Fire Wolf Page 11

  “I’m fine.” His hand fell away when she opened her eyes. “Tired, but fine. Everything was just …”

  “Too much?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked down, picking at a loose blue thread on her gown. She twisted the string around her gloved fingers. “I’m grateful you saved me, for—”

  “You saved me too. I would be dead if you had kept running.”

  A smile tickled the edges of her lips. “I was returning the favor.”

  “I—” He shifted his weight from foot to foot and ran a hand through his hair. “I should have been there. Stayed with you,” he fumbled.

  “Let’s not. It’s done now.” The soldier found her often enough in her nightmares that she didn’t want to call him forth in the waking hours. And the wolf ... her mind felt muddled and heavy when she thought of him, a slow ache building at the base of her skull. The creature was strange.

  Skye’s warm brown eyes held her gaze; the pucker creasing the spot between his eyebrows told her he wanted to say more.

  “Have you seen Allen?” She changed subjects. Not being allowed out of the castle meant she couldn’t even visit her friend, to comfort him in his suffering.

  “He’s not doing well. Cal is there now. I swear that Osten knew exactly where to stick him to make sure he died slowly and painfully.”

  Myah sighed. Most of the military prior to the war had been made up of Ostens. They had served her uncle—the king—as spies, executioners, guardsmen, and she would be naive to think he hadn’t also had skilled tortures among them. She didn’t like to think of the darker aspects of ruling. She preferred to remember her uncle as the loving man who would pick her up and swing her in his arms when she was little.

  “Master Griffith should have some herbs to ease his pain. Willow bark, for starters. He might have something stronger. You could ask—”

  “He banished Cal and me from his tower. He’s as angry as your mother at us.”

  “I’ll see what I can get from him later this evening, then. How is Owl doing with all of this?”

  “Angry. His sources insist it wasn’t an ambush.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “Not for a moment.” His hand came up, and the tips of his fingers traced her jawline back toward her ear, and then slipped a loose tendril of hair behind it.

  She sucked in a breath; she loved it when he touched her. She could easily get lost in his touch, in his kisses, in all the things that made him Skye. “I should go. I don’t want you to get into any more trouble because of me.”

  “You’re worth it,” he whispered before brushing his lips to hers. “See you soon.”

  “Bye,” she whispered.

  Myah kept her head down as she walked past him. She could feel his gaze upon her, making her body tingle with warmth. Just before she turned the corner in the garden maze, she stopped and stole a look over her shoulder. The soft look in his eyes made her heart skip a beat.

  ~TWELVE~

  Myah took a deep breath before pushing open the doors to the library. She stepped into the room, relishing the quiet of the space, before turning her attention to the nook. The door to the little room stood open. Her uncle toiled at the table, his brows set in a deep furrow, his lips pressed into a frown.

  He was worried about something.

  She closed the doors behind her and crossed the library to his favorite space.

  Behind him, the sliding pieces in the woodwork had been pushed back to reveal a map of the four kingdoms. A magnet marked Frost Bay, and two more marked the Stone Isles.

  “Uncle?” The look he gave her sobered her instantly. “What’s wrong?”

  “I received word from the captains of the cutter ships. They cannot leave the Stone Isles.”

  “What? Why? King Haider has always kept his word.”

  “King Haider is not the issue. The bay is.” Edgar smacked Frost Bay on the map with the backs of his fingers. “That storm a week ago? It froze the bay over. No one can get in or out.”

  Myah sank down into a chair. First the ambush and losing all of Owl’s men, and now the supplies they desperately needed to feed everyone weren’t coming as they hoped. Why was everything going so terribly wrong?

  “You look pale.” Edgar drew her attention back to him. “Perhaps you should still be resting.”

  Myah shook her head. “No, I’m fine. The setback is just … frustrating.”

  “How so?”

  “We’ve been managing these last eight years. We don’t have extravagances, but we were doing well for the city and for Nordlin. But now, we’ve brought in more refugees, we can’t get food or supplies, and the Ostens are literally at our border. I feel like a doe trapped in a ravine, and no matter where I look, I’m surrounded by stone. I cannot see a way to fix this.”

  “It’s a good thing that the fixing is still my responsibility. Haider and I will work something out. We might be able to send some men to the coast and sneak the supplies across Namir.”

  “You might also sprout wings and fly,” Myah said sardonically. “You and I both know that the Ostens will guard the ports and the coast doggedly. It’s why we decided on Frost Bay to begin with.”

  “All right, what are the other options?” He crossed his arms, staring down at her. His lips pressed together, hinting at his annoyance at her flippancy, but if they invested their attention in the wrong plan now, the entire kingdom wouldn’t make it to midwinter.

  “You said the sea ice has formed, cutting off the bay?”

  Edgar shrugged, letting her know that was the case.

  “Well, the northern men know the ice. If it’s packed enough that a cutter can’t get through, then maybe it’s packed enough that they can take dog sleds to the water’s edge. We can bring the cutters as close as they can to Frost Bay. Or—”

  “Now, that … that has merit. You always were good at talking yourself out of the ravine.”

  “I’m pretty sure I learned that from you,” she countered. “It would take more time, and the kingdom will be hurting in the interim, but at least we won’t be risking a confrontation with the Osten army—in their territory.”

  “Agreed. I’ll send word to the Stone Isles and see what Haider and my captains think. The sea can be rough this time of year, but it’s at least worth considering.” He flopped down in the chair across from her and leaned back, resting his ankle on the opposite knee. He lifted his arms above his head and laced his fingers together. “I should have asked you days ago, but you … you haven’t looked well since your accident.”

  His inflection on the last word rankled her. He had no idea what had happened to her, and even if she couldn’t tell him the truth, she could certainly stand up for her friends. She leaned back in her chair, lacing her fingers in her lap. “About that …”

  Edgar dropped his arms, the mirth slipping from his features. “Yes?”

  His tone, edged with anger, made her leery. “Skye didn’t … well, I know you and Mother think he hurt me somehow, but … he would never …”

  “Cal, then?”

  “No!” Myah’s voice rose in pitch. “No. Cal would never hurt me either. I don’t know why you’re blaming them; it was only an accident. Nothing more. Nothing nefarious. I fell in the river and got worked over by the rocks. I would be dead if it weren’t for them.”

  Edgar rose to his feet and circled the table. He sat on the tabletop and placed his hands on her arms—directly above where many of her bruises still lingered. “You’ve never lied to me, My, so I want to trust that you are telling me the truth, but … you see, it’s not the first time your mother and I have seen those kinds of bruises.”

  She jerked away from him. “On me?” Was he serious? She’d never been hurt like this before; she usually was out of the way, covering Skye and Cal with her bow. And if she did get banged up, she had been able to hide the bruises with her clothing or a good dusting of face powder. This was the first time she had ever been in the thick of a fight. He couldn’t
possibly have seen any kind of bruises on her before last week. What was—?

  “No.” His soft voice stopped her mental torrent.

  Myah stilled. “I don’t understand.”

  “Has your mother ever told you about your father?”

  Myah sucked in a breath. Why was he bringing up her father? “Only that he’s dead,” she hedged. “She’s never told me his name.”

  “He’s not worth remembering,” Edgar muttered. He heaved a breath, as if the effort of this conversation drained his mind, body, and soul. “He … he wasn’t exactly kind to Caitlyn.”

  Her mind swirled with thoughts as hazardous as the northern wilderness in a blizzard. Her heart sped. “He hurt her?” she whispered, barely able to find her breath.

  Edgar nodded. “You had to wonder why your mother never speaks of him.”

  “I just thought it was too painful for her,” she whispered. “Because he’s dead.”

  “It is too painful for her. And seeing you hurt … well, it scared her …”

  “Skye or Cal would never hurt me, and I would never associate with any man who would make you question my judgment. Skye is kind to me and protective; Cal would defend me with his life—if it ever came down to it.”

  “I know you think—”

  “No, you don’t know. You don’t know them. I’m telling you that you are wrong, so very, very wrong.”

  Rising, he cupped her cheek with the palm of his hand. His thumb brushed her cheek. “I cannot bear for anything to happen to you.” He spoke softly.

  “Nothing is going to happen to me.” The words meant to reassure felt like a lie as they slipped off her tongue. She could not see the future, and the kingdoms were at war. That alone left their entire world in a precarious state. “Please trust me when I tell you they would not ever hurt me.”

  Edgar leaned down, kissing the crown of her head. “I do trust you.” He patted her arm as he stepped away from her. “I will speak to your mother about Skye and Cal.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. You know how she is when she sets her mind to something.”

  “As stubborn as an ox?” Myah countered.

  “I was thinking of a mule, but an ox fits nicely as well.”

  Myah giggled, but the smile Edgar gave her in return felt lacking. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, and the aura of joy that typically radiated from him had been dampened.

  He waved a hand at her. She took it for what it was—a dismissal—and left, but as Myah opened the doors to the library, she heard a ragged breath. She stopped, waiting, debating whether she should return to him. She watched him over her shoulder as he dropped back into his chair, his hands covering his face. An air of grief surrounded him, but Myah wasn’t sure why. Was he upset about her? Was there more to her mother’s story than bruises and hurt?

  What wasn’t he telling her?

  Myah put aside her thoughts. They would only serve to distract her from her next task—surviving supper and cards with her mother and the other ladies.

  She quietly slipped out of the library.

  ~*~

  Foam-capped waves crested over the top of the sea cliff, sloshing the rocky, ocean side road with salt and spray. Tall yellow grasses feathered in the wind on either side of the road that had been carved through the Namirrian coastal hills. It wound like a snake along the tops of the ridges, cutting low with the flow of the hills and often flooding out when the ocean raged during the winter storms common in this area.

  Garrett slowed the pacing of his horse, who had been galloping at a steady rhythm despite the ragged gusts of wind. The sun was but a sliver of light on the western horizon, melting into the frothing water far on the horizon and only visible through the shield of black-gray clouds because of its proximity to the sea.

  It would pour soon.

  Garrett didn’t mind the cold, but he did mind the wet.

  He searched in the encroaching night for the lanterns that marked the fishing village he sought. He had only been there once, before the war, when he was eight and serving the master of the Royal Guard. The tavern functioned as the heart of society, where the sea captains and fishermen gathered after a long day for warm ale and a plug of tobacco. He had been too young to try either and now had no inclination. One impaired the mind, and the second … he wasn’t a fan of things that burned.

  Garrett patted his horse’s neck, sliding his hand down toward the shoulder. “We’ll be there soon,” he soothed the beast. He kicked his hooves up and pranced beneath Garrett. He was as eager as the soldier to beat the storm.

  The lights from the town filtered through the low fog settling along the coastal waters. He was close.

  Garrett lightly kicked the black horse in the flanks and clicked his tongue, sending him back into a gallop. Together, they followed the road and then a smaller road, not more than a pathway cut through the tall grasses, to the right. It wound down the side of the haystack-like mounded hills to the beach, and in the distance was the fishing town, set back far enough from the water to avoid being swallowed by the ocean at high tide.

  He dismounted at the stables and paid a boy of ten to look after the equine. The child led him into the safety of the barn, to warm hay and oats if he were lucky, while Garrett sought out his contact.

  He secured his scarf around his neck, hiding the scars on the left side that marked him as the monster of the Elite Guard, and threw his hood back up over his head, covering his inky-black hair. Not that it really mattered. No one was daft enough to be out on a blustery night on the Namirrian coast. He was certain he had lost his mind to seek out his friend in person instead of just sending a note as he usually did.

  Laughter and music emanated from the two-story tavern; he could hear the sounds even before he spotted the gray, wind-weathered structure surrounded by seagrasses and driftwood. The sign, carved from the plentiful sea-bruised logs in the area, read The Gull and Bones—a play on skull and bones, he was sure—in the glittering light of the lanterns that hung on either side of its closed door. The lamps swung in the wind in a rhythmic squeak.

  Garrett kicked the muck off his boots and pushed open the door. Not a single soul looked up as he entered the raucous room. The men sang a bawdy, up-tempo tune, splashing their ales and stomping their feet, as a middle-aged man with short, yellow-gray hair and a sharp jawline wielded a bowstring and violin as artfully as a soldier wielded a weapon. The musician hovered to one side of the room, moving about on his feet, and the tavern-goers kept enough space to allow him to move and dance.

  Garrett smiled and shook his head, and then headed toward the barkeep. He leaned against the counter, the surface held upright by kegs on both ends.

  The barkeep quickly filled two tankards of ale and passed them off to a curly-haired teenage girl bedecked in brown wool. Her frizzy curls slid into her eyes as she spun to take the drinks into the crowd of singing fishermen.

  The barkeep turned to him. “What can I get you?” His round, pudgy face blended seamlessly into his neck. He shuffled his girth with ease as he came closer to Garrett.

  “Stew and ale,” Garrett answered.

  “You have coin?” the man demanded. He pointed a pudgy finger at Garrett. “Coin first or you’ll get none in this town.”

  It was a typical attitude in the smaller communities, and in recent years it had become more common everywhere in the kingdoms.

  Garrett pulled out silver coins and set them with a clink on the wooden bar.

  The man picked them up and bit the silver and then eyed them, turning them over in his fingers. “Gracie,” he bellowed at the teenager. “Get a bowl and some bread from the kitchen.” He gestured with his head toward Garrett and then poured an ale.

  Garrett cupped the wooden tankard in his left hand and meandered to an open seat in the back where he could keep his back to the wall and his face to the door. If trouble found him, he wanted to see it coming.

  He had just settled in when Gracie dropped the bowl in
front of him. “Here you go,” she chirped, then scampered off as if she’d never been there.

  That was fine by him. He pulled his scarf down and picked up the wooden spoon she’d tossed down with the bowl and ate. He watched the musician between mouthfuls of potato, beef, and carrots.

  When the music stopped, roaring laughter and loud conversations replaced the song. Garrett did not need to look up to know the musician had sat down across from him. Garrett pushed the tankard of ale toward the gentleman.

  “You’re far from home,” the musician said. “What brings you to Stoney Cove?”

  “Business,” Garrett muttered between bites. He caught the smirk on the man’s face. The violin and bow rested on the table between them. “Shouldn’t you be less conspicuous?”

  The musician leaned forward. “I’d be more conspicuous if I showed up, talked to no one, and hid in the corner with a tankard and stew.”

  Garrett’s chewing slowed, and then he swallowed the mouthful he had as he leaned back in the chair. The meat, despite being good flavor, was dry. “At least I don’t make a scene everywhere I go.”

  The man picked up the ale and took a draw of the amber liquid. He set it back down with a thump and shrugged. “We each have our own ways of surviving.” He took another drink and held the mug, waiting for Garrett to speak.

  Garrett had no problem making him wait a few minutes longer. After all, he had done his fair share of waiting on this man. He started eating again.

  “It’s nice to see you, lad, but … what are you doing here?”

  Garrett swallowed the bite. “I found something.”

  “You couldn’t send a note?” The man leaned forward; his dark blue eyes, like the surface of the ocean before a storm, narrowed. “It’s much safer,” he said, pitching his voice low in the same chastising tone he had often used on Garrett as a boy when Garrett had started training with the king’s guard. Back then, it had made him shiver and slightly afraid, but he had known this man too long to fear any harm.

  “I needed … space from the guard. Malcolm’s grown increasingly hostile,” Garrett said. He glanced around the room, making sure the other men were still engaged with their conversations. He didn’t need eyes on him, and a stranger always attracted notice. “And, this conversation is one better suited for in person.”