Empire of Night (13 page)

W
hile one rode to speak to the warlord, the other warriors suited up. They did not have full battle armor. The emperor had not dared send them with it, even hidden in the wagons, in case Alvar's men insisted on searching and found Emperor Tatsu's warriors prepared for more than simple negotiations. They had worn breastplates and helmets when they approached Fairview, but they did have gauntlets and leg guards in the wagons, and they were putting them on now.

The process was not simple, and Tyrus and Moria took their leave of the group to help each other. They started with the undergarments—a short robe and breeches. Before Tyrus put on his robe, he glanced at Moria several times, until she asked, “Do you need help?”

“No, I was just . . . I was wondering if you'd do something for me.”

“That's what I'm here for.”

“It's not the armor. It's . . .” Spots of color rose in his cheeks and he fingered the dangling ends of his amulet band. “Would you bless this before I cover it? I know it's an old custom, and no longer—”

“I have done it before,” she cut in. “Simply because a custom is old does not mean it is meaningless. Some of Edgewood's warriors wore them and would ask Ashyn and me to bless them before they went into the forest.”

Faith was a strange thing, Moria reflected as she walked over to Tyrus. No one would argue that the ancestors did not watch over them and could not influence the living world, but customs changed, and openly calling on spirits for support and guidance these days was often seen as a sign of weakness. Which was foolish, in her opinion. Whether an amulet band worked or not, it couldn't hurt. As their father would say, what often counted was whether one
believed
such protective rituals worked. Confidence in battle guarded one more than any spirit could.

So she blessed Tyrus's amulet band, asking the spirits to watch over him in battle and make his heart strong and true. Not that he needed help with his heart. She did, however, add a silent plea for his stomach, which
might
need steadying.

They continued with the armor. At first, seeing the pile of it, Moria had been satisfied. Surely with all that, Tyrus would be safe. Yet as she helped him with his gauntlets, she thought,
But he should have thigh armor, too
, and as he put on his helmet, she snuck a worried look, thinking he needed a neck ring as well.

He ought to have full armor. It's his first battle. This isn't right. It isn't safe.

It didn't matter. Even full armor only protected against a glancing blow. A sound strike from a well-made sword would slice through it like a blade through butter.

And that thought did not make her feel better at all.

She wished she'd blessed his amulet band more. That her supplications had been longer, more ornate and detailed.

What if I've done it wrong? What if it's not enough. What if—

“Moria?” Tyrus looked over as he fussed with his headgear. He wore a dragon helmet, like those worn by all Emperor Tatsu's men, but his was dark red, the color of his tattoos, forbidden to all but the imperial family.

A true imperial helmet for a true Tatsu—a true dragon warrior. That was what Tyrus was, and he did not need armor or blessings to keep him safe. His skill would do that. And so would she, fighting at his side.

“Let me help with that,” she said.

The plan was in place. The warriors were prepared for battle. And . . .

And nothing. As the moon approached its zenith, the bandits headed into their tents. Tyrus had yet to hear word from the warrior who'd ridden off to speak to the warlord. So they were waiting.

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.