The Dark Throne (46 page)

Finnead nodded. I couldn’t discern the emotion shifting behind his handsome face, flickering briefly in his deep blue eyes. Without another word, I turned and walked toward the entrance of the tent, gripping the hilt of my plain blade so hard that my knuckles popped. “Let me know if you find them,” I said over my shoulder to Merrick. He didn’t reply, his dark head bent over the table.

I glimpsed a flash of golden pelt as soon as I emerged into the dusky twilight. Kianryk fell into step beside me. He slid his great head under my hand. I tightened my fingers into the thick fur at his neck as we walked toward Luca. The
ulfdrengr
didn’t turn or acknowledge us. I stood silently for a few moments, just breathing, feeling a bit better in the open air despite the fact that it was the strange heavy air of the Deadlands. The Caedbranr held its silence. Kianryk stood beside me, the warmth from his body radiating up through my hand.

Finally I said emphatically, “I
hate
feeling helpless.”

“So don’t,” replied Luca, looking up at the darkening sky. A few stars’ light struggled through the strange dome of flatness that hovered over us; I wondered if it was another subtle effect of Vell’s presence. I didn’t remember seeing stars on any of the other nights.

“How do I not feel helpless?” I slid my fingers through Kianryk’s pelt.

“Feel something else.” Luca’s pale blue eyes gleamed in the half-light as he finally looked down at me. For a moment I
did
feel something else—a bit of indignation, mixed with curiosity and strange heat, because my first thought flew to the lukewarm kiss I’d just shared with Finnead. Would kissing Luca ignite that flame? And would that burn away this gnawing worry? I shocked myself with my thoughts. Luca must have read my face, because he chuckled. “Not that, Tess.”

A hot blush burned in my cheeks. “I didn’t say anything,” I muttered.

Luca let the moment pass, the silence soothing my indignation. Then he said, “Perhaps anger would better focus you for the task ahead.”

I frowned, but then I began to understand the sense in his words.

“Worry distracts a warrior. Anger
drives
a warrior.” Luca raised his eyebrows, an expression barely visible in the deepening shadows. “So get angry.”

I stared down at the dusty ground, searching silently for the spark that would kindle anger. Then I remembered the piercing sorrow of realizing yet again that Murtagh was dead. I thought of Murtagh, picturing the surprised look on his face when I’d first told him that I could see him, spying on us for Mab. Then I thought of Kavoryk and his steadfast loyalty, his savage protection that had ended in his unhesitating sacrifice on the cliff before the Darinwel. I recalled the still, beautiful faces of the Sidhe dead on the pyre after the battle with the dragon, and the smaller bier that had burned in the clearing of the Royal Wood. I called up their faces in my mind until the sorrow curled into a flame within me. I pictured Liam, conjuring my vengeful emotions when he’d been injured during his first deployment. And the wooden block of worry in my chest caught fire. I straightened.

“Good,” said Luca. “Think of the destruction you will wreak on your enemies. You will make them realize that it was the worst mistake of their miserable existence to threaten your brother.”

A low growl rumbled from Kianryk as he sensed my mounting fury. Now I remembered the feel of thrusting my blade into twisted Dark creatures, cleaving flesh from misshapen bone. And rather than shrink from it, I embraced it. I bared my teeth as I gave my own growl. “I will end them.”

Luca nodded. “Yes. You will.” He gripped my shoulder with a massive hand. “Stoke the fire of your righteous anger. Use the time we are traveling to focus your mind until it is as formidable a weapon as your power and your blade.” He gave me a moment to absorb his words. I nodded, and then he said, “Come. We must gather the vanguard and make our preparations.”

Kianryk padded forward and I slid my fingers from his fur, but he still shadowed me as I followed Luca toward the outskirts of camp. Most of the vanguard was already assembled around a fledgling fire. The low murmur of voices died as we approached and Niamh held up a hand for silence.

“The enemy is hunting a Seer,” said Luca. “He is the brother of the Bearer, and he was brought through the veil into this world scant hours ago.”

To their great credit, none of the warriors so much as blinked, listening intently to their captain. I picked out Robin in the crowd, his red hair gleaming in the new light of the fire.

“We will travel the same route northward, and we will search for the Seer as well as scout for Dark forces. The missions are one and the same now.” Luca paused and surveyed the vanguard. “We ride at dawn. That means
depart
at first light. I will have no patience for stragglers.” He leveled a hard look at the gathered group. “Make your preparations and get some rest. It will be a long day tomorrow.” He gave a sharp nod of dismissal and the vanguard immediately fragmented into industrious activity. Luca watched for a moment and then said to me, “Would you like to go through our packs together?”

“Of course,” I said lightly, my ember of anger tucked neatly behind my ribs. I wondered how I hadn’t mastered this neat little trick earlier. “I should make sure you pack your spoon.”

Luca chuckled. We set off toward the healing tent to fetch my pack and our healing supplies, and despite the soreness lingering in my body from the agony of the earthquake, and the vestiges of worry dissolving like smoke in my chest, I found that I was truly looking forward to riding out in the morning on our mission to find my brother…and kill any Dark creatures we encountered along the way.

Chapter 24

I
stared up into the darkness, combing through my thoughts one more time before inviting sleep. I lay by the embers of our vanguard’s fire, my pack as a pillow and my traveling cloak as a blanket. Nehalim drowsed nearby with the other mounts, freshly curried, oil rubbed into his hooves and legs, his silver mane and tail plaited. Luca had taught me how to paint the complex designs on Nehalim’s pale flanks. The other warriors of the vanguard and Valkyrie ringed the warmth of the fire in various postures of rest: some were already asleep, some spoke softly with each other, and a few whetted their blades with long silver whispers, staring into the glowing coals. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Kianryk ghosting around the outer perimeter of the sleeping warriors. I smiled slightly. We had a great advantage, with a wolf for an extra sentry.

I ran through the preparations we’d completed yet again in my mind. I’d restocked my healing supplies and stashed extra kits with several riders. I carried two sets of clothes in my pack, along with two large skins of water and several packets of
kajuk
along with other food. I’d asked Luca where the dried meat had come from—I hadn’t seen any deer or other wildlife since we’d departed from the Hall—but he’d only smiled enigmatically in answer. And then I’d spent a good amount of time preparing Nehalim for the journey, talking quietly to him as I worked. As always, I felt that he understood me, his liquid, intelligent eyes alertly following my movements, his delicate ears swiveling at my words.

I’d tested the edges of my blades and found them all well whetted; I examined every buckle and strap of my saddle, reins, belt and scabbards for signs of wear, finding nothing that needed immediate repair. I found myself with nothing left to do but sleep, but that proved a difficult task. My worry for Liam still knotted my stomach. I gazed up at the fathomless sky, trying to keep my mind blank, willing my limbs to settle, even going so far as to close my eyes, inviting sleep. But just as I slid into slumber, an image flashed before my mind’s eye: Liam captured, bound to a pole, his olive-drab shirt torn and his camouflage pants stained dark with gore. A bruise curved around one of his eyes, and blood dripped from his nose. I jerked awake, heart pounding, my fingers closing around the hilt of the dagger I wore at my belt even during sleep.

I sat up and took a few deep breaths, trying to calm my racing pulse, swallowing down the sudden rush of adrenaline. I rubbed at the scars on my palms with my thumbs.

“I’m guessing it is not the pain of your hands that keeps you from sleep,” Luca said quietly.

“It’s impressive that you can move so silently, given your size,” I replied. “Reminds me of Kavoryk.”

Luca shrugged, settling down on his haunches an arm’s length away from me. “Some of the same blood runs in our veins. Being large does not mean I cannot be silent, just like being small does not mean you cannot be strong.”

A smile wavered on my lips. “And you always have an apt turn of phrase to prove your point.”

Luca chuckled. We gazed into the embers of the fire for a long moment. “Do your hands hurt?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Not really. They ache sometimes, and the skin is very sensitive in some places.”

The
ulfdrengr
held out one big hand. “I said I’d teach you how to care for them.” I blinked at him and then gave him my left hand. He held my hand gently but firmly and began kneading my palm with his thumbs. I stiffened, expecting a flare of pain as he touched the thickest scar tissue, pressing along my palm in a smooth and practiced motion. A twinge of discomfort flashed through my hand now and again, and there was still that ache beneath it all, but it almost felt as though he kneaded a strained muscle, pleasure mixed with pain.

“Injured flesh must be coaxed back to full function,” he explained in a low voice. “Torn muscle must be kneaded after it heals. Joints must be rotated.”

As another long moment passed, I felt the stiffness leave my body, seeping away as a sense of comfort enveloped me despite the moments of deep discomfort. I watched Luca’s strong hands as he worked, scars still visible on his right hand where cords had been punched through his flesh, binding a cursed dagger to him. He set my left hand aside and beckoned toward my right hand. The scars on the palm of my right hand were thicker, the lacy marks curling up onto my wrist, mingling with the emerald of my war-markings.

“Does your hand still hurt?” I asked softly, watching Luca’s face as he worked, his ruggedly handsome features filled with calm focus. He remained silent for so long that I thought he hadn’t heard my question.

“Yes,” he said finally, “though it is only for you that I make this admission.”

“I suppose that means you trust me not to ruin your tough-guy reputation.” I sighed as he worked the flesh between my thumb and forefinger, finding a little knot in the muscle that I hadn’t even realized existed.

“It isn’t a reputation, it’s a fact,” Luca replied in his more typical teasing tone. His thumbs smoothed the edges of my scars; I swore I could feel the rough edges of the damaged skin slowly melting back into my palms, obedient beneath his strong fingers.

“Well,” I said, glad for the darkness as sudden heat rushed to my cheeks, “since you’ve worked on my hands, will you teach me to work on yours?”

I heard Luca take in a long breath. He chuckled softly. “You surely know how to torment a man.”

I moved to take my hand from his grasp, but he closed his fingers over mine.

“Only meant as a joke,” he continued, “so don’t take offense.”

“I just want to help you as you’ve helped me,” I said, a bit defensively. “This is a good technique that I could use later in my healing.”

“Of course,” he said, pressing my hand between his own. Then he released me but gave me his right hand. I could barely see in the low light of the dying embers, but I traced my fingertips lightly over his skin, feeling the different character of his scars, comparing them mentally to my own.

“You already know the first step,” Luca said with a slight note of approval. “Evaluate by sight and by feel.” He placed his other hand on his knee. “Compare to the other side of the body, if you can.”

I ran my fingers over Luca’s good hand, realizing how much different it felt than his scarred hand; and how little I had seen him allow it affect his daily activities. He didn’t favor the hand during swordplay or even striking practice, but as I felt the knots of scar tissue under my fingertips I knew it had to pain him every day. I experimentally pressed my thumb into his palm, using medium pressure; I felt him stiffen but I suspected it was the same reaction as I’d had, the instinct to protect an old wound.

“Start at the base of the palm and work toward the fingers,” the
ulfdrengr
instructed quietly, sitting very still. Most of the voices around the dying fire had quieted; the silence pressed around us, punctuated only every now and again by the sound of restless movement, or a sentry pacing about the perimeter in the darkness. For the first minutes, Luca directed the hesitant pressure of my thumbs; then, as I became more attuned to the complexities of his hand and understood the purpose of each stroke, he relaxed, letting me work silently. I slowly stretched each of his fingers and then his palm. He sighed as I worked on the worst of the scars again. I felt a comfortable companionship with him, a friendship that admittedly spiked into a primal desire every now and again; but even though he was a wild Northman, Luca still adhered to a sense of chivalry, though it was distinctly different than the Sidhe mentality.

Ruggedly handsome
and
polite,
I thought to myself in amusement as I slowly decreased the intensity of the pressure on his palm, ending with a few feather-like touches. Luca flexed his hand slowly.

“You’ll let me do that every so often, now that I know how,” I murmured.

Luca chuckled. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

I smiled, gratified that I could be useful to so competent and fierce a warrior and friend.

“But now,” he said, “you need to sleep, Tess. The days of travel will be long and hard.”

I swallowed, drawing my knees up to my chest. “I don’t want to dream.”

“I suspected as much. Your brother?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “I keep seeing him, captured.”

“Well, you are not the Seer, are you?” Luca’s golden hair glimmered in the darkness.