dared.
He didn't hear her. She took a few running steps. "Tyrus?"
Jorojumo strode over to greet him, and Moria knew she'd lost her chance. She hovered there, waiting for Tyrus to turn, to look her way, so she could mouth an apology, smile, and tell him all was fine. He spoke to the warlord. Then they took their men and walked their separate ways, and Tyrus never looked back.
TWENTY-ONE
When Tyrus claimed she had no experience, it had taken all Moria's self-restraint not to snarl back. Had he fought shadow stalkers? Thunder hawks? She'd even battled a slaver's mercenaries. How dare he say she'd no experience.
But as the battle unfolded, she realized he was right. She had envisioned herself fighting alongside Tyrus as she had with Gavril. That showed how little she knew of a true battlefield. Even watching Tyrus's back from a distance was a challenge. If she'd been immersed in that chaos . . .
And it was chaos. There was no other word for it. Perhaps that shocked her most of all. When bards told tales of clashing armies, she envisioned rows of warriors, fighting as if they were in a festival demonstration, paired off and maintaining position.
This was madness. Bloody, thunderous, stinking madness. The clang of swords and the grunts and screams of hits. Blood arcing through the air. Blood spattering over the tents and the grass. Clouds of dust and dirt obscuring the fighters. The warriors themselves were blurs of armor and steel, fighting this bandit only to be hit from behind by that one.
With the warlord's men, they'd expected to outnumber the mercenaries. Not by enough to make it a quick and bloodless routing, but enough to make it an easy battle. Except another twenty bandits had arrived almost immediately. They fought with blades and whips and cudgels, ignoring the warrior code.
It was a treacherous, filthy, backstabbing brawl. And Tyrus was caught in the middle of it.
He may have never fought on a battlefield either, but Moria would wager anyone seeing him would not believe it. She had worried about how he would do, after his response to the deaths in Fairview proved that battle training did not equate with battle readiness.
He was magnificent. More skilled with a blade than any warrior on the field. The first mercenary who rushed him was nearly cleaved in two before he could even swing, and that early victory seemed to add fuel to Tyrus's flame. He cut down one opponent after another. As he did, though, he was drawn deeper into battle. Farther out of range of her daggers.
"We need to get closer," she whispered to Daigo as two fighters blocked Tyrus from view.
Daigo grunted but did not move.
"I know he's handling himself well, but he told me to watch over him. I can't do that from here."
She could feel Daigo's gaze on her, and in that moment, she had no doubt there was a warrior's spirit inside him, and that it was considering, assessing. She might have a duty to watch over Tyrus, but Daigo's was to watch over her.
"I won't join the battle," she said. "I'm not ready. I see that now. I just want to be ready for him--in case he needs me."
Daigo chuffed and rose. He peered out at the field. Then he snorted, his yellow eyes narrowing. Moria turned to look and--
"Tyrus?" She scrambled up. "Tyrus."
He was gone. She started forward. Daigo caught her trouser leg and growled, telling her to pause and consider. Tyrus had not vanished from the field but simply from her sight. The battlefield was an amorphous thing, always contracting and expanding, and it had constricted again. Where Tyrus had stood, there was a knot of flashing swords, so dense Moria could not tell who was fighting whom, let alone pick out one warrior in the seething mass. She looked for his helmet. Surely she'd see that red dragon helmet. Yet she could not.
Tyrus was there. He had to be.
She crept through the long grass and around the sparse trees. She had her cloak on, hood pulled tight to cover her light hair. It did not, however, ma
sk her face, and she'd gone about half the distance when one of the warlord's men--a young warrior--looked her way. As he did, his opponent lifted his sword, taking advantage of the momentary distraction. Without thinking, Moria flung her dagger square at the man's chest, as she'd been taught, and it was only as the dagger left her hand that she realized what she'd done.
The dagger hit its target. It pierced the simple leather tunic the bandit wore and drove squarely into his heart. His eyes widened. She saw the realization in those eyes. The horror and the fear. And she saw him fall.
She stumbled to a halt, staring at the downed bandit. He lay ten paces away, his mouth working, his fingers fumbling blindly for the dagger. He pulled it free, and the blood gushed, soaking his tunic, running off him in torrents. His life blood. Spilling on the ground, unstoppered by that dagger.
No, by her dagger.
I've killed a man.
She had fought her father's corpse and banished the shadow stalker within. She'd helped bring down the thunder hawk. With the slavers they'd fought on the road, while she'd injured two, the only man who'd died had not been by her hand. The scene flashed in her mind, Gavril's blade cleaving through a man, his look of shock as he realized he'd killed him. Shock and, yes, horror, and now that's what she felt, watching this bandit die.
I've killed a man.
Moria looked out over the battlefield. At the men on the ground. Dead and dying. Some bandits. Some the warlord's men. A couple of their own--warriors she'd traveled with for days now. There lay Kinuye, who'd recently married and carried a lock of his new wife's hair. There lay Reynard, whose young son just won his first riding tournament.
"My lady."
It was the young man she'd saved. He was rushing to her side, awkwardly bowing as he hurried over.
"Thank you, my lady."
She looked at him, her gaze struggling to focus. Then she glanced at the bandit, lying still on the ground, her dagger at his side.
I regret that I had to do it. But I do not regret what I've done. I cannot.
Her gaze swept the battlefield. Her ears rang with the clang of swords, but they did not miss the softer sounds--the gasps and the grunts and the cries of pain.
I regret that all of this had to happen. But it did. They die and a town is saved. That is the warrior's duty. To die so that others may live.
She took a deep breath and clutched her remaining dagger. Daigo sprinted off to retrieve her other blade.