A/N: Chapter Twelve up—only two more to go after this! cries And then I can start the new fic that's starting to demand attention in my head yay! Ever wonder about Numair's family? So do I—and they've started to introduce themselves to me.
Now that I've tormented you with spoilers of things to come, THANK YOU FOR ALL THE SUPPORT AND REVIEWS!!!!!!! I can't believe how awesome it is to get at least one review every day—even when I haven't posted in a week! Thank you, you make writing fulfilling and worthwhile!
Anyway, here's this one; a bit longer than the other chapters, some Daine/Numair yummyness, and a bit of Numair's temper. Oh, and don't worry, Vanel gets what's coming to him—but I'm not finished playing with him or Snowsdale yet!
Disclaimer: Don't own, only borrowed—but I'm not giving them back for a good long while!
Lingering Ghosts
Himura Seraphina
Chapter 12.Ache
She left sleep behind slowly, reluctantly, her body and at least part of her mind protesting heartily at having to leave the warm cocoon of sleep and dreams. Still, another part of her, the part that held hard-won discipline and dedication and that was trained by battle, pulled her relentlessly from her rest. There were things left unfinished because of her body's revolt against its harsh treatment; now that she'd regained some of her strength and energy, she could afford to put off further sleep while she took care of her other business.
Her body, however, still ruled. As she managed to drag her eyes open, questions about bandits and injured friends tickled lightly at the back of her mind, but it was the fierce complaint of her stomach that centered her focus. She might have continued sleeping all night despite her concerns, but some needs were far too important to be put off.
Daine stretched idly, taking note of minor aches and the lingering fatigue in her limbs. She definitely needed several more candlemarks of sleep, but by that time her stomach would be irrevocably wrapped around her backbone. Her magic was also recovering, though by no means was it restored to its normal depth. The copper fire of her Gift was still pale and a little thin to her mind's eye, but it was there, and seemed to be growing stronger even as she watched. A good meal, an update on the day's events, and more rest would have her dead to rights in no time at all.
As she sat up, she saw that the shutters to the window were open—and a shifting, translucent sheet of white, silver, and black fire covered the opening. The cool mountain breeze brought the scent of pine and snowmelt into the room, and she could see that all but the last rays of the sun were beneath the horizon, but no one could get into her chamber, or even see into it had she not been on the second floor. A light smile touched her lips. Numair was perfectly aware that she often found buildings confining and needed open windows and her People friends to sleep well—or his presence—and had made sure that she would sleep both comfortably and safe from any threat.
A splash of black against white caught her eye; as she turned her head, she saw that it was the black scrawl of familiar handwriting on a sheet of parchment the same color as the pillow it rested on. She snatched it up and read:
Magelet,
I'm hoping you don't wake before I return as you need the sleep badly, but knowing your contrary nature—particularly when it comes to well-meaning advice—I doubt you'll manage to do so. Come down to the common room when you're decent; you need food almost as much as rest. I'm sure you're eager to know what happened today, and Buri said that she found it doubtful you were even aware of what happened after the battle, you were so exhausted. You can have answers—but only if you eat properly. And, just as a warning, I'm very put out with you—I don't mind carrying you to bed as often as you like, sweet, but I prefer to do so when you've a bit more energy! Having you faint into my arms—and out of a saddle—is a singular experience; it will remain just that—singular—or I will be very upset.
Hurry down, sweet; the sooner you've eaten, the sooner you can finish your rest—and get your energy back.
Numair
She chuckled lightly, then stroked a finger across the bold-stroked words, sensing the undertones of worry hidden in the teasing lines. He was adept at hiding what he felt, a skill learned through harsh experience—betrayal, exile, and years of struggling to survive. Even with his friends, he found it far too easy to slide into old habits; far too many people believed that, because he was so absentminded when focused on his work, he was somehow unable to wear masks over his thoughts and feelings while the opposite was true—many of his apparent moods were, in fact, careful and instinctive acts to cover his true emotions. Only with her did he not feel any need for illusions; the only time he tried to conceal his feelings was when he felt he was protecting her, and he had already let her so far into his thoughts that she could see straight thorough his attempts to do so. In some ways, that she could know what he thought and felt—as he could her—while everyone else saw only a mask was even more intimate than a shared bed. He would not show her the worry that she could only imagine he had felt when she had lost consciousness that morning, because he believed that she had enough on her plate at the moment.
Her stomach chose to make its disapproval at her woolgathering apparent; even though she was alone, she blushed at the very vocal protest it made. Pushing herself upright, Daine grabbed her packs and dug for clothing—after tucking Numair's note into one of the pockets. The basket in the corner held dirty laundry, which she would have to have washed soon, even though she wasn't sure when. Maybe she'd ask one of the Riders to do it along with their own while she scouted. A promise to take up another chore later on in exchange might get it done.
Finding cloth, Daine tugged, only to find herself with a lapful of skirts instead of breeches. She usually carried at least one dress with her, space permitting, in case she needed to dress up to meet someone. Oddly, despite her once very powerful distain for dresses and skirts, she had become comfortable in them lately. Perhaps it was years of seeing the Lioness in gowns when she was at the Swoop, or having matured enough to no longer feel like an awkward colt in all that cloth, or finding that being well dressed did, as Thayet had once said, make one feel confident. It was probably a bit of each—but aided by the fact that she had a choice. No longer pressed by custom or general approval to wear skirts, Daine could dress in 'men's clothes', or in the style that Alanna had adopted for Court, or in traditional dresses. That freedom allowed her to enjoy wearing the occasional pretty dress—and the look on Numair's face when he saw her in one.
She considered digging for something else, but was too hungry to bother. The dresses she now owned were generally simple to get on, with cleverly concealed divided skirts—she wasn't about to be caught in something she couldn't ride or fight in—and bodices that laced in the front. This one was of lightweight grey wool with a deep blue bodice that fitted her slender curves comfortably while showing them well. Lacing the front as she slid on her boots, she only barely remembered to brush her sleep-tangled hair and couldn't be bothered to pin up the unruly curls. They fell in a soft cascade around her face and shoulders and spilt down her back as she took the stairs at a fast clip.
She ignored the presence of nearly half the town in the common room, obviously discussing the day's events and speculating on future ones. Equally easy to ignore was the silence that followed in her wake, or the whispers that began after she had passed. Her only interest was in the isolated table near the fire, the tall dark figure sitting at it, and the food that was clearly displayed there.
"Ah, she lives," Buri smiled at her as she reached the table. "Better?"
"Some—a bit more sleep would be better, but food's more important now—thank you!" she sighed with gratitude as Numair set a full plate of hearty stew and dark rye bread in front of the empty seat beside him. She dropped inelegantly onto the bench and pounced on the food, only barely remembering not to fall on it like a wolf on a kill. The first bite was heaven, despite being plain fare.
There were chuckles all around at her obvious pleasure in the meal, which she took in the good humor they were meant. Cedwin went on, commenting, "You look quite different, Daine."
She looked up, hearing something in his tone, to find him gazing at her, admiration showing faintly in his eyes. A quick glance around showed her that Sir Conrik and Marcus looked at her with some surprise and curiosity, and the young knight, Sir Relwyn, held a more obvious measure of the same interest as the mage. The hand that Numair had laid on her knee the moment she sat down tightened faintly; while Numair wasn't particularly jealous, he did occasionally have a possessive manner—which didn't bother her, as she shared it. Situations like this could bring it out, not because he feared she'd stray, but because he wasn't as trusting of his own sex when they showed interest in her, and felt driven to demonstrate his claim on her affections just as she did when the situations were reversed. Jealousy was unhealthy, but this feeling was more elemental than that petty emotion, and both were careful to rein it in before it became dangerous.
"Surely I don't look that different in a dress—do I really look so much like a boy in breeches?" she demanded, looking down at the snug bodice.
"Oh, no," Cedwin hastily reassured her—while Marcus grinned and shock his head at the two younger members of his party.
"I don't think it's the dress, Daine, so much as your hair," Buri pointed out. "Though the dress is pretty."
She scowled. "I couldn't be bothered to pin my hair—do you know how long that takes? The only reason I'm wearing the dratted skirt is because it was the first thing at hand, and I was too hungry to look for something else."
"Hmmm—I'm glad," Numair spoke before one of her sudden admirers or her friends could. "The dress might be pretty, but you look far more so." He reached up and wrapped a curl around his fingers as he spoke, stroking it lightly.
She ignored the others and met his gaze questioningly. There was no doubt as to the impression he was trying to make, and she sought an explanation in the wordless manner they managed to use.
What are you doing? We're in public.
Do you care? he returned, eyebrow arched. We're betrothed—why should it matter what they, or all of Snowsdale, think?
She felt her hand drift to the chain around her neck, revealed by the low neckline of the gown. It wasn't the badger's claw she sought, however, but the delicate yet sturdy ring that hung there. She caught sight of a number of villagefolk watching the table from the corner of her eye, including several pairs of eyes taking in the intimate gesture Numair had made.
Why now?
Why not?
She arched her brow in return. You just don't want Cedwin looking at my chest—he's too much in awe of you to flirt with your woman.
Amusement chased over his face. Really? I hadn't noticed.
The entire exchange took only a few seconds, during which time their eyes locked, seeming to shut out the world. The spoke only with their eyes, emotions and thoughts crossing them only to be seen and interpreted by the other in an uncanny understanding that came only from deep intimacy—not only being in love and living together, but having traveled, studied, and fought together for years. The warm weight of the ring against her fingers, the gentle warmth in Numair's gaze mixed with mild humor, decided her.
Before he could see the decision in her eyes, Daine leaned in—and up—setting her hand on his shoulder and pressing her lips to his. An instant of surprise, followed quickly by amusement, ran through him, before he returned the kiss, the fingers in her hair moving to her nape. The kiss lingered a moment as they sank into it, but they kept it light, a sweet meeting of lips and nothing else.
She sat back, smiling lightly. "Flattery—what is it about me being in a dress that makes you so flirtatious?"
"Imminent temptation," he answered immediately. "You're a fetching sight."
"More flattery," she laughed. "You're terrible—what am I to do with you?"
His arched brow was answer enough, and brought a faint blush to her cheeks. With a mock scowl, she returned to her plate. Numair laid his arm against her back, his hand on her shoulder while he stroked her bare collarbone with his thumb.
"Ah…" was all Cedwin managed, while the other Gallans at the table looked at them with varying degrees of shock and amusement. Marcus chuckled.
"So the wind blows that way, does it?"
There were chuckles while Cedwin shook off his stunned expression and Relwyn sighed, applying himself to his own meal. Buri sighed in mock exasperation. "You too—between shapeshifting, fireworks, and that nonsense, you're a constant spectacle." The humor in her voice took out any sting.
Daine looked pointedly at her friend. "Spectacle, huh? Let's discuss the spectacle we discovered last night."
"We should talk about what's next with the bandits," Raoul interrupted swiftly, changing the subject while everyone else glanced questioningly at Daine and Buri, noticing the mild blush on the latter's cheeks—and small flickering of Raoul's gaze. Evin and Lena shifted their gazes between the two commanders, wondering at their odd behavior.
Daine was perfectly willing to take the time to torment her friends now; she'd get a report on everything that had happened today in a few minutes, and no real plans could be made until scouting had been done. She turned to Lena, intending to bring her subtly into the truth, when she saw the bruising on her face.
"Odd's bob's, Lena, I didn't realize you were hurt today. Are you alright?" Besides the shadowing bruise across her cheekbone, Daine noticed the lumpy shape of bandages under her clothes, one on Lena's left forearm, and the other on her right shoulder. "How badly were you hurt?"
A tense, brooding silence fell across the table, which Daine sensed immediately. "What's wrong? What happened? Bright Goddess—did someone die?"
"No! No, Daine, it's not that—everyone's fine, though Quint can't finish healing everyone completely until tomorrow since he needs some time to recover," Lena was quick to reassure her.
"Then what's wrong?"
She felt Numair's hand tighten on her shoulder, and slid a hand up to grip his fingers as Lena explained. "I wasn't injured by bandits. It turns out," she went on dryly—though a hint of fury and the edge of violence colored her tone—"that our concerns about Lord Vanel bore fruit."
There was a few second of humming silence as Daine absorbed that. As realization came, it brought a lethal awareness, much like the one that came during a battle. Her eyes slitted, and the grey-blue took on an icy appearance beneath her lashes. "Explain."
"I'm fine, Daine," Lena spoke calmly despite the light tension that filled her. It was memories that brought it, not Daine's sharp tone, which she had heard once or twice before. "He propositioned me this afternoon; I went for a walk when I couldn't sleep—yes, I already know it was foolish, I've had that discussion with Commander Buri." He tone spoke of what kind of 'discussion' it had been.
"Vanel was just as accepting of refusal as you said," she went on calmly, "and was particularly displeased at being held off physically by a woman. I held my own quite well, and he's got as many cuts as I do to show for it."
"She held off his sword with only a long knife and dagger," Raoul added, "and still managed to injury him in the process. A few more minutes and she probably would have disarmed him."
Some of Daine's tension faded, dropping her alertness from near painful to only sharp. Her friend hadn't been raped, or even particularly close to it. "What happened?"
"Rahim came across us, and had Vanel on the ground at sword tip in a blink." There was a hidden current in Lena's voice when she spoke Rahim's name, which Daine tucked away for later. If that tone spoke true, there was something between her friend and the Own, for which she was very happy. Of course, there was also a small matter of revenge; Lena had taken immense pleasure from teasing Daine about Numair, usually in the form of questioning her on how he was a lover, occasionally in public to Daine's intense embarrassment. Returning the favor would be very enjoyable.
Still, that was for later—when they were home, in the safety and comfort of their own realm. For now, "what happens to him—Vanel?" She turned to Marcus expectantly.
Marcus looked uncomfortable and angry; the knights looked very unhappy. "I cannot say how sorry we are for what happened," Marcus began.
Daine cursed, fluidly and at length, beginning in Gallan and then switching to Common, even slipping into the violent and colourful swears she had learned from George Cooper and Alanna. It took her several minutes to run dry, during which she never repeated herself. Cedwin was left blushing while there were several admiring glances.
Finally she ended with an angry, "You aren't going to do a dratted thing. I shouldn't be surprised—he's a noble, so he gets away with what he wishes as long as it's against common folk."
Marcus shifted, "Mistress, that's not—"
"Don't tell me what its not; I grew up here, I've seen what that snake's done, and no one even considers protesting. Do you honestly think this is the first time he's tried rape? The only first of today was that he tried for a woman who's a better fighter than he is!"
"Daine, what happens to Vanel is for the Gallans to decide—both his father and the king will know what happened," Raoul interrupted before her voice could raise enough to be heard throughout the room.
"He will be watched," Conrik added, "now that we know about him."
"There is nothing to be done today because we intend to leave it be," Raoul went on. "He is a Gallan, and we are not; we will leave him to the justice of his own king—unless he crosses me."
"Sir Raoul," Marcus began again. Daine felt some sympathy for him; he was trying to do his duty, but didn't seem to like it, or Vanel very much. He had to foster relations with Tortall while keeping rein on his own countryman. To have to publicly disciple or arrest a noble acting as an escort to foreign delegates—for attacking one of them—would make Galla and it's leaders seem foolish and untrustworthy; despite that, and the duty he had to his country, he obviously believed Vanel needed to be punished—a difficult position. Still, she felt less concern for him than for any one of Vanel's victims.
Apparently, Raoul felt the same because he interrupted. "Baron, brining Vanel to justice is up to your countrymen—unless he injures one of mine. He has been duly warned that harming one of my people can be construed as an act of war against Tortall—and you are aware that it was with in my rights to execute him this afternoon. One warning in all that he will have."
Marcus looked uncomfortable, but nodded. "Lord Vanel will be watched—though, under the circumstances, he will likely choose to remain at Border's Peak." The reasons for Vanel's 'choice' were abundantly clear.
Unhappy, Daine reluctantly accepted that there was nothing else to be done. In Tortall, she had grown accustomed to nobles that were not exempt from justice because of rank. Here, she was being reminded that few places in the world worked thusly. The Lord of Border's Peak was important because he was the keystone in the defense or Galla against Scanran attack; between that, and Galla needing to save face, Vanel would not be revealed for what he was at this time. It was implied that, since he was to be closely watched, the first opportunity to arrest or execute Vanel for a less scandalous or embarrassing reason would be taken. It stung to accept, but since Raoul, who was the head of this entire mission, accepted it they would follow his example—however reluctantly.
She looked back at Lena. "Are you sure you're fine?"
"Any damage he might have done was erased by the sight of him nearly wetting himself when Sir Raoul got a hold of him. "She smiled at the memory. "That was worth everything."
"Do tell."
Between Lena, Numair, and Buri, Daine learned everything that had gone on not only between Lena and Vanel, but all the minor events of the day, all the plans that had been made, and even the schedule that had been posted for watches—one of which Evin was currently heading.
"We've got men at two points on the trail, well hidden, to warn us if there's any movement," Buri explained. "No one's been set on backtracking the bandits along the trail to find their camp—we don't know how far it might be, or if they have guards and traps of their own. That's why locating the camp will be your duty, Daine—no one is going to sound the alert on an animal, and you'll be able to smell any sentries or traps. Tomorrow night you'll scout out the raiders camp."
"Tomorrow night?" Daine demanded. "That's too far away—anything could—"
"You are not going until Numair and Quint agree that you're in top shape," Buri said flatly. "You're safety will depend entirely on your ability to shapeshift, and unless your Gift is at full capacity, you will not be going, alone, into the hornet's nest. You might recover by morning, but you will not be scouting until dark, since it will decrease that chance of you being seen, regardless of your shape. Any questions?"
Daine scowled at her friend, having recognized her tone. It was her Commander voice, particularly the one she reserved for pointing out the stupidity of a trainee or Rider. Daine was no more fond of being dressed down than those trainees—but she recognized that she did deserve it. Buri was perfectly right in her logic, but the wait grated on her nerves.
She grumbled under her breath, scowling harder when Buri said, quite cheerfully, "I thought not," and managing to sustain her irritation for several minutes, until Numair's fingertips stroking at her nape finally brushed away her frustration—no matter how she clung to it.
"I hate when you do that," she muttered to him, unable to prevent herself from subtly arching into his fingers. "It's not fair." Numair only chuckled lightly—and continued the intimate caress.
Daine applied herself to her plate once again, a second helping that Numair had pressed on her. She argued with him about fussing over her, only to be told pointedly, "I'm allowed to fuss—eat." The table was relatively subdued, weary from the day's activities. Sir Relwyn and Sir Conrik had gone back to camp as Evin had entered—the latter returning from one patrol while the former went to help the next. The common room was more full than ever since the sun had gone down completely, the day's chores over. Daine and Numair both stiffened slightly as they noticed Hakkon approach the group, their reaction drawing the focus of everyone else.
"Master Falconer," Raoul acknowledged. "What can we do for you?"
"Ah, my lord, I was wonderin' if I could have a report of what happened t'day, with th' bandits," Hakkon asked, his tone respectful. He kept his eyes firmly on Raoul—and stood on the opposite side of the table from Daine. "The town folk are curious, an' I'd like t' be able t' tell 'em what happened, an' what's goin' t'."
Buri nodded. "Very reasonable, Master Falconer—but I need Sir Raoul right now for laying out tactics," she added, gesturing to the papers that lay before them. "Mistress Daine can certainly give you the details, as she was there."
Quiet had fallen over the room when Hakkon had approached the table as folk tried to catch what might be said. As a result, and because Buri had pitched her voice to carry without seeming to shout, the entire room heard her seemingly harmless comment. In the wake of her words, a pin dropping would have caused an echo.
Hakkon went red, then white, then red again, his eyes flickering to Daine for only a heartbeat. Daine blinked at her friend and, seeing the placid expression and dark eyes, knew Buri had made a very deliberate stab at Hakkon. The man could either acknowledge her and give her the respect accorded to one of the Tortallan party, or he could lose face in front of half the town, showing them all that he was afraid of Daine. Regardless of what he chose to do, Buri had both publicly slapped at the attitude which most of the village held towards Daine, and knocked Hakkon down a peg by putting him on the spot and delegating his questions to a 'lesser' member of the party.
Daine felt Numair's hand tighten briefly on her nape, a gesture of silent support and comfort. Knowing every eye in the room was on the headman and herself, she arched a brow at the man. "Well, Hakkon? Would you like to know what happened today?"
His gaze snapped to her face, his shock at her gall in addressing him so flippantly overcoming the memory of her transforming into a wolf. Angry color flooded his face as she stared at him with mild distain; obviously, this was one to many blows to his ego in such a short span of time. He let his gaze sweep over her, sneering at her loosened hair and the sight of Numair's hand resting against her neck in casual intimacy.
He was saved from publicly loosing his temper—and, unknown to him, being publicly flayed by the tongues of not only Daine, but also Numair, Lena, Evin, Buri and Raoul, all of whom were waiting for the opportunity to justifiably strike out in revenge for their friend—by the front door opening, letting in the night wind along with Lori and Cory.
Cory glanced around the room shyly, a hesitating briefly when he saw the crowd and the eyes which were divided between the door and the arresting scene in the corner. Lori had no such qualms and started briskly across the common room, he son following her. When she reached the table, she nodded politely to those seated, gave a brief, unreadable glance at Hakkon, and smiled at Daine—her eyebrow arching only slightly at the sight of such a public display of affection.
"You're up then, good—Master Salmalin and Commander Buri said you'd be set to rights with some rest, but Cory was fair worried—so was I. You'd best take better care of yourself, miss," she added sternly.
"If I don't," Daine said wryly, nudging Numair with her elbow, "then he will—and make himself a nuisance in the process, so it's a far sight easier to watch myself. I'm fine, I promise," she reassured both seriously, meeting Cory's gaze squarely to show she was in earnest. "You needn't fuss—that's his job," she glanced at Numair again.
"And it's one that's worthy of combat wages, I assure you," he added dryly, ignoring her glare.
"I've no doubt—she always was stubborn." She, too, ignored Daine's glare, causing the younger woman to sit back with a huff. "In any case, Cory'n I are for home tonight—I've left Rand and Rela—my eldest girl—alone with the littles too long, and Cory needs to be getting himself ready."
"I've got to pack," Cory murmured, aware of the presence of lords and warriors at the table, even though he had spent time in the same camp with them earlier. "And tell Da that I'm for Tortall and the Riders."
"We'll be glad to have you with us on the trip," Buri reassured him, seeing his nerves, "and in Tortall. But are you sure you should be traveling after dark?"
"It's a short journey, only an hour or so," Lori explained, "and to be sure, I'm not after spending another night from my own home and husband, as I've missed both. We only waited to see Daine before we left. Though I expect you to pay us a visit before you leave," she continued with a firm glare at Daine. "If only for an hour or two when you've finished up this business and come to fetch Cory. I expect you, personally."
"Aye, ma'am," Daine responded automatically, in the same manner she had as a child under that same expression.
During the exchange, everyone had forgotten Hakkon, standing behind Lori, until his voice—cold, but holding a tone of false concern—sliced through the conversation.
"Mistress Hyrdsman, I wonder…mayhaps Mistress Sarrasri isn't th' best influence on your son? He's at a' impressionable age for a lad, an', well…" he trailed off, looking reluctant but determined to do the right thing—an act the best Players would envy. "Surely your son might'n be better with more—honorable—folk? An' your littles should surely be kept safe from such a' influence."
Even the densest of the villagers felt the sharp, lethal tension that sprung from the table of foreigners and nobles. Rapier-sharp gazes turned on Hakkon as every Tortallan focused on him, Marcus and Cedwin drew swift breaths, feeling the insult to Daine keenly and embarrassment on behalf of their countryman. Cory's mouth dropped in shock at the insult, and glanced towards his 'cousin' and the tall mage—and felt his skin grow cold at the latter's calm expression and hell-dark eyes. Daine rested her chin on her hand, leaning forward to gaze at Hakkon with amused interest—knowing that if she didn't remain calm, her friends in general and Numair in particular would lose the tether-hold on their tempers.
"That's fascinating, Hakkon—who might these 'honorable' folk be? And what does that make me? You were referring only to me, correct? Even you couldn't be so amazingly daft as to say that everyone else at this table is without honor—at least, your version of it."
Hakkon ground his teeth, taking refuge in temper as shivers crawled along his skin under the cold glares of the Tortallans. "You can't really think that anyone'd want vulnerable littles about you, Mistress Sarrasri," he emphasized her surname and it's implications. "No one could want their little ones t' take in their head t'be like you."
"Why not," Lori demanded in a stern, flat tone which carried to every corner of the room. "You see Daine here—she sits with heroes and nobles, people famed in their own lands and others; she's the ear of a royal family, a home and job with a famous army. If my son's half so successful, I'll be as proud as I can be without having to split in half to hold it."
There was a quiet stir in the room as farmers and herders, blacksmith and cooper mulled on that—after all, it was true enough that Sarra's bastard seemed to be a fair important person.
Hakkon heard the words, and lost what control he had on his temper, and his tongue. "She sits with 'em only 'cause she ran mad an' fled th' justice we offered! Hadn't she lost her mind an' turned killer, she'd never of found her way int' such company! Surely th' only reason she stays in it is 'cause she pays for it in bed—she seems willin' enough to whore herself!" he gestured with righteous fury at the way Numair and Daine sat together. "Is that what you'd be wantin' you're young 'uns to—"
Daine felt the air snap a heartbeat before Hakkon's rant was cut off sharply by writhing black and silver fire wrapping around his mouth and throat. She had listened to the headman and heard someone who was losing his grip on reality in his rage—someone sure to do as much damage to himself as to her—and felt no particular pain, only frustration with such deeply imbedded fear and hatred. Numair, apparently, was not to be satisfied with Hakkon embarrassing himself. His formidable temper, sparked only by a very long fuse, and finally ignited.
While the common room was filled with shocked gasps and whispers, and Hakkon's eyes filled with fear and fury, Numair stood, his hand poised at his side and surrounded by the same glittering fire that held Hakkon. Stunned silence came to anyone who looked at his face—and Hakkon's expression became one of horror in the face of the mage's cold, silent rage.
"If you cannot hold your tongue, Falconer, I shall half to assist you."
Even Daine felt a shudder at his tone; Buri and Raoul looked as if they had been about to interfere; both closed their mouths when Numair spoke, fully aware that they had not influence over him in this state—only Daine could cut through his rage.
She recognized this mood; it was one that came out only after long periods of suppressed temper and stress—such as having to watch her deal with painful memories and ignorant villagers who treated her like a leper. Numair was perfectly aware of his temper and strove to control it, succeeding the majority of the time. This, unfortunately, was not one of them and, combined by his deeply protective streak and the way he had bitten his tongue since arriving in Snowsdale, he was in a volatile and potentially lethal state. He could, and had, killed to protect her—and he could do it again.
"Numair," Daine murmured, knowing that calm was the best way to catch his attention in this state. "Numair, let him go, love."
"He can breath," came his response in that same low, coldly violent voice. "I'm not cutting off his air, only his voice. Although that could change," he added absently.
Daine ignored the way Hakkon's eyes rolled in terror; she wasn't intervening on his behalf, but on Numair's, as he would regret anything he might do in such a temper. "There's no reason for this, love."
"Oh, there's any number of reasons, not the least of which is that he's a disgusting excuse for a human being and a man. The reasons that concern me, however, as far more specific. You," he locked eyes with his prisoner, "have insulted Daine for the last time, Falconer. I should beat you senseless for every slur you've cast at her tonight—and I could kill you for all that you've done to her in her life. Unfortunately," he said, sounding truly remorseful, "I am a fairly civilized man, and won't kill you in cold blood. But I am not that civilized, and if you ever speak in any derogatory manner to Daine again, I will at the very least silence you permanently—you'll have a difficult time insulting anyone without you're tongue, Falconer."
She laid her hand on his arm—the one held out in spell casting—and squeezed lightly. "You've made you're point—you can let him lose now."
His eyes flickered to hers, and in them she saw that he wasn't nearly ready to calm down yet. Still, she left her hand where it was in a gesture of support as he visibly reined in his temper. In a tone less lethal but still viciously cold, he spoke to Hakkon again. "Let me be very clear in correcting some of you're uninformed assumptions. First, Cory could be in no more 'honorable' company than if he dined with kings nightly. Secondly, Daine has done nothing in her life that she need be ashamed of, or which could make her any less honorable—all of the supposed 'crimes' you continue to toss in her face are either pertaining to her birth, something which was completely out of her control, or to events which took place, not only when she was being controlled by a wild and extremely powerful magical gift, but when she was hardly more than a child and under painful circumstances. Lastly," he spoke while pitching his voice to guarantee that everyone in the common room could hear him—not that they weren't already straining to hear his every word. "Daine and I are handfasted, and formally betrothed—by a ceremony overseen by a Priest of Mithros, and witnessed by Their Royal Majesties of Tortall. Just to make sure you are aware that I have every right to defend her honor in any way possible," he added even as he flicked his fingers, releasing the spell—and Hakkon.
The headman took a stumbling step backwards, wide eyes still on the tall mage. Daine felt his muscles, tense and drawn, under her hand, and knew that his temper was still riding him hard. She silently prayed that she could get him out of here without something else triggering him.
Hakkon panted lightly, recovering his breath and his composure, obviously struggling to regain control. His gaze flickered over some of the avid faces in the room, which apparently stirred him to try and regain some of his lost face. Just as he opened his mouth to speak—and as Daine prepared to interrupt before he could push Numair into killing him—deadly brown-black eyes bore into him once more. "Did you have something to say, Falconer?"
The words and tone brought his previous threat immediately to mind to all that heard him—and Hakkon seemed to reconsider how important his tongue was.
Lori, bless her, broke the tension before it could cause anyone to have a brainstorm by scolding in the tone she'd perfected in her years of taking naughty children to task. "Really, Daine, you shouldn't be up and about as yet—it's barely seven marks since you dropped in a dead faint right off you're pony. Back to bed with ye, miss!"
"Of course," she murmured in repentant tone, latching on to the excuse like a drowning woman. "Numair, could you help me upstairs? My legs feel fair useless," she lied shamelessly, knowing he didn't believe her.
"Certainly, magelet," he murmured, eyes holding Hakkon's for another heartbeat, before scanning the room briefly. There were several shudders—and more than one sign against evil drawn in the air. "Lori's right; you shouldn't be up, but resting."
Daine met Buri's eyes briefly as she and Numair passed, reassuring the commander that she could take care of Numair. Buri nodded and, even as they began up the steep steps, she heard the K'mir strike up a calm conversation with the baron—who followed her lead. By the top of the stairs, the low murmur of voices could be heard from downstairs; subdued yet, but there.
They said nothing until they reached her bed chamber. Numair moved with a rigidity far removed from his usual long-limbed grace as he walked into the room before her. As soon as she crossed the threshold, the door snapped shut and was sealed with black and silver fire.
Daine was about to speak when the porcelain ewer that normally held wash water exploded, a soundless destruction that had millions of tiny pieces flying out—only to be caught within a translucent shield, fragments colliding with the solid fire in a quiet rain. In mere heartbeats it was over, and the once-ewer was nothing more than small, sand-sized bits—not even shards, but grains of uniform porcelain.
She took a deep breath and said dryly, "Are you finished? Because there's only so much furniture in here, and I rather need the bed."
He whirled to face her, and finally, she saw with relief, his temper ran hot rather than lethally cold. Flags of colour rode high on his cheeks, and the velvet of his eyes burned hot with rage and frustration. He opened his mouth to speak and she arched a brow at him; after a breath of time, he closed eyes and lips on a choked sound that held both ire and resignation.
"Yes, sweet, I'm finished for now."
"Good." With his eyes still closed, he never saw her coming. Between one moment and the next, she had him flat on his back on the narrow bed, with her straddling his hips and her hands braced on his chest so her face was just above his own. When his eyes flew open in shock, they met hers; one dark and tumultuous, the other smoky and intent.
"I love you," she said flatly. "I love you so much it hurts at times, Numair, and that's why I know you well enough to see that this has been as hard on you as on me—I've known it all along, that all this has been eating at you. But you have to listen to me Numair—it doesn't hurt."
Confusion came to replace fury, and she softened her tone to explain. "I told you the other day that I could move on now, and I meant it. I'm making peace with what my life was, and all that happened here. Maybe I don't understand the why—why things had to be the way they were, why Hakkon and Rikar and all the others who follow them act like they do—but it doesn't matter anymore, because I'm getting past it. Now you need to do the same."
His eyes slid closed again on a sigh, and his large hands came up to rest on her hips. "Hearing it, sweet, seeing first hand the ridiculous attitudes and asinine beliefs that you had to live with hearing every day—and the insults—damn it! I want to be able to make it right."
He would, she knew. He was a man who believed in justice because he had seen its lack, who tried to be fair and to bring fairness into the lives of others. With those he cared for, belief in the validity of justice became a powerful desire to make it real—even to the extent of revenge, though he usually controlled that desire far better.
"You can't, love, because to them it was right, and those 'ridiculous attitudes and asinine beliefs' are the Gods' own truths—and killing Hakkon, or Rikar, or anyone else, can't change the past or make them see any different. It won't make it right, Numair, and it might damage what's now—and I promise, love," she murmured, shifting one hand from his chest to trace the strong line of his jaw, "that it's the now that is far, far more important to me."
His eyes opened again, searching hers, seeking the truth. She let him see her thoughts, and her heart, knowing both were an open book to him in any case. After a few moments, he sighed lightly.
"My beautiful magelet," he murmured, more to himself than to her even though his words—as with most of the compliments he paid her about her looks—made her blush lightly. He turned his head, pressing a kiss in to her palm, then tugged her down so that she lay on his chest rather than loom over him. Feeling the way his muscles had relaxed from their angry tension, she sighed and cuddled closer.
She let his heartbeat soothe her even as her warmth did the same for him, until she was drifting on the edge of sleep. She stirred only when he shifted under her, laying her on the bed while undressed first himself, then her.
"You are beautiful, and tempting, in dresses, sweet," he told her softly, and she stirred, thinking to protest; she was no beauty, and never saw in her face what he, and a few other males, seemed to. "No, don't argue; you are beautiful, even in breeches and covered in road dust. Seeing you in gowns only lets me see your softer edges." As her bodice fell open with the loosened laces, she opened her eyes dazedly and murmured his name, reaching for him. Soft kisses fell on her neck and shoulders, distracting her. "Not tonight, sweet," and even half-asleep, she heard regret mixed in with the gentleness. "You're for sleep, so you can be rested and ready for the morrow—and the night to come." Her clothes slid away, and she was left with the warmth and scent of him surrounding her as he drew her close.
The last thing she was aware of before dropping headlong into the rest of her delayed sleep was the rumble of Numair's voice under her ear as he whispered, "I love you until it hurts, too, sweet—but it's a good kind of pain."
Even as her mind went dark with sleep, she smiled. Love was the only kind of pain that hurt more from its absence than its presence. She treasured the ache of it.