Salty Dog Page 12

  It wasn’t fair.

  Suddenly, it felt as though wings were beating against my skin, the sensation so visceral I hugged myself, pinching my eyes shut, and screamed. In that instant, our outrage poured out into the night like a living thing, a dark swarm that swept through the pulsing white lights around us like an errant wind until those once ethereal flames bled to a familiar orange. In the space between heartbeats, our skin pulsed with that otherworldly light, flesh glowing with power stolen from the druidic ritual. Power that raged within us, so much so that Rhys’ strike seemed to descend in slow motion, his javelin inching towards our heart.

  Moving instinctually, we rose to a sitting position, angled away from the blow, snatched the shaft of his weapon, and snapped the thing in two. Then, with a lightning quick thrust of our own, we buried the splintered end into the soft flesh of Rhys’ exposed throat.

  The crowd gasped as Rhys fell onto all fours across our lap, blood spilling, the hot liquid seeping into our wool breeches. We shoved him off us and rolled over onto our knees, perched over the man, admiring the way he struggled to breathe past the metal lodged in his windpipe. We reached out and withdrew the splintered end, slowly, feeling only relief.

  We had won, and he had not.

  It was enough.

  “You are all fools,” Rhys hissed, somehow managing to draw enough breath to speak, even as blood bubbled up from his lips, his throat little more than a gaping wound.

  “Perhaps,” Lady Aife said, kneeling beside her fallen warrior, though her eyes were locked on ours. We backed away, sensing something from her body language, her attention, that we did not like. “But,” she said, turning her attention to the wounded man, “sometimes it is better to be foolish than it is to be alone. I don’t envy you that discovery, my friend.” The warmaiden passed a hand over Rhys’ scalp, brushing her hands along the spikes of his hair, sighed once, and rose.

  “Curaitl! Fate has spoken. Rhys Two Tusks, once a champion among us, has lost the right to call himself Blessed. He has lost the right to his own name. The right to his own past. The right to peace. Tonight, he leaves this place, never to return.”

  Inexplicably, Rhys managed to find his feet, though it seemed almost as though something else—some force not of this world—had pulled him upright, as if he were some sort of puppet being held up by invisible strings. Blood marred his body, some dry and flaky, but most still fresh and wet. The wounded man made as if to speak, to plead his case, but nothing came out. Indeed, aside from his panicked eyes, it became quite obvious he wasn’t in control of his own body; he began to shamble awkwardly towards the village gates. The Curaitl, as one, turned their backs on the man, parting enough to let him pass, but otherwise pretending he didn’t exist, facing out into the night. Only we and Lady Aife watched the man who had once been Rhys Two Tusks fade from view, swallowed by darkness.

  “It is done,” Lady Aife called after Rhys was no longer in sight. “The gods…” she trailed off, staring at us with the same intensity that had chased us away only a few moments before, “The gods have spoken. No longer an outsider, the Curaitl welcome you as one of their own, Ceara Light-Eater!”

  And yet, the instant our new name was bestowed upon us, we knew there was something wrong about it. Something incomplete, like a half-remembered dream. Indeed, it seemed to be only a small piece of a much longer name. Which meant the rest had to be out there, didn’t it?

  Somewhere out there…

  21

  The cheers, when they went up this time, were universal and loud enough that it made us jump. We shied away from the deafening noise, noting our faintly glowing body, our wounds already closing, and wondered if we should make a run for it. If we should leave these people and their strange traditions behind, carve out a new path for ourselves in this unfamiliar world full of inexplicably beautiful, immortal people. Until, that is, a woman from among the crowd rushed us, tackling us from behind.

  We snarled and spun as we fell, determined to pin our attacker to the ground. But the vision of her beneath us, her slight, muscular body riddled with tension, brought back the faintest memory. We studied the woman, but it was the scent of her hair as it brushed our face—the barest hint of clay and leather tanning oil—which brought me back. I stared down into Blair’s tear-filled eyes and released her wrists, tracing the curve of her cheek with my blood-stained, but otherwise ordinary fingers. “It’s alright,” I said as I drew her into an awkward hug. “I’m alright.”

  “I was so worried,” she admitted, face tucked into my shoulder, squeezing me so hard it hurt to breathe. When at last she seemed to realize I wasn’t going anywhere, she let go. “Don’t you ever do that to me, again, alright?”

  “Me? It was—”

  Blair pressed a hand over my mouth, already shaking her head. “You must not speak his name. He’s been cast out.” Blair looked away for a moment, guilt flickering across her face.

  I nodded and peeled her hand away “Fine. I promise not to get in another fight like this one ever again, if I can avoid it. How’s that?”

  Blair burrowed her face into my shoulder once more, and I felt her nod. I stroked a hand through her hair, feeling oddly numb. Had I really considered running away only a moment ago? What, or who, did that voice belong to? Before I could dwell on that, however, a polite cough forced me to look up.

  “Is this a bad time?” Tristan asked.

  I scowled up at him, then at Imogen, who practically stood in his shadow. “If I said yes, would ye leave?” I asked, drawing Blair around to see the two, gesturing in their direction. It was only then that I noticed Imogen’s arm wound through Tristan’s much larger limb, the line of her body pressed possessively against his.

  “What are you doing here?” Blair asked, glowering at the man.

  “I’ve come to pay my respects,” Tristan replied, face unusually somber. “Hail, Ceara Light-Eater.”

  “Hail, Tristan,” I replied, matching his tone. The two of us stayed like that for a moment, gazes locked, until at last his smile flickered to life once more.

  He shook his head. “The answer is no,” he said. “Not until I have apologized.”

  “For trying to stop me?” Blair interjected.

  Tristan shook his head. “If you had stepped in, others would have done the same. It would have been a bloodbath.” He switched his attention from Blair to me. “I am glad you won, though I wish it had not come to this. No matter what I thought of the man, exile is not a fate I would wish on anyone.”

  “Neither would I, but—” I began.

  He waved that away. “There’s no point talking about that anymore. I simply wanted to apologize for not saying more in your defense, that’s all. You deserved better from someone who calls you a friend.”

  “Are ye sure that’s what ye want?” I asked.

  “If you’ll have me,” Tristan replied, bowing slightly.

  “And me too,” Imogen chimed in.

  I scrutinized the two of them, focusing on their linked arms and the easy way they stood together until, at last, I saw it. “Hold on, is that what I t’ink it is?” I asked, gesturing at the silver band wrapped around Imogen’s throat.

  “That depends on what you think it is,” Imogen replied, blushing.

  “It seems,” Tristan said, gazing fondly at the young woman, “a woman with all sorts of strange notions got it into this one’s head to be exceedingly sneaky.”

  “Oh, did she? Well, then, ye should probably thank her.”

  Blair glanced back and forth between Tristan and me. “Is someone going to fill me in?”

  “Ceara has been conspiring with Imogen here to steal my armband,” Tristan replied, matter-of-factly.

  “Ceara!” Blair hissed. “You’re not supposed to interfere like that. Courtship rituals are between the would-be couples. No outside help.”

  “Oy! I didn’t have anythin’ to do with it,” I insisted, holding up both hands. “Besides, as I recall, ye didn’t exactly play by the rules wit
h me, either, ye hypocrite.”

  Now it was Blair’s turn to blush. “That was different.”

  Tristan nudged Imogen, grinning. “Ooh, this is a good story.”

  Blair scrambled to her feet, reached back, and socked Tristan in the arm. Hard. The big man winced, his skin already reddening from the blow, but his grin hardly faded. “No hard feelings?” he asked.

  “As long as you never get between me and Ceara ever again,” Blair replied. “And,” she added, jabbing him in the chest with one finger, voice a low whisper, “don’t you dare tell anyone about that.”

  “Speakin’ of that,” I said, rising gingerly to my feet, “care to tell us how ye came by his armband, Imogen?”

  The young woman smiled, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Do you remember what you said about waiting to steal it until he was preoccupied with something else? Well, I was in the crowd waiting for the fight to start when Tristan found me.” Imogen reached up and absent-mindedly ran a hand through her grungy hair.

  “I wanted to know why she’d tried impersonating a serving girl,” Tristan explained.

  “You did what?” Blair asked.

  “Hush,” I said, patting Blair’s arm, “I’ll explain it all later. So, what d’ye tell ‘em?”

  “The truth, sort of.” Imogen cleared her throat.

  “She told me you two were planning to take something that didn’t belong to you.” Tristan nudged the young woman again, smirking. “She said it was your idea.”

  “Imogen!”

  “Well it was your plan!”

  “Ceara!” Blair chastised, mirroring my tone.

  I ducked my head a little. “Allegedly.”

  “Anyway,” Imogen said, trying her best not to look guilty, “we waited together for the fight to start. But then, when everyone was telling stories about you, I realized Tristan wasn’t paying me any attention, so…” Imogen drifted off. “I mean, it’s not like I wasn’t worried about you, too, but…well…”

  “Ye saw your openin’, is that it?” I asked, smirking.

  “The little thief pretended she was upset and grabbed my arm,” Tristan replied, totally deadpan. “I was too busy trying to think of what I should say to realize I was being robbed.” Tristan chuckled and kissed the top of the young woman’s head.

  “Well, isn’t this an interesting development?”

  Tristan’s eyes widened to the size of serving platters, and suddenly he and Imogen were several feet apart, the latter hugging herself. Tristan had thrust both hands behind his back, doing his best to look innocent as Imogen’s mother sauntered up to them, her white cloak brushing against Blair and me in the process.

  “Explain,” Lady Aife commanded.

  Tristan opened his mouth to speak, but Imogen beat him to it. The young woman glared defiantly at her mother, jaw jutting forward, though I noticed she kept subconsciously playing with the silver band around her throat. “It was my choice, mother,” she said.

  Lady Aife looked amused. “And did you think I’d have no say?”

  “But you did!” Imogen insisted. “It was Tristan you picked to train me when I came of age, remember?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Well, then, it’s at least partially your fault I love him,” Imogen asserted. Realizing what she’d said, the young woman turned to Tristan, her face as red as the flesh of the richest apple. “I mean—”

  “That’s enough, Imogen. I—”

  “I love her, too, warmaiden,” Tristan interrupted. The four of us turned to study the man, though it seemed the warrior only had eyes for the thief who’d stolen his armband. Indeed, despite Lady Aife’s commanding—and perhaps borderline terrifying—presence, we may not as well have even been there.

  “Oh, that’s adorable,” Blair said in a hushed voice, nudging me, waggling her eyebrows.

  “It really is,” I acknowledged.

  “Is that so, Tristan?” Lady Aife asked, ignoring us.

  “It is.” The warrior grinned. “She’s fierce and determined. Too conniving by half, but then Dagda knows, I’m far too trusting. Perhaps we’ll even each other out.” Tristan flicked his eyes back to the warmaiden. “With your blessing, of course.”

  Lady Aife barked a laugh, waving both hands. “Oh, you have it,” she said, ignoring the shock displayed on her daughter’s face. “Truthfully, this was what I’d hoped for all along. I just didn’t think I’d succeed.” The warmaiden leaned over to Blair and me, one hand perched on the side of her mouth. “Imogen never does what I want her to do, you know,” she whispered, conspiratorially.

  “Mother, that’s not true!”

  Lady Aife winked, then turned back to the would-be lovers. “Well, in any case, I am happy for you both. Oh, but Tristan,” Lady Aife crooked a finger until the man bent an ear. This time when she whispered, her words didn’t carry in the least.

  Tristan straightened a second later, face ashen. “As you command, my Lady.”

  “Good. Now!” Lady Aife said, clapping her hands. “It’s time I see to the people.”

  With a start, I noticed the crowd had largely dispersed throughout the market square, though everyone remained, standing in their own clusters, many of them staring openly at the five of us. No, not at us. At me.

  “And you,” Lady Aife said, resting a hand on my shoulder. “Be careful not to reveal any more of yourself here. I have spoken to the druids, and they won’t interfere, but that is the most I can do for you.” Then, with that very mysterious statement still hanging in the air, the warmaiden left, beckoning to the nearest swarm of Curaitl.

  “What’s she talkin’ about?” I asked. “Why would the druids care about me?”

  “Because,” Blair said, wrapping an arm around my waist to pull me close, “they think you’re a goddess.”

  “But I—”

  Blair pressed her finger to my lips. “It doesn’t matter.” She flashed me a brilliant smile and pressed her lips to mine, sliding her finger out of the way in the process.

  And I let her.

  Because some questions can wait.

  And some kisses can’t.

  22

  The following morning’s sendoff was somewhat more lackluster than it might have been otherwise, what with the turbulence of the Beltane feast and the copious consumption of ale that had followed. Still, the Curaitl gathered as one at the gates to wish us a safe journey and good luck at the tournament, many offering tokens of support. Of course, I doubted anyone received a symbol of affection quite as—well, affectionate—as Tristan; Imogen had sucked on his face so long and hard before we departed, I was pretty sure the man’s lips would still be bruised by the time we made it to the Southern Isles.

  Frankly, I was simply glad to have the man along, puffy lips and all. Originally, there had been six of us participating, none of whom had Tristan’s gift for lightening the mood. The others had included Rhys, Lady Aife, and two of her household guard—Liam and Anna. But now, with Rhys gone, it seemed we suddenly had room for one more fighter.

  The next woman up, as it were.

  “I hate riding by carriage,” Blair groused, sitting with her face cradled in her hands, taking every bump in the road as a personal affront.

  “It’s really more of a wagon,” Tristan replied. “A covered wagon. Which would make us cargo, wouldn’t it? Tell you what, just think of yourself as a box,” he suggested.

  “How is that supposed to help?”

  “Ever met a box with an attitude problem?” Tristan shrugged. “Be the box, Blair.”

  Blair flicked her eyes to me, scowling “Do you think Lady Aife would be upset if Tristan didn’t survive this trip?”

  “It’s not her I’d worry about,” I replied.

  “Then who?”

  “D’ye want to be the one to explain to Imogen why her lover hasn’t returned?” I replied, cocking an eyebrow even as another sudden jerk sent us all flying. I cursed, wishing not for the first time that the Curaitl had absconded with more of Tuathal
’s well-trained horses. Maybe then we wouldn’t have had to ride in the back of a makeshift wagon, thrown about like ragdolls every time we hit a bump in the road.

  “Point taken,” Blair replied, rubbing at her lower back.

  “You two are just cranky,” Tristan said, grinning from ear to ear as we bounced yet again, my shoulder colliding with the side of the wagon. “This isn’t so bad. Reminds me of a boat at sea.”

  Something about his comment tickled my mind, but I couldn’t quite place it. Like fumbling for a word or walking into a room and forgetting why you were there. “We’re not cranky,” I asserted a moment later, frustrated, “you’re just in too good a mood.”

  Tristan waved that away. “I spent the night with a beautiful woman in my arms, that’s all.” He leered at us. “Shouldn’t we all be in a good mood?”

  “That’s it, I’m throwing him off the first cliff we see,” Blair muttered.

  Tristan barked a laugh, but wisely said nothing else; even he knew when to stop pressing buttons. Still, he wasn’t wrong, and it could have been worse—we could have been dragged along by a train of plodding cattle, forced to practically crawl our way across the Land of Youth. Instead, Lady Aife had managed to tame two aurochs—freakishly large bulls which stood a few hands taller than I was, and were as thickly muscled as any thoroughbred. I’d spent the better part of that morning marveling at the specimens from the back of the wagon; the damn things made only slightly less frightening by the fact that they were so damn docile.

  “Not that you should think of them that way,” Tristan had explained as we’d loaded the wagon with supplies. “In the wild, those things have been known to gore horses and trample people.”

  Looking at them, I could believe it; nothing got that big with horns that long without being dangerous. “They look nervous,” I’d mentioned offhandedly, noting the way they kept shuffling from side to side, like horses about to bolt.