Destined for a King (26 page)

Torch's thoughts whirled with the possibilities. Between the victims within the keep and Hawk's casualties, the lords of the surrounding keeps found their forces weakened. Vulnerable. And how many of the dead came from Magnus's hordes at Highspring Moor?

Torch had always figured he'd have to win allies to his cause among the others if he wanted his attempt to take the palace to be anything other than suicide. But now…

Now he just might possess the numbers to take a second keep by force—as long as he had men enough to hold it. That meant he'd have to move before his enemies had time to regain their strength.

The throbbing in his wrist reminded him he wouldn't be undertaking any campaigns before the autumn rains. Griffin was in no condition to help, either. As for Kestrel…No one knew when he'd be back.

A serving girl handed Hawk a flagon of ale, and he took a healthy quaff, brushing his arm across his mouth before addressing Torch. “You must also have a tale to tell. By all appearances, you've taken this holding single-handedly.”

Torch accepted his own drink, but set the mug aside. “Not quite single-handedly, no, and a great deal of luck was involved.” He quickly recounted the events of the previous night, including what Thorne had told him this morning.

When he was done, Hawk scratched his chin. “I know Thorne isn't anything like Lord Tarr”—he turned to the side and spit into the rushes—“but I never expected him to take your side so easily, even if you do have his daughter.”

Torch nodded. He'd spent the morning pondering the same question. “In part, it comes down to him caring for his people. He saw I treat them fairly, while Hammerfell let his men do as they wished.”

Hawk frowned. “It can't just be that.”

“Do you remember our friend Rand?”

“The sniveling rat from the dungeon? What of him?”

“Thorne called him the king's sneak.” When Magnus stole the throne, he'd ensured his position by granting lands to his friends. He'd planted his favorites in keeps all over the Eastern Strongholds, but he'd also planted spies to keep his friends loyal. “As long as Rand was lurking to report everything back to the Usurper, Thorne had to play the convincing loyal liege. Perhaps in the beginning he was the Usurper's man, but over the years, his loyalties have shifted to the people who keep his life comfortable.”

Hawk downed the rest of his ale. “Too bad I didn't get a glimpse of Lord Tarr last night. I'd have liked to introduce him to the business end of my sword.”

Torch glanced about the hall once more. In every corner, his Brothers were drinking and laughing. “Tell me, were there truly no casualties on our side?”

“There's one, in a sense.”

“Who?”

“Wolf.”

“That's impossible. She came with me.” As Hawk well knew. But Torch hadn't seen Wolf this morning. In fact, distracted as he was by his wife and her gentle ministrations, he hadn't seen Wolf since she faced Hammerfell.

“I came across her this morning in the woods. She's leaving us.”

“Why?” But Torch thought he knew.

“She told me she can't face you until she's finished the job she should have done last night. She said you'd understand.”

The gods only knew he understood the kind of pride and deep-seated sense of honor that drove her. He could ask for no greater qualities from any of his followers. But losing a fighter of her skill was still a blow, especially when he still had so many battles ahead of him. His enemy may have come out of this venture weakened, but so had he.

And yet, he now possessed a strength he'd never expected to gain.

Even as that thought struck him, the atmosphere in the hall changed. A glance to the stairs showed him why. Her hair unbound about her shoulders, Calista descended the steps. Though she wore a nondescript gown of serviceable linen, his pulse spiked as if she were dressed for her wedding. Over the heads of the revelers, her gaze collided with his, and his heart gave another jump.

She'd come seeking him. He knew it as clearly as he knew his own name. He rose from his seat and elbowed his way through his men to meet her at the bottom of the staircase. Closer to, he could see the tinge of purple beneath her eyes, traces of their late night. Images of everything they'd done to wring pleasure from the other flitted through his mind, and his groin grew heavy, ready for more.

But then he caught the glint of seriousness in her eye. “What is it?”

For a moment, she seemed to look through him before coming back to herself. “Brother Tancrid.”

“What of him?” he asked, half dreading the reply.

Again that faraway expression. “He's returned from his journey.”

“How do you know this?”

She raised a hand to cover the dark line of the scar down her neck. “I can hear him in my mind. He wishes me to tell you he's found the secret. We can make Blackbriar impregnable. We can make weapons no one can break. Like Griffin's sword.”

Adamant.
A thrill of excitement bolted through him like lightning. “Can we depose the Usurper? Tell me you saw that much.”

“No one can foresee the future.” Even her voice sounded watery, as if he were listening to it from the bottom of a deep well. “I can only see some of the path, a little at a time.”

“What must we do?” Everything else fell away. He no longer even felt the weight of the splint on his wrist. “Tell me.”

“We will require both fire and ice. The fire, I can call.”

“And the ice?” His fast-beating heart began to dip, as suspicion grew in his gut.

“We cannot obtain ice until the winter.”

Just as he thought. “And until then?”

“We must hold firm where we are.”

With his enemies weakened, he could do that. He could continue the work of shoring up Blackbriar's defenses in the meantime. Along with his brother, he would take the intervening time to heal. They would build on their strength in preparation for the battles ahead of them.

As long as he had Calista, he could not fail.

To all readers whom George R. R. Martin traumatized with one death or another in his
A Song of Ice and Fire
series—which is a roundabout way of dedicating this book to myself, along with the rest of you.

Dear readers,

The first acknowledgment belongs to you. Thank you so much for reading Torch and Calista's story. I hope you enjoyed it. Ever since I read
The Lord of the Rings
as a teenager (and re-read it every year for longer than I ought to admit), I've always secretly wanted to write fantasy. This has been building up in me for a while, to the point where, once I started writing, I drafted half the book in three weeks.

To find out what I have coming up next, please subscribe to my newsletter. A sign-up link, along with other social media links, is available on my website:
ashlynmacnamara.net
.

Want to help an author out? Reviews, both the positive and the negative, are one way a reader can get involved. Please consider taking a few minutes to post your thoughts on this book.

And now I hope you'll bear with me while I send out a few thank-yous.

As always, to my wonderful agent, Sara Megibow for being there and believing. To my amazing editor Junessa Viloria for the same.

To Caryl, Lizzie, Clemence, Carina, Matan, and Paula, thank you for putting up with my kvetching and for nagging me to keep going. To Caryl and Lizzie, especially for yelling at me to keep writing.

To the Secret Curtsey Society and the Lalala Sisterhood for their moral support.

To my husband and daughters for putting up with the amount of time I spend living in my own little dreamworld.

Until next time!

Cheers!

Ashlyn XOXOXOXO

Destined for a King

To Lure a Proper Lady

What a Lady Craves

What a Lady Demands

What a Lady Requires

A Most Scandalous Proposal

A Most Devilish Rogue

PHOTO: NICOLE MORISCO

A
SHLYN
M
ACNAMARA
is the
USA Today
bestselling author of
Destined for a King,
To Lure a Proper Lady, What a Lady Requires, What a Lady Demands, What a Lady Craves, A Most Devilish Rogue,
and
A Most Scandalous Proposal.
She lives in the wilds of suburbia outside of Montreal with her husband and two teenage daughters. When not writing, she looks for other excuses to neglect the housework, among them knitting, reading, and wasting time on the Internet in the guise of doing research.

ashlynmacnamara.net

Facebook.com/​AuthorAshlynMacnamara

@ashlyn_mac

by Ashlyn Macnamara

Coming soon from Loveswept

O
N THE ROAD TO
H
IGHSPRING
M
OOR

T
HE THIRD MONTH OF THE TWENTY-FIFTH YEAR OF
M
AGNUS
V
ANDAL'S REIGN

In spite of the cruel ropes biting into her wrists and ankles, Jerrah smiled into the darkness. Her captors had underestimated her. Typical men.

On the packed earth floor, the Adamant blade of her dagger glimmered against the shadows, a beacon of hope. If only she could get to it.

Mere moments before, shouts had rung out over the camp of the king's armies. Voices raised in argument and then the ringing clash of swords. Her guards had rushed out to see what had transpired, giving her this chance.

Her only chance before they delivered her to the king.

She curled in on herself then straightened, rolling and wriggling like a worm across the ground.

Outside a voice distinguished itself from the melee. “Whore like that, the king ain't goin' t' know.”

“Orders,” another answered. “She's not t' be touched.”

“I can think o' a thing or two I can do to her 'n it wouldn't show.”

By the Three Gods, they were fighting over her—or her body at least. Well, her captors knew her identity—bright hair the color of newly polished copper gave her away the moment they'd pulled off her helmet—but that hardly mattered. They'd never consider her blood to be royal. To them, she was nothing more than the bastard daughter of a lord's leman, no better than her mother and free for the taking.

Let them fight; just a little longer, and she'd show anyone who tried to touch her. She'd repay him with a swift death.

She arched her back, craning her neck so she could look over her shoulder. Behind her, the blade shone with its own light just out of reach.

A wiggle, a slight adjustment of her hips, and she groped again—carefully extending her fingers. The dagger's deadly edge would shear through flesh and bone as easily as it would her bonds.

Fast numbing fingers closed about the handle. She arched again, bringing her feet behind her to form a circle. Her eyes ached with the effort of watching what she was doing at this awkward angle. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead, and a drop trickled along her spine.

Just a little farther.

There.

The rope about her ankles yielded beneath the Adamant blade's slightest pressure. Her feet prickled as the blood rushed to her lower extremities. If only she could manage to free her wrists as easily.

She released the dagger and twisted to catch it between her feet. It skittered away on the packed earth floor. Damn.

A sudden sharp gust of wind set the tent flap to snapping. She froze, and another icy drop slipped between her shoulder blades. Outside, her guards faced each other behind drawn weapons.

Gods, let their dispute occupy them for just a little longer—enough to free her hands.

She hitched her body after the dagger, each movement bringing her closer to the tent's entrance.

A crash of metal meeting metal reached her ears.
Yes, keep fighting.

Though their confrontation might well draw the attention of the rest of the camp. There must be an encampment of sorts. She'd enough experience traveling with her brothers' band of men to explain the familiar sounds she'd heard ever since she regained her senses.

Her brother…

Not now.

She'd ridden into battle behind his banner. She'd been taken, and Griffin…

Not now.

She'd dwell on those thoughts later—if there
was
a later.

Her booted toe touched the hilt of her dagger. Bringing her feet together, she trapped the weapon, the blade angling upward.
Yes.
Now if only she could bend her body far enough…

The canvas whipped back—not the wind this time. A thrill of fear spiked through her. A figure loomed in the entrance, blood dripping from his sword.

His leer revealed a broken front tooth. “Ain't that an interestin' display? I wager I can bend ye into all manner o' shapes before I'm done wit' ye.”

Her pulse fluttered in her neck, but she clamped her lips together and deepened the arch in her back. Sinews stretched. The blade bit into the skin at her wrists, and blood oozed in a warm stream down the side of her hand.

The guard advanced. “Don't ye talk? No matter. I'll make ye scream yet.”

At least he didn't realize what she was doing. She kept her gaze pinned on him. One more stretch. One last attempt.

Without warning, her bonds loosened. She clenched her jaw against the sigh of relief that tried to burst from her lips.

The guard lunged. Wild energy vibrating through her, she rolled before his considerable weight could pin her. Numb fingers tingled as she grasped her weapon once more. One clear stroke. That was all she needed.

He grabbed a fistful of hair, and several strands parted company with her scalp. “Oh, good. I likes me a fighter.”

Silent as a cat pouncing on prey, she brought the bitter edge of her blade to his throat. No hesitation. No thinking. She couldn't afford either. One slice, quick and clean—or it would have been but for the sudden onrush of blood.

The fingers in her hair slackened, and the guard slumped.

Heart slamming into her ribs, Jerrah leapt to her feet and bolted from the tent. The other guard's body lay unmoving before the entrance, but how long before the others arrived? Sentries, soldiers, Magnus's men. Enemies all who would just as soon kill her as rape her.

Their horses grazed on picket lines amid the circle of tents.

Shouts rang out, but she ignored them as she sprinted to the nearest steed. No saddle, no bridle, no time. She cut the picket rope, heaved herself onto the animal's broad back, and dug in her heels.

The beast reared and set off at a gallop, tearing headlong between tents, leaping guy ropes and low bushes.

Something whizzed past her head. An arrow? She wouldn't look back. Crouching low over the horse's neck, its mane whipping into her eyes, she urged it to race blindly into the night and prayed for the shadows to swallow her whole.

The first rays of dawn peeking over the eastern hills found Jerrah perched high in a tree, hugging herself against the early morning chill. The front of her studded leather jerkin was stiff with the dried blood of her victim, but she pushed aside the reminder of his life pumping red and warm over her hands.

She required all her senses to focus on the road. Her mount had found it, naturally lured by the easiest path, likely the one that led home. After a league or more at a dead gallop, she'd abandoned the beast with a smack on its haunches to keep it moving. Anything to draw off the pursuit closing in on her heels, for by then the rumble of hoofbeats had echoed in her ears. She'd prayed to the Three Gods that she might reach cover before her enemy discovered her ruse.

So far, so good.

All night, riders had cantered up and down the road, but apparently no one had thought to search the woods to either side.

From her vantage, the growing light revealed the ribbon of pounded earth and crumbling paving stones a furlong off. Wide enough for a farm wagon, it must once have been a broad thoroughfare. But where did it lead?

Jerrah had spent the entire night sizing up her situation and drawing a few unfortunate conclusions. She was alone, cold, and without coin. Hunger gnawed at her belly, while thirst scraped at the back of her throat. Worse, the bright red of her hair, along with her bloodied gear and shining dagger made her easy to recognize. The moment any of Magnus's men spotted her, she was a dead woman.

She ought to make for her Brotherhood's lair on the borders of Lord Tarr's stronghold. Any survivors of the battle her brother had mounted against Magnus Ironfist's liegemen would have made for the sanctuary.

Survivors.
The word echoed through her mind like the tolling of a bell. Were there any? The field had been lost when Magnus's men had dragged her from her horse.

And Griffin…Her twin brother had taken a wicked sword-cut to the shoulder. The shock of that blow had frozen her in place. It had allowed for her capture. Even now, she could close her eyes and relive the horror of witnessing that whistling blade crashing into Griffin's flesh. The wound could easily have been fatal.

And what of her older brother, their leader? What of his plans? For their battle had been a diversion so Torch could capture a keep for himself. She could strike out for Blackbriar Keep, as well, though she had no idea which direction to take. East, certainly, but the road seemed to run north and south, and striking off into the wild with no resources seemed like a poor plan.

In any event, Torch wasn't likely to hold his keep for long against the force of the Usurper's army. That way seemed as much a trap as if she were to stand in the middle of the road and wait for her former guards to find her. Without a doubt they'd be back soon. Daylight would let them widen their search. Any trackers among them would soon find where she'd left the road.

An insistent pressure on her bladder roused her from her thoughts. Before long, she would have to make her way to the ground to relieve herself. And then she'd have to ignore her discomfort and find a way to safety.

Wherever that was.

Half a day's weary trudging through the undergrowth just off the road was enough to convince Jerrah that her situation was hopeless. As the sun climbed in the sky, it beat on her head and caused sweat to break out beneath her leather gear.

Whenever she came to a stream, she drank to fool her belly into feeling full, as much to quench her thirst. Her stomach sent a constant gnawing reminder that the ruse didn't work.

Still the moment she came upon another watercourse, she dropped once more, her ears ever alert for movement on the road. She'd drink what she could before wading downstream to throw off any trackers, but before she could dip her hand for a cooling draught, the dreaded thud of hoofbeats echoed in the heavy air.

She ducked into the brush that grew along the bank, her attention on the stone arch spanning the stream. A pair of armed men on warhorses trotted from the opposing direction. At the bridge, they slowed, scanning from horizon to horizon beneath the shade of their hands.

Jerrah held her breath.

One of the men pointed—but not at her. Moments passed until a cart came trundling toward the bridge. A young woman dressed in layers of floaty fabric hues of bright blue, a blinding pink, and deep green drove a plodding cob. A slight breeze stirred the loose strands of her purple hair, while the sun glinted on a number of gold bands jangling about her wrists.

If Jerrah dared move, she'd have shaken her head. What a silly girl to call attention to herself in such a way.

In the middle of the span, she reined her cob to a halt. One of the men kept his mount directly in front of her, blocking the road, while the other spurred his steed in a slow circle about the cart.

Jerrah's heartbeat kicked up. Soundlessly, she let her fingers slip toward the dagger sheathed in her boot. Surely the men would pull the girl onto the riverbank to have their way with her.

While one of the men lifted a canvas sheet and began to rummage in the back of the wagon, the other barked questions.

“Who are you?”

“Where are you bound?”

“Have you met anyone on the road?”

Though the girl supplied answers, her voice did not carry as well as the soldier's. Jerrah could not distinguish individual words; she could only pick up a particular cadence to the girl's speech—a familiar cadence, one she'd heard often enough in the northern Freeholds when her brothers traveled there collecting followers.

“What business do you have in at Highspring Moor?”

Whatever the girl replied, it caused her interrogator to stiffen, his tanned face growing pale. His partner dropped the canvas.

“Carry on, then.” Without a further word, both men dug their heels into their horses' flanks and galloped off.

Jerrah rolled her lips into her mouth and remained where she was, fully expecting the purple-haired girl to slap the reins and continue her journey. Instead, she jumped from her cart, grasped the reins, and led her cob to the roadside beyond the bridge. From there, her fingers worked the buckles that secured the harness to the cart.

Damn it. But it did make sense to water the animal with leagues of pulling a heavy load under a hot sun before it.

As the girl led her beast to the riverbank, Jerrah shrank back. Too far. To avoid overbalancing, she slapped a hand behind her. A branch snapped, the crack seeming to echo in the still air.

The girl stiffened. “Who's there?”

Though the effort was futile, Jerrah stayed where she was.

No matter, for the girl's gaze lit on her the next moment. “Ye're the one they're lookin' for, aren't ye?” The question emerged in the lilting accent of the Freeholds.

“Yes, and I don't wish to be caught.”

Wrapping the reins about her wrist, the other girl crouched beside the stream. She nodded at the bloodstained and tattered symbol on Jerrah's jerkin. “Ye're one o' 'em, ain't ye? One o' the Brotherhood.”

Jerrah focused on the tattoo of multi-colored stars arching across the girl's cheek from the corner of her right eye. Gods, everything about her drew the eye. How had she managed to travel all the leagues between here and the Freeholds in safety?

More than that, she knew. Of course she did. Though the Brotherhood rode under a banner decorated with a Black Kerrick, a bird deemed to be an ill omen among the Eastern Strongholds, the free men to the north viewed matters rather differently, both bird and Brotherhood. Still, Jerrah said nothing.

“My younger brother rides with ye.”

“Younger brother?” Jerrah burst out. This girl couldn't be much older than eighteen, and the only youth who'd joined the Brotherhood was Torch's squire. Yet, the thought gave her hope this girl wouldn't turn her in to the next troop of Magnus's soldiers she encountered.