Rebel: The Blades of the Rose (30 page)

“And got yourself in striking distance,” he added darkly.

“I had to.” And the words were thick in her throat, yet she found a way to say them. “For you.”

A bare, brief moment of terror. She'd said it aloud, making it real for both of them. And, even though she did not doubt him, still the flutter of fear to launch herself like a bird in hopes of flight.

Instead of answering, his fingertips grazed over her bare back, careful around her wound. Her braid was tenderly lifted aside, and his lips swept along the sensitive nape of her neck where, she knew, small puffs of escaped blond hair brushed his mouth. Not a kiss, precisely, for she felt his indrawn breath. Taking in her scent where it was concentrated. And then, she shivered as he very, very lightly bit her neck—a reminder that she was his, in the most primal way.

They could not tarry, much as she reveled in Nathan's touch, its meaning. Poor Catullus would polish his spectacles into granules of sand. And, always, the threat of pursuit.

So Nathan wrapped scraps of clean cloth around Astrid's shoulder, and she donned her shirt and coat.

“What is the legend for the hawk totem?” asked Catullus, gratefully turning around when given the all-clear.

“
From the sky you will see the way of the green river,
” Nathan recited, rising to his feet.

“How do we get up into the sky?” asked Astrid. As she stood, she gave Nathan a speculative look and he raised his brow in response.

“Me?” he said.

“We know you can change into a wolf
and
a bear,” she answered. “Would it not make sense that you have the ability to become a hawk as well?” A remarkable thing to ask, yet everything was possible. Even a man who could fly.

Nathan's pensive expression did not alter. “At this point, I can't rule it out.”

“Can you try now?” asked Catullus. “The way you did with the bear and the wolf?”

Nathan closed his eyes, then, after a moment, opened them, his face shadowed. “I don't know how. The wolf and bear came out when I was angry, when someone was hurt or threatened.”

“Perhaps you can make yourself angry,” Catullus suggested. He did not say aloud, but everyone thought, that Nathan might attempt to remember Quinn.

Nathan tried again, closing his eyes, an expression of intense concentration turning his face into sharpened planes. Then he shook his head, frustrated. “No—it won't come. Damn it.”

Astrid placed a hand on his chest, and beneath her palm felt the steady throb of his heart, the firmness of his flesh that marked him as real and living and hers.
Hers.
“No anger now,” she soothed. “When the time is right.”

He was only somewhat mollified. “Still need to get up into the sky.”

Astrid glanced up with a small smile at the tall fir trees surrounding them. “I know a way.”

 

“I should go, too,” Graves said, scowling.

Astrid disagreed. “You took a bad hit to your head. The last thing you should do is climb a tree.”

“And stand around like a nursemaid whilst you and Lesperance play.”

Nathan clapped his hand on Graves's shoulder. “Keep an eye on the prams. And no gossiping with the other nannies.”

More grumbling from Graves and, in truth, Nathan couldn't blame the man. If given the chance to scale a five-story tree or remain on the ground, Nathan would choose the climb. A hell of a lot more interesting.

“Astrid's right,” Nathan added. “You fall and smash open that valuable brain of yours, all that's left is your stunning beauty.”

“I
feel
fine,” Graves muttered, but he knew they were correct, and so, took up a watchful stance with his shotgun cradled in his arm.

Two trees stood within six feet of each other, so Nathan and Astrid took up positions in front of each. A test found the trunk to be just wider than his circled arms. Glancing up revealed that the tree narrowed as it stretched up toward the sky, but it seemed sturdy enough to hold his weight. Astrid, a good deal more slight than he, would be well supported. As he looked up, late sunlight caught in the high branches and needles, an amber-and-green mosaic.

He turned his gaze to Astrid, who had kicked off her jacket, boots, and socks, and had her arms wrapped around her own tree.

“Have you ever climbed a tree before?” she asked.

“What boy hasn't?” He had, truthfully, been whipped soundly for climbing up the imported English elm tree and onto the chapel roof beside it. Didn't matter how many times he was beaten for it, Nathan still climbed. He liked the view and solitude, the world grown small and him above it. “But that tree had branches.”

“This one does, too.” She looked up. “But they are higher up.” Nearly twenty feet higher.

Her arms still encircling the trunk, she gripped the rough bark, pulling herself close, then jumped. She planted her bare feet on the trunk, half a yard off the ground. She slid her arms upward, then, with her feet, pushed herself up until she was two yards above the forest floor. She smiled down at him, part woodland elf, yet entirely real woman. “Now you. Use your legs, not your arms, for strength.”

He drew in a breath, arms loose but ready, then jumped. His first attempt wasn't quite as successful as hers, his feet scrabbling on the trunk as he fought for purchase, then lost his grip to find himself standing exactly as he was before.

Graves snorted but, when Nathan glared at him, smiled beatifically.

Nothing like a little disbelief to push Nathan further. His second attempt went much better. Nathan leapt, gripping the tree, then used the strength of his legs to push him higher. Within a moment, he was level with Astrid.

“Excellent,” she beamed. “Keep going. It gets easier when we reach branches.” Which were still nearly twenty feet above.

The world narrowed to the feel of bark against his feet and hands. He methodically climbed, glancing down every now and again to see the forest floor—and a watchful Graves—growing more and more distant. Heights did not trouble him, but he did start in surprise when he looked over to the nearby tree and could find no sign of Astrid.

“Up here,” she called.

He followed the direction of her voice. And cursed, smiling.

She sat on a branch, some six feet above him, looking comfortable and relaxed. For a bare moment, fear gripped him. Fir needles blanketed the ground, but they wouldn't give enough cushion if she fell. And they were only going higher.

“Boys are not the only ones who climb trees,” she said, reading him instantly.

Doubt fled. He trusted her strength and skill. In seconds, he had pulled himself up onto a branch and sat, as she did. They were deep into the canopy, surrounded by tree branches and afternoon birdsong. A few curious sparrows turned jet bead eyes toward them, unused to company so high up. One inquisitive female hopped onto Nathan's hand, her feet like living twigs, before taking flight.

“They're drawn to your magic,” Astrid noted.

“I thought birds didn't react well to it.”

“Depends on the bird. And the magic.”

“Still a ways to go,” he said, glancing upward. They needed to clear the treetops, and the sun sank lower. Dusk would come soon.

They clambered from branch to branch, and he felt the old boyish thrill to climb, to use an old tree to lift himself up. Was it the beast in him, or something else? Simply the pleasure a man took in conquering heights and making the world shrink, birthing himself into a giant.

Now and again, he glanced over to Astrid and saw the same joy in her face, the need for motion and ascent. He allowed himself a moment of purely masculine admiration, to see her lithe, slim body move like a supple dream, all strength and sensual potential. And more than that, he was drawn in by the energy of her, the living soul that gave itself the might to withhold nothing. Now freed from the cage of her own making, Astrid soared. He burned to soar with her. He swore he would, and face all the demons of hell to do so.

Higher, higher they climbed, sometimes battling the branches that grew thickly the farther they went. The ground disappeared, obscured by boughs and shaking green needles. A few squirrels watched and chattered before bounding away. Precarious, the higher he and Astrid went, as the trunk narrowed. A slight swaying of the trees. Then the canopy thinned. Nathan and Astrid emerged into open air.

Low sunlight briefly dazzled before they could truly see. And then—

“Oh, marvelous,” Astrid breathed.

Over fifty feet above the ground, the land flowed out around them. White-and-gray mountains carpeted lushly with forest. No sign of the Heirs on the mountains, nothing to foul the panorama. The shining blue backs of rivers, weaving in serpentine arcs. The sky, impossibly big and open, as though the lid of a box had been removed to reveal eternity above. A cool wind, fragrant with the multitude of life all around, swirled and pulsed and quickened the world.

The most arresting sight: Astrid, glowing, truly free. Her silver eyes shone, daylight stars, and he read in them not only the pleasure in a rare, exalted view, but that they could share it.

Up here, with the view of gods, everything fell away, everything cleared into precise focus. He knew himself—she had given him the means.

“I love you,” he said.

A flicker of fear and then she became brilliant, another sun. Then, strangely, chuckled. “We need to work on your timing. I cannot touch or kiss you now.” She glanced ruefully at the distance between them.

Her response wasn't quite what he had in mind—her own declaration of love would've been nice—but she was always herself, never someone else's idea of who she should be, and, damn it, if that didn't make him happy, then he was a miserable bastard who deserved precisely nothing. So he took her words and her bright joy and felt himself become a hundred times more than he'd ever been before.

“Let's find that green river,” he growled. “Then we can climb down and I can say it again.”

“A good plan,” she said, smiling.

They both gazed out, searching for any sign of a green river. “All the rivers look blue,” he said.

“Perhaps in certain light,” she offered. “Or moss growing along the riverbanks makes them appear green.”

“But the legend says,
From the sky you will see the way of the green river.
Why
from the sky?
” He continued to scan the landscape around them, drawing upon his every sense, human and beast, to reveal the land's secrets.

“The white lake was not truly a lake,” Astrid said. “And the gray forest was not truly a forest, but a mountain range. So the green river must not be an actual river.”

Nathan's attention snagged. He narrowed his eyes, and then a small smile of triumph curved his mouth. “Look there.”

Astrid followed his point, and then she smiled as well. “The green river.”

A trail of trees, taller by dozens of feet from those around them, cut through the terrain. It began close by and then wound in curving bends to the east. From the ground, the path of trees could not have been seen, but from far above the ground, the route revealed itself in the height of the trees.

“The trees are older than the rest of the forest,” Astrid said, voice soft with wonder. “The ancients must have planted them long ago to serve as a pathway to the hawk totem.”

“If it's a path,” Nathan said, “it has to lead somewhere.”

They both followed the course of the trees with their eyes. The green path twisted through forests, even cutting across a river, on for miles. Until it ended. At sheer granite cliffs.

Astrid said, “It leads there.” Even from a great height and distance, both she and Nathan could tell the cliffs were fully perpendicular and extraordinarily tall. Scaling such cliffs would take more than experience and rope. It would take a miracle. Or magic.

As he and Astrid made their way back down, Nathan realized with a start that he already had his miracle. He glanced at Astrid, taking her in, her grace and resolve. A diamond, hard and beautiful, within the demanding seclusion of the wilderness. Yet diamonds were cold and cutting, and she was warmth itself, capable of profound tenderness.

And, as for magic, she had shown him there was much more of it in the world than he'd ever believed.

 

To follow a path of trees toward a sheer cliff seemed perfectly ordinary, or so Graves acted when told of their next objective. He just said, “Very good,” shouldered his shotgun and pack, and started off in the right direction.

Being a Blade, it seemed, meant doing things that normal people would scoff at. But, out of everything Nathan had seen and done since meeting Astrid, following a trail of trees seemed downright routine.

But dusk already began to descend, especially down in the forest, where shadows lengthened long before the sun disappeared. And everyone began to stagger like drunkards, the day's turmoil wearing. Even the pleasure of climbing into the sky—and Nathan opening his heart—had its price.

Astrid found them a suitable campsite—he wondered how he'd ever get used to seeing her indoors, since she was as much a part of the wilderness as it was of her, but he didn't really give a damn, so long as he was with her, in a cabin or castle—and the three of them settled around the fire. Astrid and Nathan on one side, Graves on the other. A melancholy silence reigned as they ate a meal of roast fish and gathered berries. The absence around the fire was palpable.

“Quinn mentioned a niece,” Nathan said.

Graves nodded, feeding the fire. “A married sister in Boston. His only family.”

No one asked whether Quinn had a wife or sweetheart. Such connections seemed to be luxuries for Blades.

“There's never enough funds for a proper pension,” Astrid sighed. “As it is, even the headquarters in Southampton is falling apart.”

“Last winter, the library flooded,” said Graves. “We had to put all the books in Bennett's room.”