22 Nights (3 page)

A handful of men gathered weapons and torches and collected their horses. The would-be intruder would be met and turned away from the village. None but Turis were welcome here. Strangers were not allowed simply to ride into their midst and be accepted.

Bela quickly collected her own sword and ran to her horse, intent on joining the men who would meet the rider. She was not surprised when her brother Tyman ordered her to remain behind with the other women. No one but she would see the glint of humor in his eyes. She looked to her older brother Clyn, who did not have Tyman’s sense of humor. He, too, shook his head in denial.

Just because she was dressed like a woman tonight, that didn’t mean she had to be treated like one!

A group of six men, her brothers among them, galloped toward the western edge of the village, their torches burning bright long after the men and the animals had vanished from sight. Bela watched those bits of light for a moment, and then she hiked up the skirt of her long gown and leaped into the saddle. Her sword remained close at hand, tucked into the leather sheath which hung from her saddle.

“Belavalari, don’t!” a well-dressed and attractive older woman cried, rushing forward from the group of revelers. Bela knew that her mother would very much like to see her only daughter become a wife, as Jocylen had. She wanted to see her daughter among those women who cooked and cleaned and sewed and birthed babies.

“Sorry, Mama, I have to go.”

“You do not . . .”

Bela set her horse into motion before her mother could finish her protest. Her loose hair whipped behind her as she raced from the village, her mare galloping into the darkness, away from the fires which lit the night celebration. For the first time this evening, Bela smiled. She was more warrior than woman, and when it came to protecting these people from intruders, it was as much her duty as it was her brothers’.

 

MERIN
was not surprised to see the riders approaching with force and mistrust; this was a typical Turi greeting. It was for this reason that he had chosen to make the trip alone. He was sure that Valeron would send a chaperone, and perhaps a warrior or two, with his daughter when they left the village for Arthes, but on the initial leg of the journey other travelers would’ve only slowed him down.

And would’ve made this initial greeting more difficult. The Turis would not be suspicious of one traveler, especially when he was a soldier with whom many of them had once fought. If Merin had arrived with a contingent of soldiers, that would’ve been another story entirely.

Merin slowed his horse and held up both hands, so the riders would see that he was unarmed. As they drew close, he was happy to see two familiar faces. Tyman and Clyn, sons of the Turi chieftain, had fought with him for a time, when the threat of Ciro’s Own had come near their home. Even though they had not parted on the best of terms—he had wished for an army of Turis to fight with his sentinels well beyond the clan’s lands, and they had refused—he trusted them. They were good, if somewhat primal, men.

The chieftain’s sons were not happy to see him, but they wouldn’t kill him—not right away, in any case. Not unless their sister had said too much after Merin had left their village.

“I bring a message from the emperor,” Merin called out. His hands remained visible, but even so three of the riders drew their swords. Tyman and Clyn did not draw arms.

“What do you want?” It was the fair-haired Clyn who moved closest to Merin. The elder Haythorne son was extraordinarily large. Clyn was probably Merin’s age, or thereabouts. He was a full head taller and was wide in the shoulders. A long, blond braid fell over one of those shoulders. His chest and arms were unusually muscled, but those muscles did not impede him in swordplay, as they might with some men. Clyn was an intense and gifted swordsman. In any fight, Merin definitely wanted Clyn on his side.

The big man did not look like an ally at the moment.

“As I said, I have a message . . .”

Tyman, the more hotheaded brother, rode forward and almost ran into Merin’s horse. The animals danced on graceful hooves. Tyman’s loose, long hair—reddish brown and wavy like Bela’s—danced around his angry face and rigid shoulders. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you here and now.”

Judging by the expressions before him, Bela had talked. What had she told her brothers? The truth or her twisted version of the truth? Anything was possible. “One reason? ” Merin looked Tyman in the eye. “Kill me, and an entire army will come down on your head. The Turi have many fierce warriors, I will give you that, but Emperor Jahn has you in numbers. Kill me, and they will crush you all.”

It was true, and surely they knew that; yet Tyman still gripped the handle of his undrawn sword.

“And if you are killed by a woman?” an unexpectedly soft voice asked.

Merin’s head snapped around. He had been so intent on Clyn and Tyman he had not seen or heard the seventh rider arrive. She moved into the light of their torches, the gold circlet across her brow glinting in the firelight, her wild chestnut hair shimmering. Her dress had been hiked up to allow her to ride astride, and so her long, strong legs were exposed to the night air. She simply did not have the reservations that others of her age and gender possessed.

“Lady Belavalari,” he said.

She drew her sword, and something on the handle of her weapon caught the light in a strange way. He didn’t have time to study the weapon’s grip; he was more focused on the blade and the woman who wielded it. She could kill him, and at the moment she looked as if she had killing on her mind.

“General Merin,” she responded, “I did not think ever to see you again. I did not think you would be so foolish as to come anywhere near the Turis.”

Bela was older, leaner of face, more confident than he remembered. The shape of her body was a bit different: softer, a bit rounder, but maybe it was the unexpected dress. No matter what she wore, she was more strength than gentleness.

“I have a . . .”

“Message,” she interrupted sharply. “I heard. Are you still a general, or have you been demoted to courier?”

“I am still a general,” he said calmly.

“What foolish mission would lead you here, where your life is all but worthless? I would think a general would be smarter, though in my experience you’re not known for your vast intelligence.”

A couple of the men laughed, but not Bela’s brothers.

“I need to speak to your father,” Merin said, ignoring her gibes. Was she trying to provoke a fight so she’d have an excuse to cut him down? That was certainly possible.

“First you have to get past me,” she said.

He had heard tales of female warriors who’d lived in the past, and he imagined they might’ve looked very much like this. Bela Haythorne was stubborn, strong, willful, skilled, and fearless. She was in many ways everything Merin had ever wanted in a soldier.

Unfortunately, she was also deceptive, manipulative, and determined to have her own way in every situation, no matter what the cost.

She was very close to him now, and she held her sword steady and thrust it forward so that the tip of the blade came near his heart. Not threateningly close, not yet. Again the exposed portion of the grip caught the light from a torch and glinted brightly. Bela’s arm did not seem to be strained, as she continued to hold the weapon steady.

“It is your decision, Bela,” Tyman said in a low voice. “Kill him, and we will gladly fight the war that follows. You have every right to take his head, and any other part of him that strikes your fancy.”

Only one man laughed that time, and the harsh sound was strained and short-lived.

Thanks to the darkness of night and the way she’d narrowed her calculating eyes, he could not see the warm, mossy green he remembered. After all this time he should not remember that particular detail, but he did. Narrowed or not, night or not, he
could
see the anger and the hurt in her eyes. “Is that what you want, Bela?” he asked. “Do you want my head?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Then take it.” Hands out, defenseless, he looked into her eyes without fear.

For a moment he thought she might take him up on the offer, but eventually the sword fell and she looked to Clyn. “Take General Merin to Papa, let him deliver his message, and when that is done, have him escorted to the other side of the River Hysey.” Her gaze returned to him. “Consider my generosity a parting gift, General. If I see you again I
will
take your head.”

 

BELA
spun her horse about and urged the mare to a full run, not looking back, not acknowledging to anyone that her heart was pounding too hard and her mouth was dry.

Tearlach Merin, here after all this time. She’d never admitted to anyone, not even Jocylen, that she’d spent the better part of a year foolishly waiting for him to return. It would have been a ridiculous confession, considering the circumstances. She’d never admitted to anyone that she dreamed about General Merin now and then. Well, he’d had plenty of time to come back, and he hadn’t. Now it was too late. Much too late!

Just when she had her life settled as she pleased, just when she was happy with her lot, he came waltzing back, looking just as pretty as ever with that dark curly hair that did not hang even to his shoulders, and those deep, dark brown eyes and that perfect nose and the lovely full mouth. She knew men did not like to be called pretty, but Tearlach Merin was.

Too bad looks were deceiving.

Bela held on tight and let the horse run free in the night. With every hoofbeat against the ground her worry eased. Merin wouldn’t be here for very long. He’d deliver his message and then he’d be gone long before sunup. Maybe this time he’d know better than to come back. It wasn’t as if he had returned for her.

And if he had . . . ?

Many villagers were standing about, waiting to learn who had come calling at such a late hour. Bela dismounted, withdrew her sword from its sheath, and then, for her mother’s benefit, she smoothed her wrinkled skirt and ran the fingers of one hand through her hair. “The man who entered our territory is a messenger from the emperor,” she said simply. No reason to tell them all that it was General Merin, come back to taunt her. They’d find out soon enough. “He’ll need to speak to Papa before he leaves.” She glanced around, but saw no sign of Jocylen. The poor girl had probably already retired, not knowing what awaited her in her marriage bed. Really, women should be told the truth, instead of being fed pretty lies about love and pleasure.

Bela found her mother in the crowd. “I’m exhausted,” she said. “It’s been such a long day.”

Gayene Haythorne narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Bela was never the first to bed. She preferred staying up late and sleeping long past sunrise when possible. “Are you ill?”

Did heartsick count? Bela wondered. “No, I’m fine.” She looked toward the narrow lane that led to Jocylen’s new home. “I’m just a bit worried about Jocylen. Poor girl. You know how I feel about marriage, Mama. It is a horrid and unnatural state for women.”

“It is not,” her mother said genially. They’d had this argument many times, and had finally come to an understanding: they would never agree.

“In any case, I have worried about Jocylen all day, and worrying is exhausting.”

“As I well know,” Gayene replied, not even attempting to hide her true meaning.

Bela did not respond to that. She had given her mother no reason to worry. Not today.

“I’m off to bed.” Bela gave her mama, an attractive woman who was almost as tall as she, a kiss on the cheek.

Bela’s progress was stalled by a warm hand on her arm. She did not pull away, but stopped to look directly at her mother. “You look beautiful in a dress,” Gayene said, “with your hair down and your face clean.” Her eyes flitted briefly but with evident displeasure to the sword Bela carried. “You should pretend to be a lady more often.”

Then they both smiled. Differences aside, there was an abundance of love in the Haythorne family.

When Bela heard the approaching riders, who moved at a much slower pace than she had, she said a quick good night to her mother and hurried toward home. She did not look back. She would not give Tearlach Merin the pleasure. Oh, she felt like such a girl, with her heart pounding and her hands trembling, all on account of a
man
. The crystal grip of her sword vibrated, and she held on tight. “No need to worry about him, Kitty,” Bela said softly. “He won’t be here long.”

Did Kitty vibrate because she wanted to take Merin’s head? Did she long for battle in this time of peace?

The Turi village was laid out like a wheel, with the town square at the center, essential businesses around that square, and houses extending from that center like spokes. Beyond the houses were farms, small and large, and a couple of ranches. Even farther to the west ran the River Hysey, and to the east lay the gem-filled mountains where so many of the Turi males worked, where some even chose to live.

The Haythorne house was one of the finest in town, which was natural since Valeron Haythorne was chieftain. Still, the building, which was made of wood and stone, was simple. The long, single-story house was clean, large, well built, and plain. There were sturdy furnishings and a few adornments, but for the most part it was a functional home. The Turis were not a frivolous people.

Bela’s room was located at the rear of a short hallway. As the only daughter she had always had the luxury of her own bedchamber. Her father was Turi chieftain, and that meant she was all but a princess. Still, she did not fill her room with fripperies. There was no lace, no frills. The only concession to her femininity was a wooden rack built onto the wall where she stored her small selection of jewelry and headbands. Though she would not admit it aloud for fear of sounding frivolous, she liked the sparkle of the gems found in the mountains nearby, she liked the glitter of gold and the sheen of silver.