Destined for a King (6 page)

“I suppose so, but…” She turned and rooted in a chest. A moment later, a crisp swath of fabric, smelling of lavender, smacked him in the face. “When you had to see to any personal needs, I let Owl take care of that.”

“Yes, but now you've finally managed to get rid of him. A wise decision there.” To preserve her sensibilities, he eased the clean braies about his hips. “And I won't even ask you to help me with any personal matters, as you put it. I can manage on my own, I believe.”

“I wouldn't be so certain.” Even though he'd covered himself, she kept her gaze on her clasped hands.

“Shall we put it to the test?” The rushes beneath his bare feet prickled beneath his toes and released a fresh scent of cut hay. He planted his palms and leaned forward. So far so good. As long as his legs supported him, he'd be fine. And if they didn't, well, Calista was on hand to make certain he didn't collapse into an awkward heap on the floor.

“It's too soon.” At last she deigned to look at him, if only to fix him with a glare. “You've barely come back to yourself.” She crossed her arms. “But if you're going to be stubborn about it, go ahead. You fall on your arse, I'm not going to help you up. You can just lie there.”

Torch was a veteran of enough battles and tourneys to recognize a gauntlet when one was cast. “I'm not going to fall.”

He pressed himself to his feet. The room reeled like a storm-tossed vessel, and his knees felt as if they were made of water. The exact sensation he recalled from the great hall, just before he'd keeled over the first time. Bloody, bloody weakness. But he'd sworn to her he wouldn't fall, and damn it all, he would keep his vow. So he gritted his teeth and gripped the headboard.

Like a dancer reluctant for the music to end, the chamber stopped its mad whirl. “There now. That wasn't so bad, was it?”

When the black spots dancing before his eyes settled, he discovered her hovering a handbreadth away and closer. “You'll injure yourself if you're not careful.”

“And if I don't move, I'll become an invalid. I cannot afford that.” Gods, no. Magnus would be on them as soon as the Usurper got word where the real danger lay. The last thing Torch wanted was to leave the command of that battle to Kestrel while he lay abed like an old woman. “Come, help me as far as the window.”

“And if you collapse, who will hold you up? I cannot support your entire weight.”

Oh, but she would in bed. She would, and revel in every last thrust. He'd make certain of it. “I'm not planning on collapsing.”

“You say that because you cannot see how white you went just now…”

“Even if I saw, I'd still move about. I cannot stand another instant in that bed. At least not alone.” He paused and softened his tone. “Come, lend me your shoulder.”

She shook her head, but still ducked beneath his arm to press her lithe body against his side. Her skin and gown were soft against him, her curves yielding. One firm breast thrust against the side of his chest, and one arm circled his waist. A scent rose from her, clean and flowery and sweet. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

Soon, he promised himself. Soon, that scent would be imprinted on him, just as her body would don his essence. As soon as he was able to make it belowstairs to the family altar, he would kneel before her and make his vows. And then she would be his by right. His queen.

Step by step, they shuffled to the window. Damn it all, the chamber hadn't appeared so big, but with each hesitant footfall, the distance seemed to broaden. Bloody, bloody weakness. He must overcome it and soon. By the time he could grip the stone sill, he was panting.

Calista drew away, and reluctantly he let her. He no longer possessed the energy to tighten his arm about her and hold her where she belonged. “And how do you think you're going to get back?”

“Half a moment, and I'll manage it.” He'd never felt so completely unmanned, not even when he was first learning swordplay at the hands of the Stormlord, whose sons beat him mercilessly to the taunts of bastard.

His fingernails dug into the stone until his knuckles whitened. The damned black spots came back fluttering before his eyes like a flock of Black Kerrick. He gritted his teeth. He would not pass out.

He swayed, and from somewhere a hand came up to steady him. Calista. Her palm burned into the bare skin of his shoulder, and he leaned into the touch. She put her arms around him, and despite his efforts, he slumped forward, his weight settling against her. Her breath emerged in a rush of warm air.

“Thought you were going to let me lie where I fell,” he said as much to keep himself conscious as anything.

“I ought to.” Despite her words, she leaned into him.

Her forehead came to rest at the base of his throat, directly on the clasp that bound his neck. Suddenly his Scrying Stone burned as hot as the damnable poker she'd used on his wound.

“Oh.” She tried to flinch away, but the balance between them was too precarious.

He lowered his head to the top of hers and clenched the Stone in his fist. A fiery brand seared his palm, and he half expected the acrid smell of burning flesh to taint the air. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but slowly, without the contact between the two of them and the Stone, the damnable thing eased off, until it felt barely warm in his hand. Still, it seemed to throb against his flesh like a heart. Pulse…pulse…and…pulse.

“What was that?” she asked faintly. Her voice strained through gritted teeth as she fought to support him.

He forced himself away and leaned on the wall, panting as if he'd just fought in a melee with the greatest swordsmen of the age. The fieldstone wall pressed cool against his back. He stared at the ceiling beams for a long moment before his breath returned enough for a reply. “My Stone.”

“Why…why did it do that?” She eyed his throat as if the stone might suddenly decide to turn into a rat and lunge for her nose.

“I'm not sure. It's never done that before.” Only half a lie.

“You…you pressed my hand over it, and it warmed. Do you recall? You were half mad with fever.”

He shook his head. Another lie of a sort there. He had deliberately placed her hand over it, but as a test, one she'd passed. He never expected the thing to blaze red-hot the second time. But the stone's reaction only solidified his conviction. Calista was meant for him.

His, not Magnus's.

“What…” She raised a finger, not pointing in accusation, but partly curious. Almost as if she wished to test it again. “What is it?”

“The Avestari call it a Scrying Stone. You should ask Wolf about it sometime.”

“Wolf?”

“One of my Brotherhood.” One she might meet eventually, once Wolf came back from the field with Griffin. “The Avestari seek them out, but not everyone finds one. When you do, you must guard it preciously, for it has chosen you.”

She dropped her hand and crossed her arms. “It doesn't look as if yours has chosen me.”

“Oh, but it has. I saw you long before I turned my sights to this keep.”

“So you've claimed. Because of a stone you decided to attack us?”

“I took this keep because it was the easiest of the Strongholds to take.” He couldn't help but smile. “But because of a stone, I've decided to keep you.”

Metal shrieked against metal as blades pounded shields. The steady clanking rhythm nearly drowned out the men's grunts, yet underneath lay the distant steady beat of hammers on the gates. The repairs were all but completed, though Kestrel had set Blackbriar retainers to shoring up the other defenses. A second curtain wall was envisioned, so outside the gates, men labored at digging the foundations, one heavy shovelful of earth at a time.

He'd set all hands to the work, while maintaining a rotating schedule between work and guard duty with a day of mandated rest here and there. But rest did not guarantee idleness. The Brotherhood needed to keep their sword arms strong and their reflexes keen to face Magnus's forces.

Kestrel faced off with Owl, his blunted practice sword raining blows on the boy's shield. With each clash of the blade on the buckler, Owl retreated a step, unable to parry, while a grim-faced Kestrel barked reminders.

“Knees!”

Clank!

“Elbows!”

Clank!

“Eyes!”

Crash!

As the boy lost yet more ground to his opponent, Calista crossed her arms. She'd rather be anywhere but the practice yard, but she must keep an eye on her charge. Torch had made his halting way to the opposite side to survey the proceedings, arms crossed, stance tense and wide, expression assessing.

“What do ye want to wager he'd like to be in there himself?” Calista turned to find her maid watching the action just as closely, assessing after her own manner.

“He may well want to, but he's not strong enough yet.” Four days risen from his sickbed, and Torch had wished to inspect his new defenses, but he'd only managed the trek as far as the yard. And he had yet to climb the staircases back to her chamber. Until his assured stride came back, she had to remain at hand to help him walk.

“I'll wager it would be a sight to see, him fighting.” Tamsin's voice turned soft and airy. “I'd like to see him take on his commander.”

Said commander had forced Owl to retreat nearly to the far wall. “Fight, damn you!” His shout rose above the general clangor of the yard. “Defend yourself!”

Owl tossed his shield aside and gripped his blade two-handed. He glared up at his opponent through narrowed eyes. Without warning he slashed at the air. Kestrel leapt to one side, never once giving ground, and delivered a side-hand cut that clipped the boy's left arm.

His blade clattered to the packed earth, but Kestrel gave him no quarter. Grabbing him by the gorget, he pulled back his sword hand, as if he would stab the boy in the heart. “You're dead, you idiot. Now pick up your weapons and try again.”

A red-faced Owl strode back to the middle of the yard. Heat practically rose off his cheeks in waves.

“One thing's certain,” Calista commented. “He needs a more worthy opponent.”

“There's a poetry to it, all the same,” Tamsin sighed. “But, yes, it would be lovely to see him take on someone who's more of a match.”

Torch pushed himself away from the wall and strode between the combatants. Even that effort caused a sheen of sweat to break out on his brow, and the tension in his jaw pointed to clenched teeth.

Calista pressed her lips together. “If he isn't careful, they'll be hauling him back abovestairs on a bier. And then Father will be stuck in that cell while the oaf regains his strength again.”

“Just like a man, though. He's not one to lie abed, that one. Not unless…” A dreamy sort of smile replaced the remainder of that sentence.

Calista found herself unclenching her teeth. “Unless what?”

“Oh, nothing. I merely meant he's not one to stay in bed overlong, unless he has company.”

“And what would you know about it?” A useless question when Calista had spent nearly every waking moment with the man since his arrival.

“Nothing at all, my lady.” Her eyes went round, and roses bloomed in her cheeks. “I'm merely speculating. Besides, I've heard him declare his intentions. I know better than to overstep. And it's his commander that's caught my eye.”

“Kestrel?” Objectively, Calista could look at the man and declare him handsome, though far too serious. But something about Torch's stance—his arrogant confidence despite his injuries—drew her eye back to him.

Tamsin merely smiled. “I wouldn't mind being the one to make him drop that sour expression.”

Calista turned her attention back to the yard. “I doubt he ever drops it.”

If he did, Owl wasn't likely to be the one to make him do so. The boy was losing badly once more. Even the threat of Torch hovering over him wasn't improving his swordplay.

“I believe the boy would stand a better chance if he could keep his eye on the fight in front of him,” Calista commented.

Torch had noticed as well. He kept glancing in their direction. His gaze traced from Tamsin to Owl and back, and then he stepped between the combatants. Just before a lethal blow hit Torch, Kestrel turned it aside.

“Are you daft?” he shouted. “You're not even wearing a helm.”

A sudden silence fell. The other men stopped their sparring, as everyone's attention turned on Kestrel. Torch thrust out a hand, his intent clear from across the yard. Without a word, Owl proffered his weapon.

Torch raised the sword in a salute, but even from this distance, Calista could see the point waver.

“What does he think he's doing?” she murmured to herself as much as to Tamsin.

Despite the growing sense of tension hovering over the scene, Tamsin giggled. “I don't know as I'd mind watching them take each other on.”

“But he's in no condition to fight.”

Kestrel seemed to be in agreement. Two red splotches formed on his cheeks, and he dropped both hands to his sides, sword and shield, leaving himself open and vulnerable.

“What's your problem?” Torch's shout carried to the walls. “Defend yourself.”

Kestrel stared for a long moment, his lips flat, and a prickle worked its way up Calista's spine. “No, my lord.”

“Why? Do you not deem me a fit opponent?”

Kestrel bowed his head, as if he expected Torch to sever his neck then and there. “Your pardon, sir,” Kestrel muttered, but in the utter silence his voice seemed to echo. “I forgot myself.”

With a curt nod, Torch lowered his weapon. “It's my duty to know my men and their abilities. If I didn't trust your reflexes, I'd never have placed myself in front of your blade. As for you…”

He turned to Owl, presenting the hilt to the boy. “I expect better. If you would continue to serve me, you must become more proficient. You will fight out here every day until you can turn every last one of Kestrel's attacks. Understood?”

Owl stared at the ground, but his knuckles as he gripped the sword were white. “Yes, sir.”

Torch glanced about the yard. “As you were. Show one another no mercy, for you can be certain Magnus Ironfist's men will not.”

Not a single jest or shout of laughter greeted the command. Only obedience, pure and immediate. And, for a band of marauders, didn't the Brotherhood treat their leader with deference?

As Torch made his way from the center of the yard, the murderous dance, punctuated with the beat of sword on shield, resumed about him. The ground-eating stride with which he began his walk soon gave way to a noticeable limp. By the time he reached Calista and Tamsin, lines of tension had formed about his jaw where he gritted his teeth.

“The pair of you, out of the yard,” he barked. “The men don't need your sort of distraction.”

At his sharp tone, Tamsin gave a squeak, but Calista raised her chin. “And who will help you back up those stairs to your bed?”

“If I ask it, any one of these men would bear me on a bier.”

“But you wouldn't ask them, would you?”

He turned to gaze about the yard, and something sparked in his eyes. Pride, yes, but longing as well. He yearned to be out there with his Brothers, honing his skills, sharpening his reflexes, regaining his strength. “No.”

She laid a hand on his forearm. “Come. Rest now, before you completely exhaust yourself.”

“I'm bloody tired of resting. If this keeps up much longer, my arm will forget what it's like to lift my sword.”

At the frustration behind his words, her heart gave an odd sort of flutter, and her fingers tightened about his wrist. Had he been armed, he wouldn't have even felt the movement beneath his steel gauntlets. Except he wore a simple jerkin. But for the metal studs dotting the boiled leather, he was hardly distinguishable from the servants. And how that must grate at him.

“You'll take up your sword again, soon enough, and your hand will remember the moment it grips the hilt.”

He twisted his arm beneath her, his fingers coming around to grasp her arm. “May you have the right of it.”

“Come,” she coaxed, as much to evade the strange light in his eyes as to persuade him to rest.

Surprisingly enough, he obeyed, their hands joined, following her into the cool darkness of the great hall, quiet at this hour. The servants had finished clearing the midday meal and the trestle tables stood at their places around the walls. At the back of the space, steps arched upward to the higher levels of the keep.

When they reached the flight, she sensed his hesitation through the grip of her hand.

“Have you overextended yourself?” she asked.

“I can climb it. I have to.” Stark words, those, and harshly spoken, as if he might order his recalcitrant muscles into obedience the way he ordered his men. “One step at a time.”

Maintaining his hold on her, he gripped the stone railing with his other hand. Through the contact, she could feel the grit and determination to succeed, but she could also feel the slight tremor coming from his weakened leg.

He hauled himself over the first few risers before stopping to stare out a window. Beyond the curved stone mullions, the curtain wall gave way to the towers above the gates. “Do you know what lies beyond the Freeholds?”

She blinked and blinked again. The question had come out of nowhere. “Wasteland? That is what I've always heard.”

“No.”

She caught him eyeing the stairs and understanding blossomed. He would make the trek to her chamber under his own power, but he'd use any excuse to stop and rest along the way. Leastways, as long as that fact wasn't too apparent. So she played along. “What, then?”

“You've never heard of the Pinnacle?”

She sifted through all the stories her childhood tutor had told her, but nothing matched. “I'm afraid not.”

He dragged himself up another few stairs before replying. “The Steelsleet family has held that stronghold for centuries.”

She could only nod politely. None of this meant anything to her.

“Imagine.” He turned to face her and his expression took on a faraway look. “A castle made entirely out of ice.”

“That sounds like the stories my nursemaid used to tell me.” Only her nursemaid had come from the same lands as her mother. The Aranya far to the south told tales of blazing deserts haunted by mirages and chimera.

“This is no tale to beguile children. I've seen it.” He moved sideways up the steps. “I lived there. It's like a vast, shining spike that pierces the clouds.”

“It cannot truly be made of ice. It would melt, unless the cold is so enduring there. But then you would not have survived.” Even though she had witnessed him sick with fever, she could barely fathom a situation Torch would not withstand. Not when he exuded such intriguing power. Not when strength emanated from his entire being. Survival seemed to be woven into his sinew.

“It begins as ice. There's some secret involved that turns it hard as Adamant. Unbreakable. Impregnable even to the heat of the armorer's forge.” He glanced about, as if trying once more to catch a glimpse of Blackbriar's walls, but they'd moved past the window. “Such a fortress could never be taken.”

She shook her head. “Then why hasn't every lord of a stronghold built himself a similar fortress?”

“The Pinnacle is ancient, the secret closely guarded,” he muttered almost to himself.

“More's the pity. Otherwise you could hire workmen from the Pinnacle to shore up our walls.”

His forehead furrowed into thoughtfulness. “Yes…That I could.”

The clump of booted feet in the hall below drew her attention. Men marched across the space, headed for the bailey and the walls. The guard was changing. Others tramped in from outdoors, sweaty with a long day's labor at the gates. From above, another set of footsteps approached at a rapid clip.

Rand, one of the Blackbriar guards, emerged from the upper story and pulled up short on the landing, his gaze passing from Torch to Calista and back. His lip curled in a way she'd rarely seen from the guard.

“Is aught amiss?” she asked carefully.

“Nothing at all. My lady,” Rand added almost as an afterthought.

“What were you doing abovestairs?”

“Your lady mother required my assistance.”

Torch stepped forward, nearly shouldering her aside. “With what?”

Rand pressed his lips together but withered soon enough under Torch's glare. “She wished me to carry a message to Lord Belwin.”

“I do not need to remind you that Belwin is no longer lord here.” Torch did not raise his voice. He did not need to. Every word from his mouth bore a surprising authority for a man reportedly raised in the wild. “You will go to the walls and take up your duty. There will be no carrying of messages.”

“Your pardon. Lady Amara begged me. Your commander has forbidden her to visit her husband.”

“I shall have a word with Kestrel, then. Never let it be said I stood in the way of conjugal bliss. Lady Amara may visit her husband under supervision.” Torch's hand sought the railing, his knuckles whitening as he gripped, as if he could not support himself much longer. Or perhaps he missed gripping the hilt of his sword. “What is your name?”