I'm glad people thought so highly of 'Ad Perpetuam Memoriam', especially since it just popped into my head. Some people thought it was sad, but it wasn't actually meant to be, and certainly didn't make me sad to write. It was a benediction to all the great things that Daine and Numair did—the ones we know about, and the ones that we can only imagine they went on to do throughout their lives. It was also an acknowledgement of the relationship between them, which makes us all rabid shippers; their romance, their lives together as we all believe that they will have had. You also might notice the dates in the fic—I wanted them to have a lot of time to grow old together—so that they could see that all those fears that held them during the early years were meaningless, except to make them try harder to make their love work. And, of course, the timeless and nearly sacred feel of the place where the fic takes place should tell you what happened to them afterwards—I tried to describe what I thought would be the feel of the burial place of two mortals who became gods. I know that we, the Daine/Numair worshippers, and avid Tamora Pierce fans, will always remember and love these two, even many years from now, and I believe that, in the realm of Tortall, more than one generation will acknowledge and wonder at these two—as more than one generation will read about them (and hopefully write fan fiction about them!).
Whew! Enough of that! On to this fic!
Disclaimer: stare……………………………………I'm not even going to say it; I have too much respect for the intelligence of Tamora Pierce fans—even the ones who read my stuff.
A/N pt 2: Warning -- some swearing in here. Just FYI. Enjoy! :)
Lingering Ghosts
Himura Seraphina
Chapter 11. Honor
There was nothing quite as difficult as waiting. It was a truth that Numair had come to realize as he got older, one that became only more obvious to him as time went on. The only thing that came close to the stress of waiting while you loved one was in danger was being unable to do anything about it. For all the times that he and Daine were together, where he could guard her back, there was a time when he could do nothing, usually because his particular talents were not useful in whatever battle she was fighting. When those times came, he was relegated to waiting, and praying, and depending on her friends to have her back.
This dawn was especially hard, because not only was she out in the field awaiting a fight, but he knew she was magically exhausted, which stripped away part of her defenses. Even knowing she was surrounded by Riders, fully half of which she had helped train and who would take an arrow for her, his nerves were drawn tight with the strain.
She shouldn't have been exhausted, he mused. He should have made sure that Cedwin didn't wear her out with his desire to examine her abilities. He'd been about to interfere, seeing her being to tire, when the eagle's pain had summoned her. Healing was always taxing with wild magic, and the difficult healing had drained her. Still, she might not have been so tired if not for their location. The mental and physical strain of dealing with past memories, being surrounded by people who, for no logical reason, feared and hated her, also affected her gift by the simple means of sapping her energy needlessly.
So he waited, keeping busy with the Own and, later, explaining the circumstances of the Rider's absence to their Gallan hosts. He knew that Daine also understood this kind of waiting, for there were many times when he was sent off, either as a delegate and negotiator for the Crown, or when his Gift was needed and hers wasn't. While being apart certainly made them appreciate each other more, and be thankful for the time they spent together, Numair often wished that it wasn't necessary. Still, they had pledged themselves to their adopted home and king, and both preferred to have an active role in defending it as opposed to standing by while others did so.
Baron Marcus was extremely put out by the Riders absence, not only wishing that he had been present during the planning of this mission and their future tactics, but believing that he and the other Gallans should have been consulted before the Riders entered a battle with those who were in all likelihood, Gallan citizens. The knights were very practical about the whole matter, willing to allow that Tortallan commanders knew what they were about, but Numair felt compelled to set the baron straight.
"My lord, you seem to have forgotten that your king asked our assistance and expertise in this matter," he cut through Marcus's fretting, drawing the attention of the King's Own who were nearby, tending the camp. "Your people have not the ability to fight these bandits efficiently or effectively, whereas we have been sent across kingdom to do so. And despite this, you are questioning the decision of two of the highest-ranking officers in Tortall, who were hand-picked for this mission?"
Marcus had the grace to look embarrassed, and apologetic, especially when he became aware of the eyes of the Own on him. "I beg your pardon, Master Salmalin, I certainly meant no offence—not to question the abilities of the commanders. I was—well, I was looking forward to witnessing the process, I suppose."
"I assure you, we are far from finished here. This mornings foray is only part of the effort required to capture all the bandits, and I'm sure you will be given ample input and opportunity to observe Rider tactics and battles."
"Ah—yes, of course," he bobbed his head in agreement.
It was only when one of the Own arched an eyebrow at him when he turned away that Numair realized Marcus hadn't been flustered by his own behaviour, or having it pointed out to him, but by something in Numair's own tone and expression. He sighed lightly, knowing that his temper was on edge, and made a conscious effort to relax his tense muscles and strained nerves. The time would pass no quicker if he was twisted in knots.
When the Riders returned, he was waiting at the edge of the camp, alerted by the runners sent ahead. The Own and Quint stood by to aid the injured, of whom he was reasonably sure Daine was not among due to the lack of alarm in the horses; the Gallans also stood by, eager to hear what had happened
He vaguely recognized the presence of at least twice as many horses as riders, aware that they were the bandits' mounts and were intended for the village as restitution for the previous raiding. His mind was fully occupied, however, with scanning the ranks for a small, chestnut-haired woman on a grey pony. He winced with sympathy and concern when he saw her slumped over Cloud's neck, her face pale and slack, and instantly headed towards her.
Just as she reassured him that she was all right—"I'm not hurt,"—he saw her eyes roll back in her skull. Heart in throat, Numair leapt forward, catching her as she slid from the saddle in a dead faint.
He heard voices, demanding and alarmed, which he ignored as he drew her carefully to his chest, eyes sliding over her face, neck, and chest in a primal reassurance that she was breathing, her heart beating. Cloud stamped her hoof in demand, eyes rolling in mild panic, even as he focused on the pulse in her throat.
"She's alright," he managed, his voice sounding hollow over the pounding in his ears. He'd already reached for his Gift and examined his lover—while no Healer, he'd seen that the wellspring of her magic was exhausted, the copper fire a pale trickle. "She's just drained."
Quint reached them, having been alerted when the bleeding Rider he'd been examining had knocked him out of his trance and refused to be treated until Daine had been looked at. Numair Saw his pale yellow Gift surround his hands as he laid one on Daine's forehead. After a few moments, he drew back. "It's alright; she's just exhausted and spent. Master Numair, can you get her in bed? Either here or at the inn is fine, but she needs a good twelve candlemarks of rest and quiet."
Numair nodded, his heart rate settling slightly even though he was still concerned. Who wouldn't be, when their love collapsed in their arms? He mused.
"Numair, take her back to the inn," Buri ordered from his elbow, "and make sure she's settled. We'll be back as soon as we've updated everyone and sent the troops to bed.
He nodded, turning to walk away before realizing something. Looking back over his shoulder, he inquired, "Buri? There's no prisoners."
The K'mir looked suddenly very tired. "There were no prisoners to take."
Understanding, he left the Riders, tired, wounded, weary, to take care of his love.
As he passed beyond the crowd of Riders and Own, a young man stepped in his path. "Is she alright? What's wrong?" he demanded, eyes flickering over Daine's prone form.
Numair frowned, not recognizing the boy. "Who are—oh, you're Lori's son, correct?"
"Aye, she's my ma. What happened?"
"She's exhausted, not injured. Daine reached the end of her gift's resources."
He sighed in both relief and concern. "Does she do it often?"
"Often enough. Excuse me," Numair added, moving to step past him.
"Master Salmalin—you are Master Salmalin, right?" he asked, receiving Numair's nod. "What happened? I heard—I heard that none of the raiders lived. Is it true?"
Now Numair sighed, lightly, seeing the curiosity, confusion, and disbelief in the boy's face. He might have been a shepherd's son, one who grew quickly and understood the world's harshness, but he'd never witnessed true bloodshed, or battle.
"No, Cory, none of the bandits survived; they refused to surrender, and the Riders had to defend themselves and each other." The boy swallowed, hard, looking a touch pale. "However bright and wonderful the Riders seem, Cory, however much good they do and honorable they are, in the end they are still soldiers; a soldiers duty is to defend, and to fight, and to kill. This," he nodded, indicating the camp, the massed ranks of tired and injured, Daine limp in his arms, and the strings of unman horses, "is what being a Rider is."
The boy's hands shook lightly, and he looked down at his feet, shoulders hunched in thought. Just as Numair began to move away, he was called back. "Master Numair? D'you need any help?"
Cory held his head up again and, though still pale, his shoulders were straight. Numair saw the determination that had pressed Daine to offer her support in his entering the Riders.
"I can manage, but the Riders could use a hand with the horses—they only had a few hours sleep, and are fairly worn out."
The boy nodded, once, firmly and, to Numair's surprise and amusement, looked pointedly at the woman he held against him. "Take good care of Daine, sir."
He stood a moment longer and watched the boy—no, young man—trot down the rows of tents towards the dismounting Riders. He felt a flutter against his cheek and, drawn from his thoughts, looked down to see that Daine had turned her head slightly, her breath washing against his skin. He shifted her slightly; smiling down at her despite the fact that she had literally run herself ragged, and brushed a light kiss against her brow. He would absolutely take good care of her.
Lena stretched, easing her tired muscles, as she walked beyond the picket line where even the horses dozed. She should really be sleeping; the Own had been given watch for four hours while all the Riders slept, after which the watches would be changed every five hours. Despite the belief that the raiders would remain in their camp and were unaware that their scouts had been ambushed, no one could take the chance that they would not change plans. Snowsdale still need guarding and the trail from the raider's camp needed to be watched. Unfortunately, Lena was still riding on the edge of the battle fever of the morning: the unbelievable energy and strength that fear or fighting could bring. She was exhausted, but invigorated and edgy, and so had remained at the camp when the other Commanders left for the inn to ease the Gallan and village's curiosity and find their own beds. The rest of the Riders were resting in their tents, but battle fever tended to hold Lena longer than most—a blessing when she was injured, but not so at times like this.
She was tempted to seek out Rahim, but decided against it for several reasons. The obvious one was that, as commander in Sir Raoul's steed, he was certainly busy. Her more private concerns were that she would seem like a child or a fool, unable to sleep because of a bad day; and, of course, there was the fact that being in his presence would hardly help her unwind—she was far too aware of him to be relaxed in his company.
She'd met Rahim several times before this journey; they were both assigned to overlapping sectors in the northeast of Tortall, and had met on more than one occasion. Though she wouldn't admit it, the tall, stocky Bazhir warrior, with his unflappable demeanor, smooth bass voice, and quiet courtesy had always interested her but she'd never had the chance to speak with him for more than a few minutes at a time, and had been able to put him out of her mind when out of sight. The long road to Snowsdale, however, had thrown them together and, while she wouldn't say that he seemed to seek her out, they did end up in each other's company fairly often. His views and beliefs interested her, and she'd learned a great deal about the Bazhir from him—not the well-known facts, but the more subtle aspects and ideas of the culture. He had felt that he didn't belong in the desert with his tribe and, like a number of like-minded young Bazhir in the last few decades, had chosen to serve the Voice of the Tribes, King Jonathan, while still remaining connected to his family and people. Under all that was awareness—she seemed to know when he was close to her, and he appeared to have the same ability, looking up and meeting her eyes to acknowledge her presence. He never smiled in public, but would, in private, give her a slow, teasing half-grin that had left her speechless the first time she'd seen it. She was certain he was at least mildly attracted; she'd known since adolescence that men found her appealing, and she'd often caught him watching her, which he made no apologies for. Still, his gaze never felt invasive and, while he didn't hide the fact that he appreciated her form, he didn't stare or make her feel exposed.
When she realized that she was pacing while thinking about her mysterious—friend? comrade? admirer?—Lena forced herself to stop and stretch, as if cooling down after vigorous training, both to distract herself and to try and relax enough to sleep.
"Shouldn't you be sleeping, Mistress?"
Lena spun, falling into a crouch as she gripped the long knife at her waist in one hand and palmed a throwing dagger with the other. The voice was male and held a hint of a sneer, and was far too close for comfort. Her gaze scanned the shadows, only to meet the handsome yet disdainful features of Lord Vanel of Border's Peak. He leaned against the trunk of a large tree, standing in such a way that he took up a large part of the narrow game trail that lead back to the picket lines and the camp, blocking it.
Blocking her way back.
She met his gaze and found in it all the distasteful aspects that she had ever seen and felt in a man's eyes as the stared at her. The shadows gave his face a sinister cast, and she was inclined to believe that what they showed was closer to the truth than what the sunlight displayed.
She remembered distinctly her first impression of him, then one that had led her to avoid any more contact then necessary with him; that he was a man who saw only one aspect to a woman, and who wouldn't take no as an answer when he sought it. Daine had only confirmed what she'd seen in him. "When he was seventeen, and I was eleven, he raped one of the village girls who went to work at his father's holding. He had a reputation for bedding the female servants—Lona just denied him. Others would have as well, but they knew what would happen."
She remembered, too, the response to that revelation; "The women will have to pair up. Make sure they know to stay together, no less than two, or with one of the men, whenever they're away from the company—even the privy. That's an order, and I'll truss either one of you up if you defy it." Lena inwardly winced, even as she refused to take her eyes of the nobleman before her. Damn it, all she'd wanted was a chance to relax enough to sleep; the Commander was going to kill her.
After she got out of this mess, of course.
"You're right, my lord," she agreed calmly as she straightened from her crouch, though she remained balanced on the balls of her feet—and kept her blades in hand. "I need to return to the camp and rest. If you'll excuse me." It wasn't a question, and Lena stepped forward, intending to make him straighten and move out of reflex.
"Perhaps you don't need to sleep," he said, his tone implying very well what he thought she did need.
"You're wrong, my lord, I'm very tired and need to retire." She kept moving.
When she was just at arms' reach, his hand snaked out. "I don't think that's necessary."
He'd underestimated her; she'd seen his muscles tense in preparation for the move and slid gracefully out of reach, leaving his hand to close around air where her arm had been. His face darkened at her defiance.
"My lord, I don't have a doubt as to what you want from me," Lena explained coldly, "but I am a soldier in Their Majesties army, and not a whore or woman of easy virtue. I am tired from defending your kingdom and fief, and intend to go to bed—alone."
"I know exactly what you are, woman," he sneered, his use of 'woman' sounding like a curse. "You might draw a soldier's wage, but you aren't one—just a woman who rides a horses as well as a men."
There was a gleam in his eye that went beyond lust or covetous; it was greed—for power, for violence—and a sort of madness that chilled her skin. She dropped all pretense of courtesy, knowing she needed to get away from him now.
"Move, now, or I'll move you myself."
"Don't argue with your betters," he ordered, lunging to seize her wrist. She let him; using the momentum of the yank he gave her limb, she shoved her elbow into his stomach, beneath his ribs. He went pale, then red, as the air was forced from his lungs, and as his grip slackened, wrenched free and went to move past him.
He recovered far more quickly than he should have; despite all his faults, he was still from the northern reaches and mountains, lands endlessly plagued by raiders, Scanran attacks, and harsh winters and requiring training and hunting for survival. She felt hands at her shoulders as she move past him, and even as she tried to duck away from them, was seized and thrown into the unforgiving trunk of the tree her attacker had rested against.
Her left shoulder, arm, and hip struck the tree, scraping painfully as she slid down. It was her turn to gasp for breath, though she managed to keep hold of her dagger. As she turned, needing to keep him in her line of sight, a hand smashed across her face.
Even as pain blossomed in her cheek, light streaking her vision, shock held her immobile. No man had even dared to lay a hand on her; her family had been loving, if somewhat simple, and any man in her village who would have dared to so much as touch her would have faced the fury of her four brothers and her father or, later, Lena herself. She was also a Rider and, therefore, seen as capable of violence and not easy prey or even open to disrespectful advances.
As her vision cleared, she realized that Vanel was now smirking, believing her to be subdued and docile thanks to her passive reaction. She remained limp as his hand reach down, closing over the laces of her shirt, tearing at them even as he groped the flesh beneath.
And drew back with a pained shout, staring in shock at the bloodied furrow in his arm where her knife had sliced flesh. His gaze shot back to hers, going from shocked to enraged as he saw the defiance and disgust in her face.
Lena pushed herself up, still backed against the tree, holding both the dagger from her arm sheath and the long knife from her hip before her. On the blade of the former, blood gleamed darkly. She would not be raped, or forced to submit to this disgusting excuse of a man, noble, and human. She was a Rider, and could defend herself.
A moment later, the distinctive sound of a sword sliding from its sheath rang through the air.
Raoul walked slowly through the camp, aware of the quiet. All but a handful of his Own slept, and most of those awake were away from the camp, working on the town's defenses and answering the villager's questions.
He, too, should be in bed—preferably the same one as his lover—getting a few hours of much-needed sleep before the next step that needed to begin. But he had an itch at the back of his neck—the kind that raised the hairs on the back of the neck and had you looking over your shoulder. That itch had stood him in good stead in his twenty-odd years as a knight, usually warning him of danger or, during his time as Knight Commander of the King's Own, of something amiss with his men.
As he reached the far end of the last row of the Rider's tents, movement caught his eye. Rahim, one of his officers, stood nearby, speaking to the young boy who Daine had sent to the camp to be put to work. The boy turned and pointed to the woods beyond the clearing that held their mounts, and Rahim stiffened slightly, then made a brief gesture of thanks before moving purposefully in the same direction.
"Rahim," he called out to the younger man, who apparently heard nothing, as he didn't pause. In fact, he seemed to speed up.
Knowing that his 'sixth sense' had likely been right again, Raoul followed his man.
Shit, shit, shit! Lena cursed inwardly. Defending yourself from a swordsman with a dagger was not a pleasant or easy task; when the swordsman was both intent on violating you and at least slightly mad, the job took on epic proportions.
She was bleeding, though no one wound was deep, and aching from her collision with the tree. While she was still alive—no small feat—and had managed to score her own marks, she was also unable to gain any kind of advantage. Vanel might have been a rapist and an amoral bastard, but he wasn't stupid and he was well trained. He forced her to keep her back to the tree, making sure she couldn't run, or even gain enough distance to use her throwing daggers. At this range, even if she wasn't occupied with deflecting his blade and keeping him from closing in on her any further, a thrown blade wouldn't have enough momentum or speed to do any fatal or incapacitating injury.
Spotting an opening, she lashed out, quick as a snake, with her knife, scoring a reasonable deep gash on the bicep of his sword arm. It didn't cause him to drop the blade, but she was sure it burned like hellfire.
"Whore," he hissed, slashing at her upper body. She blocked it, the force of the impact singing in her arms, but knew that the strike was sloppy. He was losing control in his rage. It both weakened him and made him more dangerous—he wasn't thinking only of rape now, but of killing her.
Taking a chance that cost her a stinging cut to her shoulder, she ducked under his blade and flicked her own across his arm again, only inches away from the last. He let lose a stream of snarled curses and harsh strikes, but each one was sloppier than the last.
In the heartbeat of time that Lena took to blink the sweat from her eyes, the world that she had narrowed down on—her, Vanel, and their blades—changed. There was a surprised shout, a clatter, and the distinctive sound of flesh and bone striking the ground, hard.
Dazed, it took her a moment to absorb the scene before her. Vanel now lay prone on the forest floor, dazed and cradling the wrist of his sword arm, while his blade lay on the ground, well out of his reach. He didn't look for it, however; he was far too occupied with watching the gleaming sword tip that rested lightly on his chest—directly over his heart.
Rahim watched the noble with an expression that was both fierce and coldly vicious. Like a cat at a mouse hole, he waited for his prey to so much a twitch—was, in fact, eager for him to do so. Lena was sure that, should Vanel move even a fraction, the Bazhir would slid his sword into the man's heart before he could take another breath. Despite that knowledge, she wasn't in the least bit intimidated of the man.
"Are you well, Lena," he asked in his rich voice and fluid accent. Despite his cold expression, his tone was calm, as if he was asking after the weather.
"Well enough, thank you," she replied before hearing footsteps. Spinning, she had her blades out before her only to find Sir Raoul.
The knight's gaze flickered over her face and wounds, and then to his soldier and the man sprawled on the ground. His calm expression never faltered.
"Are you seriously injured, Commander Fletcher?"
"No, my lord," she answered, responding not only to his voiced question but the unasked one, which sought her mental state, not her physical one. "I'm fine."
"That's a matter for debate, and we'll let the healer have the final say in it. Are you planning on actually killing him, Rahim?"
Vanel went pale at the calm, absently curious question, and Lena took great pleasure in his expression even as she could understand his reaction. There was something quite chilling in hearing death mentioned in the same tone that one might use at the dinning table; she imagined it was worse when the death being discussed was your own.
"No, my lord," Rahim responded. Just as Vanel relaxed, he went on, "that is for Lena to do, should she wish it."
Lena blinked in surprise even as Vanel's face darkened in rage. "That damned bi—" Rahim's sword tip shifted from his chest to Adam's apple, pressing just enough to make the noble literally swallow his words.
"If you speak to, or about, her again, I will cut out your voice—and tongue," the Bazhir promised softly.
Lena was confused by Rahim's declaration—did he really think that it was her right to kill the man? Would he defend her, only to step back and allow her to exact payment? Her injuries were beginning to burn, further distracting her and making it more difficult to think. Sir Raoul must have seen her confused expression because he explained in that same conversational tone. "It was your honor which Vanel attempted to mar. Among the Bazhir your husband, father, or male head of your family would have the right to avenge that, and that would include the right to kill your attacker; if you had no male family, that duty would fall to the headman. In your case, you are an acknowledge warrior in your own right and, therefore, capable of speaking for and defending yourself—and avenging your own honor. If you were unable to do so for some reason, someone close to you could volunteer to act on your behalf—as Rahim seems to be offering." Rahim made the faintest nod at that, his eyes never leaving Vanel.
"You mean if I walked up to that bastard and slit his throat, or asked Rahim to do it for me, he'd just accept that?"
"He'd see it as perfectly within your right, and would be honored by your trust if you asked him to do so, because you would be offering your own honor into his care. For that matter, I'd understand if you decided to do it." He smiled gently at her stunned expression. "I've been one of the Tribe nearly half my life, Lena—I accept their ways and laws—and Bazhir law is legally valid in Tortall, and therefore to knights. Just as adoptions and marriages in the Bazhir fashion are accepted, duels and punishments under Bazhir law are also legal by the king's law, as long as they are witnessed. You have two tribesmen to act as your witnesses."
She turned back to Rahim, watching as he stared, unblinkingly at her attempted rapist, his sword rock-steady. "I'm not Bazhir—why would you give me the honor of Bazhir law?"
"You are a warrior and a woman of great honor, and you serve the Voice, even it is by another name," came the calm reply. "You are more than deserving of the chance to avenge your honor."
With that, Lena stepped forward towards the two men—one a warrior, standing tall, and the other quivering, not worthy of the title 'noble'. Vanel flinched, going sheet-white, eyes locking on the dagger she still held. He would have spoken, she was sure—either to curse her or to plead—but Rahim's blade prevented him from swallowing deeply, much less speaking.
"Don't wet yourself, my lord," she sneered. "I already have your blood on my blade—I don't need or wanted it on my hands." She rested her hand on Rahim's elbow. "He's not worth it—I've already defended my honor, and my dubious virtue. You don't need to stain your blade with his blood."
"He is an insect—a leech."
She smiled. "Absolutely—and normally I would say that leeched should be burned away. But in this case, trying to feast on my blood made him ill. I've already dealt his ego a blow far more painful than death, which is where to strike men like him. I'm just a woman, and I held off not only his advances, but his sword—with only a knife." She saw that jab hit the mark, and took great pleasure in it. "I won't soil myself in by giving him more measure than he's due."
She felt his arm tense faintly under her hand; however willing he was to allow her to choose and to act on her own behalf, he still wanted justice and vengeance for her. That was something she'd think long and hard about later. Finally he drew his sword tip back fractionally, shifting it to linger for a long moment before stepping back.
Vanel scrambled ungracefully to his feet, backing up several steps as he did so. He looked both frightened and enraged. No longer under immediate threat of a slit throat, pure insult came to coat over both, and he looked as if he were about to start heaping curses upon their heads. AS she braced for whatever came from his mouth, he suddenly went deathly pale—just as Lena realized he'd shifted his gaze beyond them. A heartbeat later, she once again heard steel being unsheathed only to find herself staring in shock as Sir Raoul—cool, unflappable Sir Raoul, who had faced a giant with calm reserve—stalk past them, naked blade in hand. He drove Vanel back into a tree trunk with only the sheer force of his deadly expression.
Once more the young nobleman found himself with steel against his throat—but the man holding this blade was far more deadly.
"Know this, Vanel of Border's Peak," Raoul spoke in a sotto voice—and even Lena shivered. "What you have done this day is justification enough for me to cut you down like a rabid dog, or to demand your immediate public execution. Remember my words well, boy: every member of the party from Tortall, man and woman, noble and peasant, Rider, Own, or mage, is a delegate of Tortall, and ambassador here under the specific invitation of your king. To deliberately injure, assault, or harm the delegate of another realm is an act of war against that kingdom, and treason against your own. I am a knight of Tortall, sworn by blade, shield, and blood to defend my kingdom and its citizens. Should you so much as lay a hand on any of those under my command or protection, I will consider it my sworn duty to my realm and rank to kill you where you stand. It is only because Lena defended herself aptly and is deserving of a say in this decision that I don't do so now—but this is your only warning. Harm any of my people, and you will die for it."
Lena was frozen by the deadly promise in the knight's tone—more than his words, it promised swift retribution. Still, she didn't feel particularly threatened, though she could hardly imagine what someone on the receiving end of that promise would feel—certainly Vanel's eyes were reeling like a panicked horse's. When Raoul saw that he'd made his point, he withdrew his sword and sheathed it. "Oh, and Vanel—the villagers and people in the surrounding areas are under the Rider's and the Own's protection—and, therefore, mine. Don't forget it."
He turned, insulting Vanel by showing him his back and therefore declaring that he was of no threat or consequence. "Let's go back to camp—Lena, you need a healer."
"Yes, sir." Leaving the trembling Vanel still slumped against his tree, they walked back to the camp in silence, Rahim holding her elbow lightly.
When they reached the camp tents, Sir Raoul gestured towards the central one. "Rahim, get Lena to the command tent; I'll go get Quint."
Rahim bowed his head in acknowledgment, but Lena turned to face the knight squarely. "Sir Raoul—"
"Don't argue, Rider, you are having those wounds looked at."
The stings and throbbing of her injuries certainly agreed. "I wasn't going to argue, sir; I wanted to apologize." At his raised eyebrow, she continued. "I didn't mean to go against orders by going out alone. I forgot about the Commander's order, but that's no excuse for a Group Commander. I'm sorry for any difficulty this incident might cause you or Commander Buri, or to the agreements between Tortall and Galla."
"Relax, Rahim, you don't have to act as a shield," Sir Raoul said dryly, making Lena aware that he had stiffened and looked ready to defend her against his leader, and the man who had just reduced a rapist to a trembling heap. She definitely had a lot to think about. "You're not in trouble, Lena, or about to be punished—though Buri will likely ream you out and make you long for the relative painlessness of latrine duty. The only 'difficulties' will be to that leech Vanel once I've informed the baron about this. To be honest, I'd even forgotten about the order to pair up—Vanel seemed willing to make himself scarce, and even intended last night to return to his father's keep. You aren't at fault—but the next time you want a walk, stay in the village."
"Yes, sir." The memory of the attack was fresh in her mind, driving her to speak. "Sir? I don't think he's entirely sane. There wasn't just lust in his eyes, but a need for violence and a—a kind of madness."
"That doesn't surprise me; his kind is aroused not by sex, but by power over a victim. It's not sane, but it's also not a true insanity because he knows what he's doing, and he knows what's right and wrong. He simply believes himself above that distinction. 'No' means nothing to him because what others think or feel are beneath his consideration, and are nothing to him when compared to his own desires. He is the only one who matters in his mind—not due to madness, but to an intrinsic selfishness and complete lack of empathy. Go sit down, Lena," he added briskly, appearing to shake off reflection and distaste, "you look ready to drop. I'll send Quint to you."
As he moved off, Rahim took her elbow again. "You need to sit down, especially as Sir Raoul has ordered you to."
"I wouldn't want to disobey any more orders today—or make him angry. Great Goddess, that was something to see," she murmured to herself.
"He does not lose his temper often, but when he does everyone around him feels the weight of it. Come," he urged.
As he settled her in the tent on a folding stool, taking one for himself as he laid a clean cloth against the sluggishly bleeding wound on her shoulder, she asked one of the questions that circled in her head. "You truly thought I was worthy of the consideration of a tribesman?"
"Of course, for all the reasons that I gave you, and far more. You are a strong woman, Lena, and very capable—but I would have also acted for you had you asked."
"But only family members are supposed to do that."
"Or those who have an—interest—in one who is a victim of such a thing."
His pause and consideration of the right word told her exactly what kind of 'interest' he meant—and had. "You said I was a warrior—aren't women who fight considered to have a man's soul, and as having given up the interest of women—including marriage and children?"
"Once this was so," he answered calmly after meeting her gaze for a heartbeat and returning to her wounds. "But when the Woman Who Rides Like A Man, the Lioness, became warrior and shaman for the Bloody Hawk and sat with the men, but also married and proved herself to be wife and mother as well, we accepted that women could be warriors and still with a woman's soul—though they are rare, as are men like the Man Who Walks In Shadow, who can court and marry such a woman."
"The Man Who Walks—is that what the Bazhir call the baron? Because he was a thief?"
"Yes, he was named when he was adopted by the Bloody Hawk, so that he could marry the Lioness among the Bazhir."
"It takes a very strong man to feel confident enough to have any kind of interest in a woman who can defend her own honor," Lena mused softly, waiting for him to look up at her.
When he did, he met her gaze squarely. "Yes, it does—but the rewards are very great for such a man."
And Lena, looking into the eyes of a strong man and warrior, smiled faintly, knowing that she had a lot to think about—and that her life was going to get very interesting.