Rift (38 page)

When Bosque spoke again, she recognized his voice, but the words were clipped by a strange clicking noise.

“Have you called me here of your free will?”

“Yes,” Eira said. She gasped when something sharp, but not metal, pierced her skin.

“Do you invite me into this world, binding me to you with your blood?”

“Yes.” Tears slipped down her cheeks as a cut slowly opened from her shoulder to her lower back.

“Do you swear your fealty to me, by the blood spilled today?”

“Yes.” She dropped onto all fours as another diagonal wound sliced the length of her back.

The wind suddenly ceased its howling, leaving an eerie silence. Shaking, Eira curled over. Her back burned with pain. Rain took the place of the wind. The cool water mingled with the hot blood running down her skin.

“Rise, Eira.”

She was afraid to lift her head, but the hand that touched her shoulder was warm. Human.

Moving stiffly due to her wounds, Eira donned her shirt, tabard, and cloak. When she turned, Bosque—looking just as he had the first time she’d seen him—gazed at her with sympathetic eyes.

“I am sorry I have to leave you in pain.”

With a tight smile, she said, “It was my choice.”

His silver eyes flared again. “Yes. It was.”

“What happens now?” she asked.

“We incite your companions to action,” he told her. “It is time to reveal to them what is truly at stake. Gather your allies. When and how we move forward lies with your will. I exist only to serve you.”

Eira nodded, lifting her face so the rain washed away the last of her tears. She stared up into the dark heavens, where stars were masked by clouds.

“Eira?”

She blinked away the raindrops and looked at him. “I know what must be done.”

Hours later, while most of Tearmunn slept, Eira stole into the barracks. She climbed the stairs and crept past the cell doors until she reached the room she sought. Knocking as quietly as possible, Eira waited a few minutes before the door creaked open.

Bleary-eyed, Alistair peered at her as though he were dreaming. “Lady Eira?”

“I’m here to keep my promise, Lord Hart,” she told him.

His blue eyes sharpened, and he stepped back, ushering her into his cell. She sat in the wooden chair beside his pallet. Alistair glanced at his unmade bed and rumpled sleeping shirt.

“I can dress . . .”

“There’s no need,” Eira said, gesturing to the pallet. “Please sit.”

Alistair obeyed, and Eira smiled when the young knight sat straight and at attention as if he were wearing his Guard uniform.

“I will tell you all you wish you know,” Eira said. She lowered her voice. “But first I have a question for you, Alistair.”

He blushed when she used his Christian name. Eira took that as a good sign.

“Ask me what you please, my lady,” he murmured.

“If I could give you anything in the world,” Eira said softly, “what would you want?”

TWENTY-NINE

EMBER’S HEART JUMPED
at the knock on her cell door, as it had gained a habit of doing, but her pulse slowed again as it was also wont to do when she opened the door and didn’t find Barrow.

“May I come in?” Alistair asked.

“Of course.” She stepped back so he could enter. His visits had become frequent since her recovery. Ember was surprised to find she welcomed his company—their relationship had eased back into the familiar patterns of their childhood. The light banter and teasing they shared helped alleviate the dull ache that had made its home in her chest.

“I have a surprise and a gift,” Alistair said. “Or rather, it’s a gift that’s also a surprise.”

“I don’t need any gifts, Alistair.” Ember smiled.
Or surprises,
she thought.

“It would be a shame to let your recovery go uncelebrated.” Alistair winked at her. “Besides, if you say no, you’ll only feel left out. Everyone else will be there.”

Ember peered at him suspiciously. “Be where?”

“Open this and see if you can guess.” Alistair brought his hands around from behind his back, revealing a cloth package bound with twine.

With a puzzled glance, Ember took the parcel from him. She drew her dagger and cut the twine. When she pulled back the cloth covering, a soft green fabric peeped out at her. Ember shook out the dress that had been folded within the plain cloth. It was the color of faded grass. Lovely, but simple—its fabric smooth and light, lacking the finery and weight of the gowns she’d worn at home and had donned for her audience with the abbot. It reminded her of something that female servants wore when they gathered in the manor for the annual Yule celebration, when her father distributed gifts.

“Do you like it?” Alistair asked.

Ember nodded but asked, “Why have you given me a dress?”

“The village on the loch is celebrating the spring planting with a ceilidh,” he told her. “I’d like to take you.”

She hesitated and he quickly said, “As your friend, Ember, nothing more. You’ll see when we get there that everyone from Tearmunn is in attendance. The village festivals never fail to impress. Food, dancing, drink. Surely you want to go?”

“Of course,” she said, and Alistair’s eyes brightened. “I’ve been hearing about it. But aren’t we required to be here for the ritual of Fidelitas tonight?”

“We are,” he said. “But the ritual takes place at midnight. There’s plenty of time for festivities before the ceremony.”

She smiled at him. “Then I would love to go.”

“Wonderful,” he said. “Change your clothes and I’ll be back to fetch you soon.”

When he’d left her, Ember stood holding the dress in her hands. The ceilidh did sound appealing, but despite what she’d told Alistair, part of Ember was reluctant to go. If all of Tearmunn would be at the celebration, that meant Barrow would also be there. And Ember had made a habit of avoiding him. Not that it took much effort. Her former mentor seemed to be avoiding her as well. She saw him at meals and occasionally on the practice field when she and Sorcha had sparring matches.

As Barrow had predicted, Sorcha was an exceptional teacher and Ember had made significant progress. But she didn’t fully credit her new mentor’s skill for her swift advances in combat. After Barrow had disowned her, Ember had thrown herself into training relentlessly. She was determined to fill the void in her chest with an unparalleled commitment to her training. For the most part this strategy had proven successful. It was only when she saw Barrow, or when he acknowledged her with a polite but restrained greeting, that she felt like he’d punched her in the gut.

It was all foolishness, she thought as she unbraided her hair, letting it fall in waves down her back. Had she not let herself become overly admiring of Barrow, she wouldn’t be in this predicament. She might have more relief if her overactive imagination would spare her nightly visits from the tall knight. In her dreams Barrow recanted his words from the stable. He asked her forgiveness and promised never to leave her side. But the worst of it was that her mind didn’t stop at a simple reconciliation. Instead it pressed her into his arms, showed her the shape and strength of his body in far too intimate ways, and made her wake breathless and bathed in sweat.

Ember shed her usual clothing and found a clean kirtle. She slid the dress over her head. It buttoned up the side so the waist and bodice hugged her curves. Though she didn’t quite know what to make of Alistair supplying a dress so perfectly tailored to her size, she was grateful for its lovely shape and the way the skirt swirled around her ankles, flaring out if she turned in a circle or twisted side to side.

After a soft knock at the door and Ember’s invitation, Alistair reentered her room.

He looked at her for a moment and she saw him swallow. “You’re lovely.”

“Thank you,” Ember said. “You look quite the dashing knight yourself.”

And he did. Alistair had traded the Guard’s uniform for finely woven chausses, a fitted linen shirt, and a dark vest. He was clean-shaven and he smiled at her, his face full of the boyish charm that so many women would surely find irresistible. But not Ember.

For a moment she wondered what could be wrong with her that she would reject the professions of love from one so desirable as Alistair. He was her lifelong friend, a proven warrior, and inarguably handsome.

Though she might muse about her own heart’s failings, she knew it was no use to speculate about Alistair. She could think of him as nothing other than her friend.

His brow furrowed. “Has Eira spoken to you yet?”

“Eira?” Ember shook her head. “Does she need to see me?”

“She’ll seek you out, I’m sure,” he said. “When she does, please listen to what she has to say, Em. Eira is a great leader. She can do so much for us. For all of us.”

He drew something from his vest pocket. “In the meantime I know she wanted you to have this.”

Dangling from his fingers was a pendant suspended by a thin gold chain.

“Why?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said with a weaseling smile. “Perhaps she thought you’d be suffering without the fineries of home.”

“Ugh.”

He looped the chain around her neck. “You should wear it tonight.”

“I don’t know,” she said as he fastened the clasp. “It’s a fine gift. What if I lose it?”

“Don’t lose it.”

She cupped the pendant in her hand. It was rimmed with gold, its surface delicately carved to reveal a rose crossed by two swords.

Alistair leaned over her shoulders. “The Bloodrose. It represents the love and sacrifice required of a true warrior.”

He took the pendant from her fingers, turning it over. “See.”

“Sanguine et igne nascimur
.
”
Ember read the inscription. “In blood and fire we are born. And Eira’s name is here as well.”

“She has great faith in you,” Alistair said.

“I don’t know why,” she murmured. “I’ve done little since I came here.”

“Little?” He snorted. “You killed a striga that led us to a prisoner who may be more important than any we’ve ever taken.”

She tilted her head, peering at him. “Is there news about the prisoner?” She’d heard little other than that the wild man was still confined in the stockade.

He looked away. “Only rumors.”

“What rumors?” she asked.

But Alistair smiled, ignoring her question. “Remember what I said. Listen to Eira.”

“I will,” Ember said, distracted by her own thoughts.

“Please, Ember,” Alistair said. “I want you to understand how much I trust her.”

She looked at him, surprised by the seriousness of his words. But the solemn moment had passed.

“Shall we go?” He offered his hand and Ember took it. “Ian’s readying our mounts.”

They rode from Tearmunn at a leisurely pace, watching the sun set over Loch Duich as the horses picked their way down the hillside. Alistair kept Ember laughing by admitting to her all the mistakes he’d made during his trial with the hobgoblins.

“It’s a miracle I’m not dead,” he told her.

Ember doubted that all the faults he’d heaped on himself were true but thought them instead created for her entertainment. “I saw you bait the striga. You were incredibly brave.”

“All fools are brave.” His eyes twinkled in the rosy twilight.

The sounds of the planting festival drifted toward them from the village that squatted at the edge of Loch Duich. Bonfires began to dot the hillside behind the village, ringing its perimeter with flames that leapt toward the heavens. But it was the music that tugged at Ember’s spirit. Pipes, flutes, and drums wove complex melodies bursting with life.

They left their horses tethered at the village border, giving coins to the pack of boys who’d been assigned to watch over the mounts. Alistair led the way into the center of the festival, and with each step Ember’s senses were assailed by sight, scent, and sound. The music roared in her ears; her heart pounded with the frenzied drumbeats. Venison, beef, and pork roasted on spits, filling the air with savory odors. Local artisans called out to them, hawking wares ranging from pottery to potions. At the center of it all was the dance. Bodies flew about in a broad circle, dipping, twirling, bowing—partners changed, hands clasped. Laughter and shrieks of delight became part of the ceilidh music.

“May this planting grant us a blessed harvest.” Father Michael smiled warmly at them. “And the ritual of Fidelitas prepare us for the work to come.”

“Have we missed anything?” Alistair asked him.

The priest gestured to the musicians. “Only the chance to dance with your commander. He talked his way into the performance as soon as he arrived.”

Ember tracked the spot to which Father Michael pointed, and gasped. Lukasz was seated amid the village musicians, beating furiously on a bodhran
.

Alistair was laughing, but Ember turned a questioning gaze on the priest.

“Music is a great love of the commander’s,” he told her. “And he rarely is afforded the opportunity to play.”

He looked past the dancers at Lukasz, whose eyes were closed as he lost himself in the fierce rhythms he created. “He’s very talented,” Father Michael observed.