Minstrel's Serenade (23 page)

Danika reminded herself the wyverns would come after the House of Song eventually. The minstrel’s music might not be enough to keep the worms at bay. Valorian fought for his people as well as hers. She shouldn’t owe him anything more than battlefield loyalty.

So, why did she continue with this charade?

Valorian squeezed her arm. This close, his silvery eyes reminded her of the moon’s reflection on the lake. “Come, I have something to show you in our cabin.”

“Our cabin?” Danika’s stomach leaped to her throat.

“Yes, I assume you’ll ride with me and the minstrels on the
Destiny
, while Bronford takes Ebonvale’s army on the
Fortune.
”

Danika paused. Bron would not favor this in the least. “I hadn’t considered it.”

“Well, I had.” He opened the cabin door and gestured for her to enter first.

A lantern hung from a rafter in the ceiling, illuminating a table draped in red satin set with porcelain dinnerware. In the back, two windows framed with a velvet-cushioned lover’s seat opened to the sea. The air smelled of salt and brine, along with roasted pheasant and sweet potatoes.

Any hope of meeting Bron for dinner disappeared. “For us?”

“Why, of course.” Valorian pulled back an elegant, high-backed chair. “Will you join me, Princess?”

Danika didn’t move.

“Ah…” He opened one of the window seats and laid out a low-chested velvet gown with golden brocade. “Perhaps you’d like to change into something more comfortable?”

Shielding her breasts all night didn’t seem comfortable. Danika sat down in a final declaration of armor clinks. Anything to keep the night from turning romantic. “No. I prefer to keep my battle gear. One never knows when a wyvern will dive from the sky.”

Valorian pursed his lips. “Very well. You are ever vigilant, my lady.” He took a seat across from her, unlatching the clasp on his cape. The fabric fell to the floor, revealing his hard-edged shoulders and smooth river-stone chest rippling underneath his thin white shirt. “I trust your journey was pleasant.”

“It was nothing of the sort.” Danika pulled off her helmet and set it against the chair. Her hair fell around her shoulders, catching Valorian’s gaze.

Drat. She should have pinned it up.

“Pray tell what happened, my dear.” He lifted the lids of the china pots, revealing steaming heaps of poultry and vegetables.

Despite not eating all day, Danika had lost her appetite. Would this be what life would be like if she married him? Polite conversation over fine china? Danika cringed. She preferred sparring with Bron on the fields. “Five wyverns attacked us. We lost seventeen men as well as three horses.”

“Horred’s Gambit. How terrible!” He stabbed a potato and brought the food to his plate.

How could he eat at a time like this? “Yes, and that’s not all. The wyverns are craftier than I thought. After we felled them, they dove straight for our front lines. One lit its own wings on fire to take us down.”

“Interesting. And also encouraging.” Valorian tasted a bite of pheasant, chewing slowly.

Danika placed her fork on the table with a clink. “Encouraging?” Was he not listening?

Valorian swallowed. “Minstrels always consider intelligence and intentions so we can turn their thoughts in our songs. Perhaps I can craft a melody that will convince them their lives are too valuable to spare.”

“I thought you said you cannot change a person’s mind, only draw out what is inside them.”

“Very true, Princess. I cannot. Yet, a beast intelligent enough to sacrifice itself for vengeance may have other, deeper emotions belying its motives. Perhaps the beast has younglings or fights alongside its comrades. Songs can play upon those emotional ties and bring them to the foreground, until all the beast can think about is returning home.”

As much as minstrels bending other creatures’ intentions sounded like a rogue-ish way to get what you wanted, Valorian had one point. Danika stabbed a potato. She might as well look like she was eating. “’Tis a peaceful way to end a battle.”

Valorian nodded. “Sadly, sometimes the underlying motives, the ones with true heart to them, are not enough to sway the beast.”

Danika swallowed a bite of potato hard. This rang too true to her inner battle between Bron and Valorian. She feared her heart’s wishes wouldn’t be enough to sway the outcome. “What do you do then?”

“Let us hope these fiery worms have hearts bigger than their stomachs. If not, we find smaller battles to fight within them, convincing them of weariness or blindness.”

What would choosing the smaller battles mean for her? Being able to visit Ebonvale on occasion? Seeing Bron as a stranger once a year? She couldn’t lie to herself any longer. That life of small battles wouldn’t be enough.

Danika shifted in her seat, her armor feeling heavy on her shoulders. “Surely I cannot stay here with you if I’m to protect my honor.”

Valorian smiled and his eyes traveled down to the sword at her side. “A woman of your capabilities hardly has to worry about protecting her honor? However, safeguards are in place. There are two separate rooms branching from this cabin, and I can station a minstrel bodyguard at each one to protect us both.” He winked and sipped a glass of wine.

A minstrel bodyguard? What about Bron?

Danika knew she’d only accept one man as her true bodyguard.

“Leave them be. You’re right. I can take care of myself.”

“Excellent.” Valorian’s cheeks flushed. Obviously he’d taken her request as an invitation.

Danika choked on a buttery bite of pheasant, feeling like a bird trapped in a cage.

Valorian stood. “Are you well, Princess?”

“Yes.” She gulped down her glass of wine and stood. “I’m weary from travel. Allow me to retire and we’ll talk more in the morning.”

“Of course.” He walked around the table and snaked his arm through hers, leading her to the room on the right. “Tomorrow we set sail. With the direction of the wind, it will take three days to reach Scalehaven, so we’ll have a lot of time to catch up.”

He opened the door. Her room was richly furnished with a four poster canopy bed. A redwood chest sat open at the footstool, filled with silken nightdresses and velvet gowns, and an oaken desk lay before a window with a four foot view of the sea.

“I trust the room is to your liking?” Valorian gazed with a worried look etched on his scarred, yet gorgeous face.

“Of course. Thank you.” Danika turned, then a current of guilt spread through her as she remembered Bron. She whirled around. “You must send a messenger to find Bron and the army. “Tell them to return to the dock at sunrise at the latest.”

“Certainly.” Valorian kissed her on the cheek. “I look forward to our time together.” With a suggestive smile, he left, closing the door behind.

Danika collapsed on the flowery bedspread. How would she deflect Valorian’s advances for three full days?

Only One Woman

There was no sense in marching Ebonvale’s army down a deserted street when their feet already chafed in their boots and they’d squeezed the last few drops from their sheepskins. Instead, Bron led them to a small park where they could watch the ocean waves lap across a sandy beach. Travel-worn and heart-sore, he took off on his own to find shelter and food.

Wind gushed across the usually bustling boardwalk with no vendor stalls to block the gales from the ocean or the salty spray of the sea. Hastily nailed boards covered every window and door to all the inns. Bron walked the length of the bay. Would he find any provisions, or would they have to sustain themselves on Ebonvale’s dried jerky and whatever they could fish out of the sea? Surely, one would have to be mad to stay open in a no man’s land.

Bron turned back. How would he brace his men for the ill news? A gust of wind blew and hinges creaked. He whirled around, hand over hilt, and spotted a sign with yellow painted letters reading
The Broken Oar.

One more. He owed it to his weary men to check.

Gazing down an alley to make sure he wasn’t being followed by looters, or something worse, Bron jogged the remaining steps to the sign. The old wooden door stood slightly ajar and a warm fire glowed from inside painted glass windows depicting sailors lost at sea.

Seemed like a trap.

Bron tensed his fingers over his hilt, ready to draw at any time, and walked in. His armor clinked as he stepped, stealing any sense of surprise. Wooden booths with linen pillows lined the inside walls, and a series of bottles of all shapes and sizes stood on a glossy oaken bar.

“Good afternoon, soldier. May I tempt you with a draught of our famous, or shall I say infamous, blackwood brew?” An older man with a leathery brown patch over one eye and a head full of silvery hair standing up on end stared at him. Two blue bottles filled with a bubbly substance stood before him.

“No thank you, kind sir.” Bron stepped toward the bar, acutely aware of any motion on all sides. Bron didn’t want to give away the position of his army, or of Danika and the ships, until he knew more about the situation and this man. “What brings such a dutiful bartender to open his tavern in times such as these?”

“Kingdoms rise and fall, rulers come and go, but one truth remains.” He paused, examining a bottle of dark, amber liquid. “If the sun continues to set and the moon dances in her shadow, there will always be a need for drink for the likes of any man.”

Bron didn’t like the idea of kingdoms falling. “What have you heard of the wyverns?”

“Rumors, mostly. Yula’s son found a scale as big as that door washed up on the beach. Old Wolly upstairs saw a cloud of worms amassing over the eastern seaboard. City folks have abandoned their dwellings for fear the beasts will pay a visit to Brimmore’s Bay. Pah!” He waved his hand. “If they come, then so be it. I’m not gonna let some fish-headed worms ruin my life’s work. They’ve already driven away all my business, but they’re not running old Tarle Bluebottom outta town!”

Bron smiled. He was beginning to like this man. “You have the bravery of a soldier.”

“Nah. I was never one for battle and bloodshed. Give me a bucket, though, and I’ll brew mead that will knock your helmet to the starry sky.”

Bron stepped to the bar and dug into his travel bag. He pulled out a velvet sack and dropped it onto the countertop. A few golden coins leaked out, glinting in the hearth’s light as they rolled and spun on the oaken tabletop. “I believe I can drum up some business for you.”

Tarle Bluebottom leaned forward with a glint in his good eye. “Just say the word.”

* * * *

As the first round of the Royal Guard filed into the booths with four men squeezing onto each bench, Bron took a seat at a one-man table in the back. Seeing Danika with Valorian again brought out the brooding side of him, and conversation wasn’t a dance he wanted to engage in.

“More water, soldier?” A chubby-faced barmaid no older than Bron leaned over the table with a metal pitcher, condensation forming on the sides. She gave him a quizzical look, probably wondering why he hadn’t tried Tarle Bluebottom’s famous blackwood mead.

Bron never consumed mead on a quest. “Certainly. Thank you, ma’am.” He pushed his mug forward.

Her black curls fell over the table as she filled his mug. Dark eyes studied the scar trailing along his jaw. “What’ll it be tonight?”

Bron absently rubbed his chin where the scar ended. The image of a man with blackened skin and white-blue eyes, thick with cataracts, flashed through his mind. A leather rope hung around his neck, a golden ring dangling around his Adam’s apple. He’d been human once. It had only taken that millisecond of pause for the undead to awkwardly swing a knife at Bron’s face. It was good fortune the morning chill had frozen the dead man’s limbs, and the reanimated had imperfect aim at best.

Bron blinked to clear his thoughts. “The pork and mutton dumplings sound tasty.”

“An excellent choice for such a fine man.” She appraised him with a smile. “Name’s Lisha if you need anything.”

Bron nodded without comment. Her interest in his scar unnerved him. He was a fractured man made tough by battle and silent by duty. Only such a woman as Danika would truly understand.

The barmaid twisted on her heels. Her hips swayed as she walked to the next table.

He’d killed the undead man in one fatal swing. A lull had fallen over the battle, and he had had enough time to bend over the corpse and break the leather strap around his neck. Holding the ring between his forefinger and thumb, he’d read the inscription.

Bound by love, Ursula and Claric.

Bron had searched for Ursula when King Artemus brought the men home. He’d found her in the farmer’s village beside his, and it took him more courage than heading into battle to return the ring. She’d cursed him, saying he’d killed her one true love and his scar would never completely heal. True to her word, the scar burned in the sun and chilled in the evening air.

Another battle with more carnage, more death, loomed.

“Here you are.” The barmaid Lisha pushed a plate of steaming pork and mutton dumplings with brown gravy in front of him. “Enjoy.”

“My thanks to you.” Bron picked up his fork.

“Oh, and one more thing.” She dug into her apron and pulled out a small silver flask etched with a filigreed pattern on the front. “Courtesy of Tarle.” She placed the flask on the table beside him.

Bron studied the glinting silver, running his hands along the grooves in the pattern. He admired the beauty and craftsmanship. “I have no need for this. I do not drink.”

“It’s a gift. Take it. You’ll find a use for it.” The barmaid leaned on his table, exposing her neckline and robust chest. “Is there anything else I can fetch for you?”

“No, ma’am.” Bron cut a piece of meat with the side of his fork. He expected her to tend to the other tables, but she leaned on his as if she planned to stay. Bron wished for the company of his soldiers. Eating alone wasn’t such a good idea anymore.

Her fingers trailed along his arm. “Tell me, do you have a sweetheart pining away for you back in Ebonvale?”

Bron couldn’t lie to this young woman. “I do not.”