Destined for a King (25 page)

He gritted his teeth and blinked away a red sheen of rage. “Do you fight for the mastery?”

Hammerfell's only response was another vicious blow, one that shivered the length of Torch's blade. He'd wanted a fight. Obviously, he was about to get one. He tightened his grip on his weapon. “This is my keep. I've come to reclaim it.”

As they led their mounts along the base of Blackbriar's silent walls, Griffin unslung his crossbow. Only a precaution, Calista told herself. His movements long practiced, he pulled out one bolt and set it into the flight groove. He paused, leaning against the unyielding stone, and cranked until the bowstring creaked with tension.

“Load your own.” He muttered the command through gritted teeth as if she were Owl. “We must be prepared for anything.”

Her heart beat faster. “Surely we won't come upon anyone outside—”

“Hush.” He held up a hand. “I heard something.”

Calista listened. Nothing beyond Griffin's harsh breathing and the mundane sounds of the night—a cricket or two, the breeze through the grass, a rustle…

With a grunt, Griffin poised his weapon, his finger tense on the trigger. “Who's there? Show yourself.”

Out of a nearby bush, a figure rose, a darker shadow amid the deep black of night. “Don't shoot me, sir,” said a female voice.

Calista grabbed at Griffin's arm, eliciting a hiss. “It's only Tamsin.”

“Who?”

“My maid. Come forward, Tamsin.”

“My lady?” A note of hesitation tinged the girl's answer.

Griffin. Of course. Tamsin had reason now to distrust strange men.

“You're safe here,” Calista said. “This is Torch's brother.”

Tamsin cast back her hood, and the moon's glow illuminated her pale face. She nodded, but her reply was for Calista. “I didn't realize it was you, dressed like that.”

Calista resisted the urge to look down. Once again, she had donned the boiled leather and skullcap of a man-at-arms, provisioning herself from the Brotherhood's stash of gear. “What are you doing outside the keep?”

“Taking advantage of the distraction and running off, if it please you.”

“I'm not certain it does please me when you promised to tend to Owl. Where is he?”

“He's hiding.” Tamsin gestured toward the underbrush. “He's in no condition to defend himself, but I had to get him out. We were almost caught, but then the fighting started.”

The back of Calista's neck prickled. She had the feeling Tamsin wasn't referring to the skirmishing they'd passed. “What fighting?”

“Hammerfell, he sent his men out. Nearly emptied the keep looking for Torch. When they left, your lord father tried to raise the remaining Blackbriar folk against the king's men.”

“Merciful Mother.”
Folk
had to mean the cooks and the servitors, since the retainers had mainly escaped with the Brotherhood. And how had her father freed himself?

“I thought it was best to take Owl and go, given the circumstances.”

“Circumstances?”

“I stuck my knife into the first guard who found us, you see. But any more came poking about, I wasn't sure I could get away with it again.”

A hundred questions vied for attention in Calista's mind, foremost among them an ardent desire for a clear story. But above all that hovered her sense of urgency. It sent another spike through her.
The keep. You must get into the keep before it's too late.
“Did you leave the postern open?”

“Is the postern guarded?” Griffin asked at nearly the same time. He'd sagged against the wall.

“There's no guard now, no,” Tamsin replied on a careful note. “And no one to bar it behind me.”

Calista let out a breath. When this was over, she'd have time to coax the proper story out of her maid. For now, though, they must forge ahead.

She handed over her reins. “Take our horses and hide in the woods with Owl, but don't leave just yet. We have business within.”

And may the gods see to it that they could all remain at Blackbriar by the time the sun rose.

Calista burst through the postern gate, barely noting the body of the guard lying in a widening pool of blood. She half jogged, half strode across the packed earth of the bailey, the path before her clear. Behind her, Griffin called, a plea for caution, or perhaps to slow down, but her mind told her no one was about.

Through the hall, up the stairs, Griffin faltering behind her. She should wait. She should offer her shoulder. But ahead…up ahead came the clash and shouts of a fight. Her brain focused on a single thought.
Get to Torch.

The passage to her father's chamber was jammed. Blackbriar servants jostled for a spot before the door, others craning their necks and pushing themselves up on their toes. Calista elbowed past the onlookers. On the brink of the threshold, her father held her mother in his arms, but their attention was riveted on the scene within. A blade in her hand, Wolf hovered in the entrance.

But what Calista saw inside that chamber froze her heart. Torch and Hammerfell traded blows, both of them grim-faced and sweating. Clearly, whatever injury Hammerfell's arm had sustained when he'd attempted to raise Torch's own sword against him had healed. A trickle of blood oozed from a cut on Torch's temple—the result of a glancing blow?

Hammerfell's blade swung in a deadly arc. Just in time, Torch ducked beneath it, and the sword struck the stone floor, raising a shower of sparks. The chamber seemed to shake from the force.

Mother preserve him, Father defend him.

Torch straightened, jaw set, his expression more intense than she'd ever seen it. If sheer guts and determination could decide the outcome of this fight, he would win. If, on the other hand, one factored in muscle…

Calista tugged at Wolf's sleeve. The Avestari tore her attention away from the battle. If Calista's presence astonished her, she gave no sign. “What are you doing here? This is no place for you.”

Calista ignored the barb. “Why are you just standing here? Do something. Help him.”

“It is not my place to interfere. This is a matter of honor.”

“Of all the—”

A gasp from the crowd cut her off. Whatever she'd missed, she was likely the better for it. She sensed a presence at her back. Griffin, still holding the crossbow.
Yes.
This was why he needed to be here. He was going to save his brother.

She turned to him. “Do something. You said you would not stand by idle.”

“It is not the same thing.” Griffin barely glanced her way. His eyes flitted back and forth, tracking the confrontation. “This is Torch's fight, a matter of honor.”

Another floor-shaking blow rocked her where she stood.

She drew in a breath. If Torch wished to claim the kingdom, she may as well assume her role. “As your queen, I command you to shoot.”

That got his attention. A pair of brown eyes returned her imperious gaze in full measure. “My king would not wish me to intervene.”

“I do not care what he wants.” Her voice rose with every syllable.

“Hush.” Griffin's grip on his weapon turned white. His entire arm trembled. “If he knows you're here you will distract him.”

If Griffin refused to put a stop to this, she would. She grabbed for the weapon, and it slid from his suddenly slack fingers. “The Faceless One take you.”

A metallic clatter pulled her attention back to the struggle. Torch lay sprawled at Hammerfell's feet, his sword out of reach. Calista's insides solidified into ice. Torch flipped onto his belly, scrambling for his weapon.

Hammerfell's booted foot crunched down on Torch's wrist. The justiciar's smile stretched into something feral. “To think I had the chance to cut off only the sword hand. I believe Magnus would be just as happy to receive your head.”

With that pronouncement, he swung his blade.

In the instant before Hammerfell's sword began its descent, time seemed to pause. Awareness surged through Torch, awareness of so many things. The crushing weight of his enemy's boot. The particular keen pain that told him his wrist was broken. The unforgiving hardness of the stones beneath his cheek. The echo of Calista's scream.

Calista. The abject horror in that cry throbbed through his skull.

As he waited for the steel's cold bite, he focused on the woman he'd taken for his own. He'd never had a chance to tell her how he'd come to admire her calm bravery, her gentle strength, her capable hands. She should not witness this.

How had she even come to be here?

A rushing
woosh
filled his ears. A jolt of energy ripped through him, but with Hammerfell holding him down, he could do nothing. Death was coming.

A low, heavy thrum cut the air.

A grunt of pain.

Another metallic clatter, strikingly similar to the sound his own sword made when it hit the floor.

The smashing weight lifted from his hand.

Alive.
He was still alive, if the pain in his wrist meant anything. All of him seemed to tingle, from the ends of his hair to the soles of his feet.

Cradling his wrist, Torch rolled to his back. Hammerfell was yanking a crossbow bolt from his sword arm, his blade a stride away on the floor.

Torch scrabbled crablike toward Hammerfell's dropped weapon. A vicious kick sent it spinning into a corner.

A lithe figure jumped between him and his enemy, agile as a cat. Wolf. She raised her arm, the curved blade of her weapon glittering in the firelight. Its tip hovered in the air, wavering.

“What are you waiting for?” A voice spoke Torch's very thoughts aloud. A familiar voice, one that sounded suspiciously like his brother. Griffin? Impossible. “Finish him.”

But as the command died away, Wolf's blade dipped.

Hammerfell pivoted and barreled into the gathered onlookers. The rattle of his booted feet echoed from the stairwell.

Torch stared at Wolf. Never in the years since she'd joined his cause had he seen her hesitate. Her weapon dropped to the floor, and she buried her face in her hands.

“What—” he began, but something soft hurtled into him and cut off his question.

Calista.

“Don' t you ever…ever…” A sob cut her off. She pulled him into a sitting position and yanked him into a fierce embrace, crushing him to her chest, injury and all. A bright wave of pain shot through his wrist. He couldn't suppress his groan.

Her grip on him eased, and she placed his wrist on her flattened palm, fingers trembling as they probed gently.

He gritted his teeth. “It's broken. It needs a splint.”

Still, she kept on, eyes averted. “You're…you're not hurt anywhere else, are you?” Her voice began to waver, but she soldiered on. “Did he do anything else to you?”

His breath hissed through his teeth. “No.” But it felt like she was doing a good job of hurting him further. “Leave off. Look at me.”

With his uninjured hand, he cupped her chin, lifting her gaze to his. Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears. Her lower lip quivered, and he pressed his thumb to its fullness.

“Tell me,” he said, “what just happened?”

“I meant to kill him. I tried to kill him, and I missed.”

“
You
shot him?” He ran his fingers along the leather strap that crossed her chest. “How can this be when your bow is still on your back?”

“I took Griffin's.” She looked over her shoulder. The wooden hulk of another crossbow lay abandoned on the floor.

Griffin. Torch hoped she'd gone easier on his brother, but perhaps not. Perhaps the lunkhead deserved every last bit of discomfort she dealt him when he didn't even show enough sense to rest after receiving a serious wound.

Torch glanced about the chamber, realizing for the first time what a crowd his fight with Hammerfell had drawn. Thorne, of course, had stayed to witness the outcome, but his wife was also there, along with a passel of Blackbriar servants. Scullery maids, stable lads, various servitors, all looking strangely disheveled and…Was that blood? The cook held her arms folded beneath her ample bosom, a red-stained butcher knife protruding from one fist.

And there, on the threshold, stood Griffin—or perhaps
endured
was a better term. His complexion had taken on an alarming shade of gray. Jaw set, he gripped the doorjamb for support, his knuckles white. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead.

Calista let out a long-suffering sigh. “Someone, see to Griffin before he passes out.”

A pair of giggling laundresses—with handles of knives protruding from their skirts—were all too happy to lend their shoulders to the task of seeing Griffin to the bed. What a pity he was in no condition to fully appreciate their generosity. Not yet. In a day or two, however…

To Torch's utter shock, Calista's mother bustled over. “Off with you. I'll see to him.”

Torch's wrist was throbbing too hard for him to make sense out of that particular situation. He turned back to his wife with a more pressing question. “Why did you let him rise from his sickbed, much less walk straight into trouble?”

For a moment, her fingers tightened on his wrist, sending a blast of pain up his arms. “Let him?” At least her chin had stopped trembling. “What makes you think I could make him do anything he didn't want to do? Compared to him, you are the meekest of lambs.”

Torch felt his lips stretch into a grin. “Then maybe it's for the best if we leave him to your mother. Any idea why she's had an apparent change of heart?”

Calista glanced over to the bed, where her mother was mopping Griffin's brow. “None whatsoever. Tamsin told me Papa raised the keep against Hammerfell, so clearly something's happened here in our absence. We have all the time we could wish to find out more later. At the moment, though, we are overdue for putting a splint on this wrist.”

Time, yes, they had that for now—at least until the Usurper gathered his strength for another assault. Meanwhile, Torch could imagine a dozen more pleasant ways to pass the next sennight.

Jerrah.
The thought of his sister sent a wave of guilt through him, but Hammerfell had seen to it Torch was in no condition to ride to her rescue. He'd no choice but to rely on Kestrel, and on Jerrah herself.

Torch let Calista help him down the passage to her chamber—
their
chamber—where she set his broken bones, and fashioned a sling.

“I can mix you a potion to make you sleep, if you like.” Somewhere among the splinting and wrapping, she'd collected her shattered nerves and turned all business again. Calista had become the healer, full of confidence and competence. That open vulnerability she'd displayed earlier when she threw herself at him was gone.

“No, I don't like. I think I'd rather stay awake and experience the simple pleasure of breathing.”

In the midst of removing her skullcap and shaking out her hair, she paused. “Oh.”

The reminder of all they'd been through clearly made her veneer slip, for she bit her lip.

He reached for her hand with his good arm, threading his fingers through hers. “Do you want to know what was passing through my mind when I was waiting for that final stroke?”

“Please…I'm never going to forget the sight of you on the ground with that blade rising.”

“But you stopped it. You, Calista.” He pressed a kiss to each of her knuckles, watching her eyes darken, listening to the hitch of her breath. This hand had brought him healing, but it had not hesitated to kill—or attempt to kill. “I can never thank you adequately.”

“I do not ask for your thanks.”

“What would you have of me?” He hadn't set out to ask that question, but he suddenly, desperately needed to know. “I will grant you anything within my power.”

“That is the king in you talking. I do not want for anything. All I want is this.”

Torch lifted their joined hands. “By this, do you mean us?”

She nodded, her chin soft and quivery once more.

“It's what I want, too, for as long as I can have it.” Gods grant that time be long. “In that moment, while I was waiting for that blade to finish me, all I could think of was you. Not my kingdom, not what I haven't accomplished. If the taking of this keep is all I ever achieve, it will be sufficient.”

A gasp escaped her. “No, you can't give up your quest.”

He released her hand to form his palm to her cheek. “I do not mean to. I pray one day we will sit on thrones at Highspring Moor side by side as equal rulers. But if I never gain the mastery of any more than this keep, it will be enough, because it brought you to me.”

“Torch…Josse…”

“Yes, call me by my right name.” His words emerged hoarse, borne on a heavy wave of emotion. “You know me truly. And I've left too many things unsaid. I've realized that as well.” He ran his hand down the dark scar at her throat, feeling the skin heat beneath his touch, careful not to linger overly long. “I don't know what brought you to me; I've not met your match in bravery, in fortitude, in strength. Every day, I will thank the gods for this gift.”

Eyes wide, she shook her head, as if she didn't believe him. But at the same time, she clasped her fingers behind his neck, taking care not to crush his injured wrist between their bodies. “Where is this coming from?”

“My heart. Ever since I was old enough to understand who I was, I've searched. For a means to regain my lost kingdom, or so I believed. I still desire that, but I've discovered what else I need. A place of my own. Stability. A woman's true love. Do I have that?”

She raised herself on her toes, and touched her lips to the corner of his jaw. “You do. I…I…” Her breath hitched. “I don't know what I would have done if that brute had killed you. I didn't want to lose you, not so soon. Not ever. And I know what I want now. I want us to love. Both of us.”

He grinned. “I can do that, sweetling.”

She couldn't stop touching him. The tips of her fingers were everywhere at once, tracing the lines of his brow, the edge of his jaw, the ridge of his collarbone. And with every change of contact, she whispered the words he'd yearned to hear for so long. “I love you.”

With each repetition, his heart swelled a little more, like he was taking her emotion into himself. His throat tightened until he could barely choke out his reply.

She lent him her shoulder to help him to the bed and stretched him out. Her deft fingers quickly removed every last stitch of his clothing.

The mattress dipped beside him, as she knelt, a knowing smile stretching her lips. She smoothed her palm over his chest. “I have the most awful image etched in my mind.” Her fingers moved to the fastenings at her throat. His gaze riveted there, as she began to undo them. “I want to erase it. I want to feel alive.” Down and down those fingers moved, pulling at laces, baring skin. “I want
you
to feel alive.”

Gods, as if he didn't. He was already hard and aching for the haven of her sweet, sweet body.

With his good hand, he reached for her.

“Don't move. Let me touch you. Let me kiss you. Let me feel your heart pound.”

He was in no condition to protest.

Her body stretched over him, her lips pressed to his, her tongue already seeking, and she set about doing just that.

Hawk came striding into the hall at the head of his men late the following morning. From the lord's seat, Torch scanned each face as the Brotherhood advanced, making a mental count, noting injuries. A limp here, a bloodied bandage there, battered gear, faces drawn with fatigue, but no one appeared to be missing. By all the gods, had he and Griffin suffered the worst in all this?

Don't forget Jerrah. Don't forget Owl.
No, Torch could not allow himself to celebrate. Not yet.
Mother preserve them.

A grinning Hawk reached the lord's seat. “I'd have come back sooner, but I wanted to roust up as many of those Stronghold bastards as I could.”

One of the Brotherhood let up a hearty cheer, which the others soon took up. Some beat their swords on their shields, until the entire hall rang with their shouts, the joyous clangor of men who had achieved an unexpected victory.

Torch sat forward in his seat. “It sounds as if I should call for ale.”

Hawk grinned, and more cheers went up. “That would not go amiss, my lord.”

Torch signaled a servant. The Blackbriar people had been abroad early to set the hall to rights. The bodies of Hammerfell's men had been removed, along with all traces of their blood. “While we wait on refreshment, tell me of your night's work.”

“Seems Hammerfell sent out most of his men in an attempt to find you. A gamble, for certain, since he left his keep vulnerable.”

More vulnerable than Hammerfell had reckoned, given the events of the previous night. Belwin Thorne had told Torch the tale earlier. Amara Thorne had waited on her chance to release her husband, and at the same time the servants were ripe to revolt against their new lords. Too many of the Strongholders' soldiers had seen the keep's women as their personal spoils of war. The smallest encouragement had been sufficient for them to take up such weapons as they possessed against their oppressors.

Torch eyed Hawk. Numbers were about to become very important. “Most of his men, you say? How do you reckon?”

“Based on how many we killed.”

A thrill passed through him. “How many are we talking?”

“I can't rightly say.” Beneath his nose, Hawk's lips stretched into a grin. “Never did learn to count that high. What I can tell you is they weren't expecting to find us in strength. We spent the night and the greater part of the morning picking off small parties. Once we'd taken the first, we'd find another and another and, after that, still another. It added up.”