This took a long time mostly because I had an unbelievable amount of work in October, and therefore did, well, no writing at all. Thank you for your patience. Things should speed up, relatively speaking, as we head towards the holidays.
As usual, this is the censored version, but you're welcome to go hunting for the uncensored version on AO3.
Love,
CM
A Fitting Finale
Part 3: Formidable
Olberic saw the lady knight before she saw him.
He was running Philip and the other village boys through their paces ― lunge, lunge, turn, parry, lunge; a quick sequence that did less for their combat skills as it did for the strength of their lungs and heart ― so he was perfectly positioned to see all the streets leading down into Cobbleston's main square, if the small paved clearing in front of the mayor's house could be deemed that.
She was looking about herself, pretending she was at ease. To Olberic's trained eye, she was evidently on her guard, as all soldiers were, oft despite themselves. He knew that stance, that quiet watchfulness, that squaring of the shoulders.
She saw the boys training, and then her eyes went beyond them and found him. Would she wait for the lesson to end? Probably not.
She began to weave through the ranks of boys, evidently amused by their breathless conversations. Olberic didn't keep them from chatting amongst themselves while they practiced. Brotherhood and unity were built in the training yard. To stamp the feeling out was to create automatons.
John's practice sword flew backwards. She unsheathed her blade and stopped it in time, before it could land in her face.
The boys stopped. Most of them hadn't even noticed her until now.
"Milady," John stammered. His eyes went to the sword, to the white gleaming armour, and then to the lady, and he flushed. "Crivens, forgive me."
She smiled. "Never you mind," she said. "You had good form until you lost control of your sword." She tightened her grip on her sword hilt. "Tighten your fingers like so, and the blade will be less likely to swing wildly in your fist."
John tested the hold. It was not a grip Olberic had taught them yet, but it would be a good idea for the boy ― he was lanky and had undergone a growth spurt recently that had left him as awkward as a calf, all legs and arms and little idea of his new size. He smiled. "Cor, I think you might be right," he admitted.
That was somewhat ungracious, but Olberic hadn't gotten around to teaching them chivalry yet. Still, she smiled down at him. "Glad to be of service."
The boys hesitantly returned to their practice, and Olberic waited for the lady to reach him.
"Olberic Eisenberg?" She asked, stopping in front of him and standing straight. She would not stand at attention, for he was not her superior, and anyway they were not comrades-in-arms, but it was as close to a respectful salute as he'd get.
"Eliza Woodward," he responded, nodding politely.
The woman hadn't changed much in four years. Now at her full thirty years, she looked every bit as confident and competent as before, only with an edge of experience that had grown more refined.
"You remember me?" She asked, with an amused furrow of her brow.
"As captain of the Knights Ardante," Olberic recalled. "We crossed paths whilst you aided my traveling companion, H'aanit, in her quest to slay a beast."
Eliza's smile grew warm, reaching up into her eyes, and she suddenly looked much less like a severe knight and much more like a true lady. "I am flattered that you remember me at all, let alone the circumstances that brought us together. But then, I suppose hunting Redeye was not just any ordinary quest, even for a legend such as you."
Redeye. Olberic remembered the wretched creature well, its petrifying gaze… the sadness of its demise, the truth of its existence. He shook it off. "I hope all your fellow knights remain in good health after their encounter."
"They do," Eliza nodded. "In large part thanks to the efforts of dear H'aanit and her companions. My gratitude remains."
Olberic nodded, but said nothing more. They stood in comfortable silence for a moment.
"I've become a commander of the Knights Ardante," Eliza said, breaking a silence punctuated only by the steps and breathing of his pupils. "I am to report to Stoneguard for my new command."
"Congratulations," Olberic said, smiling. "That is no small achievement."
Eliza was studying him. Olberic waited. At length, she said, "You do not intend to ask why I have come."
Why would he, when she would no doubt tell him anyway? She saw the flicker of amusement in his eyes and stifled an obvious eyeroll.
But rather than respond, Olberic strode forward towards his trainees. "Alright, that will be enough for today," he said, addressing them. "Salute one another, then head home and wash up. Peter ― your father will need you at the fields tomorrow morning, so you are excused. While you work there, remember to work meaningfully."
"Yessir," Peter said, though in the typical haste of youth, his salute was sloppy and his race home was overeager.
Philip, John, and the others finished their salutes in familiar disarray, then scattered, and Olberic was left standing in the square with only the lady knight at his side.
"Your talents are wasted on a ragtag bunch of village boys," Eliza said, without malice. "You should be commanding armies."
"Those armies have skilled commanders already," Olberic observed, glancing at her. "These boys only have me. If they are to defend their village against bandits and marauders…"
"From Stoneguard, I can send out a contingent to clear these mountain passes," Eliza said. "If you think it necessary."
Olberic glanced at her once more. "Perhaps you should speak with the Headman."
Eliza shook her head. "No," she said. "It's you I've come to see."
Olberic frowned. "I am not the authority here. If you wish to discuss military options to secure the roads―"
"I've come to convince you to join the Knights Ardante," Eliza said, brightly.
Ah. Another one of those, then. Olberic shook his head and started to walk home. "I am not interested in joining any order. I am sorry that you wasted your time."
But Lady Eliza Woodward hurried after him. She caught up in relatively few strides, which was saying something. Well, she was taller than most. And then she hopped in front of him, now firmly a woman and nothing of a knight, and shot him a lovely smile. "Sir Olberic," she said, smiling up at him, warm brown eyes alight with quiet determination, "I will not leave until you have listened to me properly."
And for the first time in years, Olberic wondered.
She ought to have known he would still be handsome, Eliza Woodward considered with mild irritation.
He was just under forty, but that seldom made already handsome men less attractive, especially when they kept in shape. If anything, his years had added a certain strength, a robustness to his frame. He was formidable, in the prime of his life ― strong, experienced, and that jawline… She had not anticipated that seeing him up close would trouble her so.
No matter. His being handsome did not diminish her arguments. She could be persuasive. She had recruited plenty of men before, and secured their loyalty.
Of course, few men rivaled with Sir Olberic Eisenberg, the Unbending Blade of Hornburg, but that didn't have to be significant.
Eliza Woodward was building her command, and she would secure Olberic Eisenberg's assistance if it was the last thing she did. First, she had to determine what it was that he wanted ― all men wanted something, be it respect, acclaim, money, power… As new Ardante commander of the Highlands, she had the resources to give him at least part of his heart's desire in exchange for his services. She already had secured a Lead Captain's rank for him. It was the least he deserved. Why, if he applied himself, he'd no doubt surpass her own rank in short order. He was a natural-born fighter, and he had the presence, charisma and experience to command men in battle.
Flame above, even Eliza knew she could learn a few things from him.
All the same, when she entered the tavern, she was pleased to see that he had shown up. She hadn't counted on it ― he had very quickly shot her down earlier. That boded ill. But she hadn't come all this way for nothing. She would use this opportunity to size him up, to determine what strings she needed to pull, and then she would pluck away.
He was still wearing his fighter's tunic. By asking around, she'd gleaned that he organized the town patrols when he wasn't training young villagers. She could respect that. His sword ― the Unbending Blade ― was never far. Right now it was propped between his chair and the wall at his side.
He'd selected a table on the far side of the tavern, and taken the liberty of ordering enough food for two. Gracious of him.
She approached the table and he stood, which surprised her. But then again, he was a knight at heart, just like her, and despite his scruffy leather and cotton clothes, the chivalry ingrained in him shone through, and for the briefest of moments she could see that he was… radiant. A shining example of knighthood.
That shouldn't have worried her, but it did.
"Sir Olberic," she greeted, politely.
"Lady Eliza," he replied, quietly.
He waited until she was seated before sitting back down. Eliza motioned for the barkeep to bring over a tall mug of dark ale ― damn but these mountaineers loved their dark beers ― and studied him.
He wasn't looking at her. He had begun eating again from the shared platter, where an array of salted garlic meats and fried root vegetables smelled delicious. There was a strand of dark hair that kept falling in front of his forehead. His temples were salt-and-pepper, though, and once again Eliza cursed him for his good looks. She had begun finding white hairs of her own in her red mane ― but hers weren't so conveniently located as to give her that aristocratic, effortless distinction.
"You should eat," Olberic said. "Unless you're hungry for something else." He made to wave the tavernkeep over. She stopped him, shook her head and reached for a salted potato.
The food was simple fare, but it tasted excellent. They ate the platter and drank their mugs of beer in silence. Eventually, Olberic leaned back in his chair and let her have what remained on the plate.
When she was finally done, she was stuffed. She leaned back and exhaled, and noted that he was observing her with what looked like amusement.
"Have I got something on my face?" She asked, smiling.
"Only a nose," Olberic said. His eyes were warm, and Eliza wondered whether the ale was stronger than she'd credited. "But I contend that hearty food is the surest way to kill an argument."
Oh, the sneak. She laughed. "I'm afraid it won't be that easy, Sir Olberic, though I commend you for your strategic mind." He had the kindness to groan when she continued with, "Speaking of strategy…"
"Truly, Commander Woodward," he said, with respect to her new rank, "I do not wish to waste your time."
"... We of the Knights Ardante would gladly welcome your experience," she continued, without heeding him. "Your deeds are legend by now, and having seen you in action, I am inclined to believe they are too modest."
"Your words flatter me," Olberic said. "But I would sooner the legends die."
She blinked at him, surprised. "What… What do you mean?"
Sir Olberic shrugged, evidently uncomfortable. "I was a different man, then. Some fifteen years have passed since Hornburg fell, and with it, my pride." He was looking at her frankly, directly. It was unsettling. "I have since atoned for my mistakes and made peace with my past failures. It is time for me to put those legends to rest and settle down."
"Settle down," she repeated, aware that she sounded foolish.
He nodded. "You are not the first to ask me to join their order. By Brand, you are not even the first Knight Ardante to ask such a thing. But I have made my choice and I am content to fade into obscurity. There is no shame in that."
No, Eliza agreed. There was no shame in that. But… "Yet, to see such skill go to waste…" She caught herself, corrected herself. "Nay, not to waste, for I do believe you are doing much good in this village. But you have experience in war, something many younger soldiers have never known. Should Orsterra be brought to the brink―"
He frowned. "Are there threats from neighbouring nations?"
Aha. Eliza shook her head. "No, not as yet." But there was the string she needed to pull. His gaze had sharpened, his voice had taken an edge. "However, there are rumours of brewing threats within our borders…"
Sir Olberic said nothing, which she took as encouragement.
"I do not have complete reports yet, but the Woodlands are suffering from serious poaching. The Frostlands have noted that money is apparently flowing into the hands of less than upstanding citizens. The Coastlands are growing richer, too, though we suspect that is the result of funneling dangerous substances in and out of Orsterra by land and sea… Here in the Highlands, we've noted a rise in highway banditry. Something is brewing, Sir Olberic. And in hours such as these, we would heartily welcome your assistance."
Olberic sighed. "There will be other good knights. Other Blades."
She sighed. "Yes, no doubt." Fine, she had to try a different angle. "Still, I managed to convince the Blazing Blade to lend me his assistance."
The knight's expression changed utterly, though for all outward appearances he barely shifted. His eyes took on a different quality, a light that she hadn't expected. And then he smiled.
Gods, but he was handsome when he smiled.
"So Erhardt has joined you?" He asked. "I should think he would have preferred to remain in Wellspring."
"And he is," she said. "We've assigned him to the Sunlands command. I was transferred to the Highlands a short time after. If you wished," she said, "we could keep you here, in Cobbleston. No transfers. No cross-realm errands. You'd be a Knight Ardante for assistance only. We need you for training, really. I would, of course," she added, when he fixed his gaze on her and she realized she could only withstand it for a few seconds at a time, "be very honoured if you considered visiting Stoneguard occasionally to train some recruits… but I could also send them here."
He was still studying her. She could feel her face grow warm, and she hoped he didn't see in the dim lighting. By Winnehild, Sir Erhardt had not had this effect on her. Perhaps because he'd been so outwardly charming… or perhaps Eliza had never known how to respond comfortably to forthright flirtation. Either way, Erhardt had been too pretty for her taste, and he'd soon surrendered his efforts.
But Sir Olberic was not flirting. He was looking at her directly, frankly.
Eventually, he said, "I have found my place. It is here."
She sighed. Stubborn man. "Very well," she relented.
"Thank you for understanding," Olberic said.
She snorted, lifting her mug to her mouth, "I've not given up on you yet, Sir Olberic." She took a sip, swallowed, then scowled at him as prettily as she could. "This is merely the difference between battle and war."
Then, to soothe the edge of her words, she shot him a quick, friendly smile. But he did not respond in kind. His eyes were fixed on her face, and then…
Yes, he was looking at her mouth.
A beat. Suddenly, his eyes shot back up to her eyes, and then away, to the side, to study the vague mid-distance of the tavern, though he did not seem to look at anyone in particular.
Eliza licked her lips, thinking. Speculating.
Had he…? Was he…?
"Let's change the subject, then," she said, willing her brow to relax from its furrow of curiosity. "Are you married, Sir Olberic?"
His gaze swung back to her. It felt heavy when he stared at her like that. At length, he said, "No."
Interesting. He had, after all, traveled with four very beautiful women. Girls, perhaps. H'aanit had been of an age with Eliza, but all the others had been much younger. Perhaps too young?
She had to find out.
"Are you saying no one has ever caught your eye?"
Olberic had enough life experience to recognize a trap when he was about to step in one. This one, in the form of a beautiful woman inquiring about his past paramours, was about as obvious as the sun, or a sword to the face.
In other circumstances, Olberic might have sidestepped it. Perhaps changed the subject. Maybe he'd have warned the inquirer to mind their own business.
But she was… beautiful. Confident. Competent.
And he was honourable, but not blind.
"No one permanent," he finally conceded. He motioned to Steffon, the barkeep, to bring him another ale.
"I don't believe it. Not even in Hornburg, before the fall?"
There had been women, of course. That maid when he'd been a squire. Those sisters when he and Erhardt had only just been knighted. That widow who had been so lonely. A few ladies now and then, over the years.
"No one that remains," he said.
Only, now that she mentioned it, he hadn't had anyone in a while. Not only because he'd been, for years, as reclusive and secretive as possible, but even during his journey ― he'd been so preoccupied with protecting his fellow travelers, so comfortable, at last, with their antics and their dreams and their good cheer… that while they travelled together, he hadn't felt lonely. His instincts had been protective, brotherly, hell, fatherly in many ways.
He smiled, remembering them fondly. Tressa and her outgoing confidence. Alfyn and his optimism. Damaged, kind Primrose. Oblivious, scholarly Cyrus. He remembered trying to teach Therion how to use the lance, and competing with H'aanit at archery. He remembered Ophilia's deft hands bandaging a wound.
He'd be seeing them next month. He looked forward to that. Eliza's question had roused a feeling of… loneliness in him.
"I can hardly believe that," Eliza said, in response to his reply. She was observing him through half-lidded eyes. Her guard was down. She had eaten to satiation, and was nursing her mug of ale. Yet, when she turned her face to the light just so, he was sure he caught a glint of amusement. "Hornburgians have spread out across Orsterra. Surely some of your past acquaintances would seek you out."
Olberic studied the dark ale in his mug. "Most of them are married now, with children."
He had never really wanted children of his own. He didn't hate them, quite to the contrary. His pride, however, was firmly in the camp of his trainees, and Philip especially, who was as good as a nephew. He liked young people ― their energy, their optimism, their devotion to what was right and good. Even now, he felt more kinship with the younger travelers he'd known ― Tressa, Alfyn, Ophilia ― than with the older ones, who had less need of his strength. The others were as siblings, but the younger…
Still, he was nearing forty now. It had once been a prime age for knights of Hornburg to marry. By then, they typically had estates of their own, and a growing fortune. Young women used to turn on their paths.
Olberic had always assumed he'd be married by now. But life had veered off course, and now here he was. A staunchly middle-aged knight, with a purpose and a path that resembled his youthful ambitions in no way at all.
"I suppose that answers my question," Eliza said, after his silence. She ran a finger softly against the rim of her mug. It was a sensual motion, but looking at her, Olberic did not get the sense that she was doing it on purpose. In the warm light, her hair glowed like fire, red and thick. "I would not have been surprised if you'd fallen for one of your companions, though."
He snorted softly. "My love for them is undimmed by distance and time, but it is the love of kinship, not lust."
Her eyes were on him. Something flickered in them. Then, she smiled, embarrassed. "Forgive me, I'm not used to hearing men speak of love that way without also trying to sneak into my trousers."
"Perhaps you've surrounded yourself with the wrong men," Olberic said, stifling a sense of smugness that was utterly unknightly.
"Undoubtedly," she sighed. Then, she brightened, and she looked younger than her thirty years: "All the more reason for you to join me in Stoneguard."
Gods, she was relentless. She reminded him of Tressa in that way. Except there was an edge of sensuality to her… Something wholly unlike Tressa. "My place is here, with these villagers."
"It could remain so," she assured him, leaning forward. Now the light caught on her lips, and Olberic realized he was looking at them again. It really had been a long time… "My own hometown is Flamesgrace, you know. My attachment to the city is not lessened by my assignment to the Highlands."
"And yet," Olberic pointed out, "you sit here, hundreds of miles away."
Her expression dimmed somewhat. "Yes." She paused. Looked for her words. "I do miss it, sometimes. The clear skies. The bracing cold. Fire heats you there in a way it simply doesn't anywhere else in the world."
That was true. Olberic recalled his own time in that city; its pure white snows, its hardy, elegant timber-framed homes. Now that he thought about it, it made sense that Eliza Woodward would be born there. She shared many of the city's qualities: she was beautiful. She was coolly collected. And she had a core as warm as the divine Flame itself.
"I began as a lancer," she said. "The guard needed more, and I was never destined for baking."
Olberic leaned back in his bench, studying her. When she spoke, her lips formed words swiftly, smartly. She did not drawl. She did not stutter. Sometimes, he'd see a flash of pale teeth, a flick of pink tongue. It was mesmerizing to watch.
"When I turned eighteen," she said, "I was sent to patrol the roads between Flamesgrace and the Woodlands."
"You must have distinguished yourself," Olberic observed.
"Like many others," she conceded. "I was fortunate that I was faced with challenges I could overcome, and that my superiors considered them worthy." Her eyes were warm, the colour of fertile rivers, but in the light they took on a golden quality. "Now I sit here, still forever in the shadow of living legends." She smiled. "Like yourself."
Olberic snorted. "I assure you I feel no pride in the fact."
"A mistake," she said. "You should be proud. I do not envy your challenges, but I respect your ability to overcome them." She ran a hand idly through her hair, pushing it away from her face. "I want your skill with lance and sword in my practice yards, that is true. But I also want you."
Olberic felt a twinge in his gut that had nothing to do with honour. He thought he'd let nothing show on his face, but her eyes flickered in the firelight, and Olberic feared she'd caught on. But Eliza quickly amended her statement instead.
"I mean your name," she said, with a breathy laugh. "My newest recruits have no concept of heroism, no sense of valour. They hear legends and imagine them to be upon crumbling scrolls, in dusty tomes. They do not see what I see." Her hand reached forward across the table, the pad of her finger running on the grain of the wood, slowly, softly. "They do not see the gallantry. They do not imagine that men of honour still walk among the living. They need to see." Her eyes took on an imploring quality now. "They need to understand honour before they gain power and find themselves untethered by morality."
Olberic sighed, averting his gaze. On her pink lips, every word sounded sweet, every syllable seemed caressing, and by that virtue, sounded true. "Is that what you told Erhardt?"
She leaned her cheek into the palm of her hand, elbow propped on the table, and smiled at him. "Is that jealousy I hear? No, Sir Olberic," she continued, when Olberic didn't reply. "I told Sir Erhardt that he would be well paid for the assistance. He has need of funds, you see, to repair houses in Wellspring. And he shall have them."
"Funds," Olberic echoed, softly. "How we the mighty fall." But he smiled at her to take the edge of his musing off, and she said nothing, eyeing him with amusement. "And now you imagine to bait me with something."
"I do not imagine," Eliza said. "I will succeed. There must be something you want, and I am determined that you shall have it."
Olberic dared not look at her. His eyes turned to the fireplace. The flames licked at the logs, silent but for the occasional crackling, alive and vivid, flicking, hot. He could feel Lady Woodward's eyes on him.
"I do not believe you can," he said, at last. At the very least, what he wanted was… Not honourable. Inappropriate. Unfair, as trades went.
"Oh," Eliza softly said, "I believe I must disagree." When he turned to her, she was smiling. She was not innocent, Olberic realized. She was no maiden, no virtuous prude. She had seen blood, had tasted battle, and this, too, was a battle of sorts. A battle of wills. One he was woefully poorly equipped for.
This conversation had to end. "Well, I have given my response. I hope you enjoy your time in Cobbleston."
"Will you show me around?" She asked, as he stood, rigidly.
He looked down at her. She seemed… different now. Subtly victorious. Perhaps she was, and not so subtly at that. "I fear there is little to show."
Her eyes studied him, and then her gaze slid down, to his lips, to his chin, to his neck, his shoulders, sinuously down to his chest, his waist, and below. And then they snapped back up to him, and her tight-lipped smile widened ever so slightly. "Isn't there?"
So she had noticed his gaze, then. Olberic felt the stir of interest inside him, and stifled it.
Enough. He swallowed, cleared his throat. "Good night, Lady Woodward."
She did not seem disappointed. Instead, she smiled gently, warmly. "And a good night to you, Sir Olberic," she softly said.
He wanted company.
Eliza studied the candle on her bedside table in silence, several hours later, and nodded to herself.
Sir Olberic Eisenberg wanted company. Female company. Possibly… She screwed her lips, stifling a little surge of pride. Possibly her company.
She had pushed him a little too much there, at the end. But men like Sir Olberic seldom responded to subtlety. Or, more exactly, seldom acted upon subtlety. And even in the face of open invitation, he'd opted for honour.
Eliza resisted the urge to sigh. Gallantry. A worthy quality in the arena. A risky quality on the battlefield. A genuine hurdle for straightforward courting.
Not, she reminded herself, that she was courting. Courting was for damsels. Courting was for young misses and young bucks, for civilians. Courting was a fantasy.
She took in a shuddering breath. Courting, she forced herself to remember, was not a thing that suited her. And it was not the sport of full-grown men, not a pursuit she could properly envision for Sir Olberic. Either this was a flirtation, or this was...
Nothing, it was nothing. Nothing had happened. Hints were not events. Teasing was not an overture.
"Good night," she murmured, to his shade, and blew out her candle. The inn did not stir around her. Perhaps she was the last awake in all of Cobbleston. The blankets were roughspun, coarse against her skin, and the mattress a little lumpy. She had taken a single room, had gladly acquiesced to the rules of propriety during her stay. As she lay there, staring at the ceiling, she revisited her day, and wondered.
She needed Sir Olberic. The knights Ardante had need of his skill and his moral rectitude. She needed to convince him.
The irony, of course, was that convincing him required that he bend on that moral rectitude a little.
She stirred, wondering why she was so comfortable with the idea. She had recruited other men, had encouraged them to make demands. But she had turned them away when they asked for her. All else, she had assured them, could be negotiated.
And yet, here she was, looking at the ceiling in the dim dark, thinking to herself that if Sir Olberic would only ask…
What would it be like? She wondered. Her skin felt hot even in the cool air. In the dark, she could almost imagine him over her, towering, his body moving with firm strength. That, she was fairly certain, did not feature as an acceptable past-time in the inn propriety rules.
If she were to do it, she knew, it would have to be in his bed, not this one. If he said yes. If he wanted.
But he wanted. Eliza exhaled slowly. She knew male hunger. She had felt it echo within her, and she had decided he would be a formidable catch. Much better than those upjumped squires and cocky lieutenants she'd invited as bed warmers. Sir Olberic's eyes were keen, his gaze hot, like a tongue of fire. And testing him had worked, had eroded his composure, even if only a little.
Deep within, her feminine pride was flattered. Not that she often indulged it. But it was still there, pink with eager pleasure and green with jealous glee in turn, no matter how she stamped it down, no matter how she pretended it had no sway over her baser emotions.
Given infinite time, she knew, he would say yes. Given enough time, she'd find some way of convincing him to give her a chance.
But she did not have infinite time, no matter how she liked to pretend she did. She had a week, and if Sir Olberic did not acquiesce by the end of the week, she'd have to give up and return. There were soldiers to train, documents to sign, responsibilities to fill.
Tomorrow, she would have to try again, more directly.
There was a shout outside, in the distance. Eliza blinked, listened, wondering whether she had dreamed it, in the half-doze haze of incoming slumber. There was a long silence, and then she heard it again. A shout, not animal but human, indignant. Perhaps some lout leaving the tavern.
New voices rose now, and they were alarmed. Angry.
She sat up. Hesitated. Age-old instinct warred with the trained urge to get involved. She listened keenly now; the voices were those of a fight, a melee. Not the sort of sounds she'd expect from a sleepy mountain town.
Certainly not when the bell began to toll.
She was out of bed in a flash, her bare feet padding on the floorboards before she could think twice. Looking out the window, she saw nothing but the shale rooftops. The square and the bell were to the far side of the building, and the shouts were growing more alarmed by the minute.
And then there was that glow. The smoke.
Biting her lip, Eliza slipped on a vest over her nightdress, pulled her long boots on, and grabbed her sword, striding out into the hallway.
Olberic awoke to the sound of the bell tolling, though he could hardly say he had been sleeping soundly. Thoughts a-turmoil had turned into fitful dreams, into feverish images of red hair and brown eyes and hitching breaths. It was still night, though, and that was enough to drag Olberic to complete, confused wakefulness.
The bell tolling was frantic, and then Olberic heard the shouting, some streets away.
The bell stopped with a final, ominous clang. He was on his feet only seconds later, running a hand raggedly over his face in an effort to prompt himself into proper alertness.
The Unbending Blade was by the door. He seized its scabbard, the movement to cinch the belt around his waist automatic and rehearsed, stepped into his boots, and was out the door, into the night.
There was a clamour in the square. He followed the street, descending as other villagers began to open their doors, bleary-eyed and confused, snapping to focus as they saw him pass by.
"Sir Olberic―"
"Stay in, Maisie. Have your brother get dressed," he said. Then, to the next door down, "Keep watch, Mr. Walter. Have your tools at the ready."
Thus he went on down the street, feeling the village mobilize in his wake, only to arrive in the square and find utter chaos.
Someone had smashed all the windows of Mr. Yardley's General Store and dragged Mr. Yardley himself out of bed, beating him, while Mr. Yardley's son fought, and lost, against another set of thugs. Mrs. Yardley, for her part, was a frightful mess of anguished tears and screams. Someone had rung the bell because the thugs had started a fire, and the fire was quickly growing, fed by some of the Yardleys' furniture.
Olberic reached the commotion at the same time as some of the other watchmen. Dark-haired Ulfric, the miller's eldest son, charged directly for the thugs holding the shop owner, and tall thin Georg, from the dairy farm, raced to shield the son.
These thugs were well-fed, Olberic considered, raising his sword. The usual rabble that trickled down from the hills for fresh ale and quick pennies was generally malnourished and ragged, more likely to fondle girls than to create such swift violence. Removing them was always easy, if a little messy.
This, though, was rather more organized, and considerably harder to dismiss.
Philip joined his side, and with him some of the other boys.
"Form ranks," Olberic commanded. "Do not let them isolate you."
The boys had little discipline, but they could achieve that, at least, and Olberic turned his full attention on his foes.
Only to find them already engaged in a more even-sided combat.
Eliza Woodward was a flurry of steel and cotton nightclothes, her red curls flying about her head wildly as she swung and struck. Her cheeks were flushed, but she was focused, lethal. She was beautiful, if that could be said at all of such fierce violence.
Olberic struck down a man before the attacker could strike Eliza from behind. She noticed belatedly, and her eyes lifted to meet his. She nodded at him in gratitude, panting, before returning her focus to another assailant, and Olberic went about doing the same.
Together, they fell into an easy, natural pattern of assault, covering one another. It was always easier to fight with someone at one's back ― it drastically reduced the field to cover, allowing a fighter to focus on what lay before him. In other circumstances, he would have hesitated to trust his back to a fighter before seeing their ability, but Eliza Woodward evidently knew how to handle herself.
Someone had organized a fire brigade to put out the roaring brazier in front of the Yardleys' store, and with their combined efforts, the rest of the village fighters managed to rout the attackers.
It was Eliza who tried to capture one of the fleeing thugs, yanking him firmly by the collar, then dodging a wild swipe of the man's axe. Snarling, her target turned, grabbing her by the nightdress and pulling her in.
"What 'ave we 'ere―"
Olberic knocked the man to the ground, effectively punching the air out of his lungs. The rest of his fellows had already run off, and the villagers were finally controlling the weakening fire and organizing a reinforcement patrol to check the village perimeter.
The headman of Cobbleston, in his nightshirt, strode towards them, fury in his eyes. Looking down at the moaning thug, he said, "What is the meaning of this?"
The thug groaned, curling over.
"Who are you, man? Speak!"
"Let us ensure the village is safe before interrogating him," Lady Eliza suggested. The headman turned to look at her, blinking. Taking in the bloodied blade in her hand.
"... Forgive me, ma'am, but who are you?"
"Lady Eliza Woodward," she replied. "Knights Ardante."
"Oh―"
But he said little else, because suddenly the man at their feet was moving, swift and strong, and Olberic saw the flash of a blade in the fading firelight. Before he could react, the knife had darted over Eliza's arm, and she dropped her blade, leaping away with a cry.
Olberic reacted without thinking. His sword slid into the thug's throat with a gargle, and the man fell to the cobblestones, motionless, a heap that spilled blood.
It was over before Olberic could fully realize what he'd done.
But a glance at Eliza, nursing her arm, and he decided it didn't matter. Her vest, over her nightdress, was growing dark. She had been cut, and badly, though she seemed less concerned with her own wound than with recovering her sword from where it had clattered to the ground.
"Well," she said, wryly, "I suppose I should thank your quick reflexes, Sir. Though we find ourselves without a captive now."
"We will track them in the morning," Olberic said. To the headman, he added, "How are the Yardleys?"
The headman turned. Mrs. Yardley was a blubbering mess and both Mr. Yardley and his son looked in rather bad shape, but they were alive, and their store, though a mess, had not burned down. Glancing back at Olberic, the headman shook his head. "They'll live, I think. I'll have to look into this matter."
"And sooner rather than later," Eliza agreed. She was still in her nightdress, the vest on her back hardly shielding her from the crisp night air. "I should like to volunteer the assistance of the Knights Ardante in this matter."
"I welcome it," the headman said. His eyes slid over her wounded arm. "But perhaps that can wait until you've seen to your wounds. Do see to her, Berg, why don't you?" He nodded to the Yardleys, across the square, around whom other villagers were converging. "I'll see about sorting the Yardleys out for the night. We'll discover why they were so harshly targeted soon enough, I hope."
Eliza shook her head. "Thank you for your concern, but I'm fine."
Blood dripped down her fingers to the cobblestones. There was a ringing in Olberic's ears. He seized her other arm and firmly pulled her away.
"Sir Olberic―"
"Good night, Harry," Olberic said, to the headman, who nodded at him gravely. "I'll find you in the morning."
"We'll double the city watch for the night. I'll call for you if anything urgent requires your attention."
Not for the first time, Olberic congratulated himself on teaching Cobbleston's villagers how to manage their own security. Eliza was still arguing, though he tuned her out. In his hand, her wrist felt… small. Smaller than he'd have thought. She was a fierce fighter ― much like H'aanit, in a way ― but she was lithe, almost delicate, now that he had a hand on her. Not quite like Ophilia, for she was sturdier, nor quite like Primrose, who was all sensuous curves.
No, she was simply feminine. Strong and able, and feminine all the same, in a way that did not make him feel confident or comfortable with knowing she was trained to fight on battlefields.
His vision was a tunnel, his focus on the streets only. The man he'd just killed ― all for the mere offence of slashing at her ― had leered in that predatory way too many thugs tended to use. Primrose had once called those men wolves: hungry, slavering monsters in human flesh. To think of any woman struggling against such a bastard ― and Eliza's eyes had flashed with violence, not surprise. She knew men like that. All women did… It made Olberic furious, as only a few things did.
"Excuse me."
He paused. Eliza's voice was indignant. When he turned to her, he saw she was still helplessly tagging along, her arm in his vise grip and her expression exasperated. She was trailing her bloody sword behind her, in her bloodied hand. Olberic blinked at the sight, hesitated.
"Where are you taking me?" She asked. Her eyes went to the right, to where the inn was, and where she'd reserved a room. He wasn't leading her there. He was leading her…
His gaze slid to the front of his home, a humble stone house with a slate roof and empty flower boxes. There was a single light inside, and the dying embers of his hearth. A cold house, if truth be told. An empty house.
He'd been about to drag her inside.
He released her hand suddenly. She did not stagger backwards, though she seemed mildly surprised.
Her expression changed, and she looked upon the house with a newfound interest. "Ah. This is your home, isn't it?" She studied the façade, pursing her lips, as though trying to divine some sort of greater truth about him through the examination. "How comforting that you do not live in the halfway house."
She was teasing him. Olberic shuffled his weight. "You are hurt. I have a very good healing kit inside. But I realize coming in may not be appropriate."
She looked at him, and a smile curled at her lips. "Indeed. How honourable and considerate of you to think of my virtue." She wiggled her bloody fingers at him. "But enough about that. Let us see if your mending is as potent as your maiming."
And before Olberic could say anything else, she pushed his door open and strode into his house.
Eliza Woodward was many things, but she was not stupid. When a woman was granted the opportunity to see the living space of a confirmed bachelor, it was rarely ill-advised to seize the chance. What dreadful horrors could possibly await?
Not that she expected horror. Sir Olberic was not, despite his great reclusiveness, a monster. He could be dangerous. To others. She, however, did not fear him.
Indeed, what she saw stepping into that cold grey house was utterly predictable: a cooling hearth, an obvious lack of colour, and a distinct sense of… blandness. This house, though evidently lived in, was not a home. Its rushes were worn but clean; the dishes were in fair condition, the sheets on the bed were disturbed, though from the way they were still tucked in the corner she knew that he kept them orderly and spartan by day, much like everything else in the room she could see. There were some weapons on the wall, and a few washbasins piled in the corner. But few decorations adorned the walls, and the smell in the air was earthy, cool, neither comforting nor repelling.
"Hm."
Sir Olberic turned to look at her. "What?"
She pursed her lips in thought. "It's like… you don't really live here."
He studied the space. His eyes skipped over the same furniture pieces, the same bland lack of flavour. "I've been here for many years now."
Perhaps, but his heart was not in it. She wondered at the space. He had not struck her as dispassionate, despite the obvious lack of appropriation in the house. Indeed, she had a feeling there was something truly warm inside him, something valorous and proud ― so where was his heart, if not here?
"Is something the matter?"
She turned to him. He was watching her. Something flickered in his eyes, something that looked almost adorably like concern, or trepidation. It was too much. She tried not to smile and failed.
"Sir Olberic, something tells me your heart is somewhere out in the world, wandering the roads."
His stance shifted, almost imperceptibly. And then he did something that astonished her.
He smiled.
Again.
Oh, Winnehild. Eliza could have sworn she was immune to smiles. No, she knew she was. Even beautiful experienced Erhardt's smiles had not swayed her off her path. But this? Olberic Eisenberg's smile was warm, honest ― it crinkled at the corners of his eyes, and he averted his gaze almost bashfully. In that moment, despite the salt-and-pepper hair, despite his middle age, he was transformed, looking almost young again.
Oh, by the Flame. Eliza forced herself to take a deep, shuddering breath.
"You're right, Lady Woodward," he finally admitted. His eyes had mercifully skipped away from her to look around himself again. "I fear much of my care is split into eight ― each one of my traveling companions having left with their own fragment when we parted ways, leaving me with but a fragment."
It was a softer sentiment than she'd expected, and so she remained quiet, hoping he'd continue. He inhaled, then strode over to a wooden cabinet, pulling out a first aid mending kit. And, blessedly, he continued to speak.
"When Erhardt and I had a falling out―" He glanced back at her. "You've heard of this from him, I imagine."
She had. She nodded. He nodded to himself, then returned his attention to the kit, rifling through orderly supplies.
"When Hornburg fell and I was cast into the world, I sought an anchor. Anything to guide my efforts and give me purpose. For a while, I thought myself content with Cobbleston. It sheltered me, and in turn I sheltered it." He brought the kit closer, and she saw he was holding a phial of antiseptic. She recognized the smell when he uncorked it. "But then I was given an opportunity to lay my demons to rest, and I pursued it without the slightest hesitation. Cobbleston is a fair town. Its people are hardy and worthy of care. And yet I left it behind as easily as one changes shoes. I traveled the world alongside my companions ― it was the first time since Erhardt I could speak freely." He motioned to her sleeve. "You should remove your vest."
Eliza had been so absorbed by his words and the miracle of his earnest admissions that she had almost forgotten the throbbing pain of her cut. She glanced down at her arm, startled. "Oh."
He helped her. His hands were firm, but gentle. She shrugged out of her vest and realized the dark wool had absorbed much of her blood. It peeled off her skin wetly, and felt heavier than it ought to.
She could hardly see her wrist, it was so caked in blood. Olberic lightly lifted her hand and frowned.
"It's fine," she breathed, wondering if the lightness of her breath was from his scrutiny, his touch, or her desperate need to hear him speak further.
His eyes flickered over to her, and she saw his skepticism. But he said nothing, and strode instead to a barrel of water by the sink, from which he filled a small iron basin. He returned with the cool water, placed it on the table, pulled out a chair, and pushed her into it. His movements were economical, kind, but they brokered no argument.
She let him do as he wished, trying to ignore the flutter of her pulse when he picked up her hand again and dipped it into the water, then began to rub at her skin, gently. Her blood made volutes of fading red in the basin, but it didn't matter. "You and your companions… You seemed happy."
"We were. I was. We knew it was a temporary adventure. And yet I came to consider them family. They never betrayed my trust. They were with me until the end. Until―" He paused. Eliza studied him. He gave a breath, then a small smile played on his lips. "I know now they would stand with me unto the end of the world, if necessary."
"You sound certain," she said, amused.
"I am certain." His fingers were callused. They felt rough against her wrist. But she liked it. It felt alien and wonderful. By now the water had cleared away much of the blood, and the cut on her arm was finally apparent. It was an ugly gash, but mercifully shallow. She'd cringed away from the blade and it had no doubt saved much of her wrist's future mobility. Sir Olberic studied the wound with critical interest, the eye of someone who had no doubt seen much, much worse. "When we parted ways, I think I knew I would never really have such a solid bond with anyone ever again. These days I look forward to seeing them every year. Keeping hearth and home here is merely functional. Something to shield me while I wait."
His eyes were warm, far away. Yet Eliza felt a pang of sadness for him. She had known he was a knight of Hornburg, but she had not fully understood his grief and loss.
"Is keeping the good people of Cobbleston safe the only purpose you have found in their absence?"
Olberic did not reply. He raised her hand out of the water and began applying the antiseptic. A glance and Eliza knew no stitches would be necessary. A bandage― and there his hand reached for a roll of gauze.
He pulled out a chair next to her and sat, her arm outstretched between them. His fingers were deft, steady, competent, and he wrapped her from the heel of her hand to the elbow. It was difficult not to react, not to shudder. His touch was warm, and each pass was firm ― and Eliza was suddenly quite aware of the silence around them, of the way the village had stilled in the night.
And her eyes darted to his bed ―
"I guard Cobbleston because Cobbleston needs me," Sir Olberic finally said. "I am a knight first, and I have vowed to protect those in need." He tucked the bandage under itself and she felt the way his callused fingers felt on the soft skin inside of her elbow. He paused there, his touch steady and warm and arresting― then retreated. "You say you would send recruits to me, here, but we both know Cobbleston does not have the necessary facilities to host them. It is a pastoral village, with more sheep than people. It does not have the makings of a military encampment."
Eliza heard the note of apology and finality in his voice, and she almost believed him.
"There must be something," she breathed, in the stillness of the dark. His profile was illuminated by a single flickering candle, casting the lines and planes of his face into stark contrast. He was handsome. Unbelievably so. "Something… I can do. To convince you to try."
He wasn't looking at her. He was avoiding her gaze.
For what felt like a long pause, she observed him. Observed the lines of his neck, the way they disappeared into his nightshirt, which gaped open and dipped low, revealing a broad, tan chest and a smattering of coarse dark hair. He was muscular and broad, not at all the lithe and lean musculature of youth, but the hard expanses of a man who was simply strong and otherwise unconcerned with displaying his form. He was scarred ― there were thin welts of pinker skin here and there, vanishing under his clothes. That did not make him less attractive.
He was wearing trousers, but they pulled over strong thighs. He had the kind of legs that convinced her he'd be able to pull her to safety, off a battlefield, without thinking twice about it.
In truth, all Eliza wanted to do was touch him. She wondered if he was as hard as he looked. She wondered what that hair would feel like under her fingers.
It made thinking difficult. All she could think about was the calluses on his hands. And how they'd feel on her ribs. It was shameful. She ought not to stare.
So why, then, was he the one who wouldn't look at her? He was staring off to the side, his eyes unfocused, clearly averted, clearly trying not to look at her. Almost like he was… uncomfortable. Like he feared looking at her.
Eliza felt the truth in her gut. Men like Olberic Eisenberg feared nothing. They did not fear war, or death, or even the ending of the world. Men like Olberic Eisenberg definitely did not fear young female knights nearly ten years their junior.
Unless…
She felt her breathing change with the tantalizing possibility. A shiver ran over her skin.
Oh, by the gods. She was only wearing a simple cotton nightdress. She was suddenly aware of how little it shielded her from his gaze ― he was being proper. Respectful.
And yet.
"Sir Olberic," she tried again, trying to force her voice to be firm, "please look at me."
He was still for a moment. His eyes went from the table to the far wall, and then he turned his head and looked at her directly.
And she saw it.
His eyes were dark. His lips were pressed together in a grim line, but his eyes, at least... his eyes were deep and alert ― and hungry.
A thrill ran from her nape to her core, and something definitely female inside hopped with excitement.
"Surely," she said, aware her voice had changed, had deepened with something visceral, "there is something I can do for you."
There was no mistaking her meaning. Sir Olberic's gaze did not change, but she noticed the way he frowned, ever so slightly, and the tendons of his neck worked, like he was tensing his jaw, then relaxing it.
"Lady Woodward," he began. "I should take you home."
His voice was hoarse, strained. It was flattering to know he was striving so very hard to be good, that the effort was so genuine. But the words were not at all what she wanted to hear.
"Sir Olberic―"
"You want a quid pro quo," he said, and now he did avert his gaze, as though looking at her burned him. "My lifelong services for one night of yours. But that would be wrong." He exhaled, and Eliza was sure his breath shuddered ever so slightly. She inhaled to speak, but he cut her off. "I cannot ask that a woman so beautiful debase herself merely to secure my commitment. If I were to have you, it would be willingly, without attachment, or not at all." His lips pulled up into a smile that felt forced. "If you will not offer, then I will not take through a lie. Though I assure you, I have never felt so tempted."
She made a sound to argue, but he stood and strode to the door, which he swung open.
"Please," he said, still avoiding her gaze, "allow me to escort you back to the inn."
She knew the note of finality in his voice, and she felt herself flush all the way to her ears. In that moment, fighting against the urge to beg, she felt like a wanton. And worse, he was right. She had herself convinced that one night would secure a lifetime commitment from him, and that she'd enjoy both the short-lived intimacy and his professional knightly ability thereafter. It was an utterly unfair exchange ― and she had diminished them both by suggesting it.
She stood, grabbed her blood-soaked vest, and strode past him into the night. "No need, Sir Olberic," she breathed, before he could follow her out. "I know my way." She swallowed nervously, and clutched her vest to her chest, painfully aware of how hard her breasts ached for something she would not entertain. "I realize I have shamefully presumed upon your intentions, and I hope you will forgive me." Then, before he could feel compelled to reassure her, in that way all honourable men did, she added a hasty, "Good night," and left as swiftly as a dignified walk could allow.
But she felt his gaze on her the whole way down the street, and when she turned the corner, she saw he was still standing in front of his door, immobile in the night.
'Sir Olberic,' Primrose had once tisked. 'So honourable. So painfully, adorably, heart-achingly, foolishly honourable.'
He had taken mild offense at the dancer's teasing, all those years ago. Her childhood lady's maid ― Arianna? ― had made eyes at him, and he'd politely declined, feeling honour-bound to protect the woman rather than slake any possible lust. No hard feelings, of course. But Primrose and Alfyn and even Therion had shaken their heads at him.
Sir Olberic, the foolishly honourable.
He slammed his forehead against the panel of his front door once, twice, thrice, each adjective taunting him. Gods. Damn. It. All.
It was the right thing to do, of course. His moral compass had never led him astray.
But Olberic was not just a moral compass with a sword. He was a man, too. A man whose anatomy was now violently raging against him, mentally abusing him relentlessly.
Sir Olberic, the honourable fool.
Surely there is something I can do for you.
Gods damn it all. Was it even legal for women to say things like that? In that tone, that indisputably clear tone, that promised more sultry words and throaty laughs?
Eliza Woodward had all the trappings of a knight and all the feminine wiles of a siren. Damn it all.
Hell, if he closed his eyes, he could still see her, imprinted on the back of his eyelids like the fading image of a blinding sun, that disheveled hair like a red halo around her face, and the way the candle had cast flickering light on her flawless skin. And that nightdress. That damned nightdress. The plainest cotton, but just a little too thin for his sanity, just tantalizingly resting on curves no woman ought to have. And those eyes, dark and alive with heat, with lips that looked like dark pink petals, soft and plump and―
He made a sound that was halfway between a groan and a grumble, the self-loathing bubbling inside with almost as much ferocity as his blood boiled with need.
He pushed away from the door, turning to look at his house. His stark impersonal house. The basin was still sitting on the table, the water pink. The mending kit was still open and unsorted.
Bringing Eliza Woodward here had been a mistake. Tending her wound had been necessary, but he ought to have brought his kit to her. Now that she had stepped into this house, sat in his chair, studied his space with so much interest, Olberic knew her presence had been a mistake.
Because now that she was gone, he could see the emptiness.
He chucked his shirt off, the inner turmoil difficult to handle. He hadn't felt this way since before his journey. Eliza Woodward was not like his fellow travelers. She filled him and emptied him all at once. It was terrifying, and Olberic had once battled the evil god Galdera, so he knew a thing or two about terror.
He anchored his feet into the floor. He was not going to run out into the street. He was not going to knock at the inn door. He was going to go to sleep and reaffirm his decision as often as needed for it to sink in.
It was the right thing to do. The honourable thing to do.
By Brand above, he was nearing forty. Surely he had to have some sort of grip on himself by now.
He needed to act as Cyrus would. Cyrus, who had hordes of women chasing after him, and seemed utterly content not to notice any of them. Not that it would help. Cyrus was merely oblivious. If temptation ever struck him, he certainly had never given sign of it.
Therion would have given in, probably. Alfyn would have given in, too, only then he'd have apologized.
But Olberic… Olberic had to be strong. He had to be firm. He was over a decade older than either Alfyn or Therion. Their mistakes could not be his.
He lay on his bed and stared at the dark ceiling. Eliza Woodward, her lips parted, her eyes dark, floated in front of him. She had been so soft under his fingers, all firm muscle and silky skin. She was in the prime of her life, at the apex of her beauty, and still time would likely never rob her of that sensual charm, that warm smile.
He ached. If she returned right now, he knew, he'd be powerless against her.
His ears strained, hoping to hear a knock at the door. But none came.
And so morning found him grumpy and miserable.
The night's events had the entire village in a tizzy. In all, seven men had been slain, and the Yardleys were still resting, having explained all they knew to the headman and three of Olberic's most trusted watchmen.
Olberic found Lady Eliza already speaking with them by the time he arrived in the town hall.
Before he could stop himself, his eyes drank her in, noting her crisp uniform, her brushed hair, the polish of her boots. Her arm was sleeved, but he could see the edge of his bandage peeking out of her cuff, and he was comforted that, unlike proud H'aanit or careless Tressa, she was wise enough to nurse her own wounds.
Taking a deep, silent breath, he approached.
"... It's been a growing problem," Friedrich, a night watchman, said. He was speaking to Lady Woodward with respect and deference, his brow furrowed in concern. "But until now they've only attacked merchant caravans. They never came directly for the village."
Eliza nodded. "I've seen briefings on the matter, but I hadn't heard of any reports since taking my new posting."
"Do we have any news?" Olberic asked.
Eliza tensed. Imperceptibly. And then she straightened, and turned to look at him with dispassionate professionalism that oughtn't have stung quite so much.
"Oh, Berg," the headman said. "You're here, good. The Yardleys swear up and down they didn't know the thugs. They've been soundly robbed. It looks like those mountain ruffians are growing bolder, stealing from a closed shop in the heart of Cobbleston."
That was an understatement. Under Olberic's watch, Cobbleston had grown far more aggressive in its defences. "They came at the peril of their lives," he said. "And many died here. What manner of desperation could have led them to it?"
"I might know the answer to that," Eliza said, when the other men shrugged helplessly.
He turned his attention to her. Even in the cold light of morning, she was beautiful. Even though she deliberately kept a veil between them now. Her gaze was just a little unfocused. She was staring through him, rather than at him, a nuance that unsettled him more than he wanted it to.
"Any insight," Harry said, "is more than welcome, Lady Knight."
She turned to the headman, almost grateful that she had a new person to look at. Olberic stifled his disappointment. It was only fair. She was a beautiful woman, and he had turned her away. No sane man would. No doubt her pride was hurt. He almost didn't blame her. After the near sleepless night he'd had, he felt that maybe he was utterly misguided.
"A few weeks ago, news reached me that there was a growing problem with addictions to hallucinogens among some poorer populations, and that a recent influx of the substance had been stymied. As a result, what stocks of the hallucinogens remained in circulation are now worth double, triple, and sometimes even quadruple their base price. I was warned that more extreme behaviour may occur from various criminal elements in an attempt to secure the regular doses."
The men looked at one another. Then, Harry pursed his lips in thought. "You're saying the thugs were just trying to fund their fix."
Lady Eliza shrugged. "It seems like the most likely explanation."
Friedrich sighed. "By the Twelve, it's the damnedest thing. Every time we reinforce our defences, the world throws a bigger problem at us."
Olberic was having the same reflection. His thoughts were churning, calculating the new watches he might have to set up. The village was already on the verge of overworking itself. Aside from the obviously necessary farmwork and shepherding, there were only so many able-bodied men and women he could train and put on watch. At some point, a healthy population needed sleep.
His dark thoughts were echoed on the headman's face. "I mislike this. It was bad enough that caravans feared to visit. We'll never secure necessary goods, or sell our own, if this continues."
"I would never dare to presume," Lady Eliza said, softly, "as I see your village takes great pride in ensuring its own protection, but…" She inhaled. Her eyes darted to Olberic's, then away. "Perhaps I might offer a solution, as Highlands Commander of the Knights Ardante?"
Harry rubbed at his moustache, uncertain. "We don't have a Church of the Flame here," he said, softly.
"Nor any permanent barracks," Eliza said. "As was firmly pointed out to me recently."
Olberic felt the sting of that barb and pressed his lips together.
"However," she continued, "it seems obvious to me that Cobbleston may benefit from a small military presence here. The Knights Ardante might reinforce your watch, help to patrol your roads, and protect your people and cattle. In exchange, we would ask permission from the citizenry to build barracks and a shrine ― if only to house the patrols."
The men seemed uncomfortable. Harry shook his head.
"I appreciate the sentiment, Lady Woodward," he said, politely. "But I think I speak for the village when I say we do not want our governance to suffer outside interference."
"Then you shall not," she said, simply. She straightened. She was all pride, elegance and detachment. "It's true the Order tends to seek a foothold in every town and city, if only for practical reasons. My reasons for suggesting this aid are practical too. You may imagine us to be a collective of religious zealots, but in truth, I want my men to train here." She looked at Olberic, then, really looked at him, and smiled serenely, with not a trace of the turmoil he felt. "Hopefully under your very own head of the watch. Given this opportunity, we'd have no reason to impose any further."
All eyes turned to Olberic. He sighed.
"Berg―" Harry started, before correcting himself. "I mean, Sir Olberic, of course, this is up to you. Do you believe the watch can handle these aggressors? If not, could you handle an influx of knights to train?"
Olberic was silent for a long moment. And then he looked at Eliza.
And he knew there was only one way forward.
"As long as the safety of Cobbleston is of prime importance."
"If you are willing to train my men," she said, and now her eyes were warm again, and Olberic felt something inside that wanted to thaw, "then they will be honour-bound to protect the town where they are garrisoned."
They shook on it.
As they exited the town hall, after leaving the headman and the watchers to their own affairs, Olberic stepped into the sunlight and realized he was a right proper fool.
Lady Eliza slipped on her gloves, her white uniform gleaming in the light. "Thank you for your assistance, Sir Olberic."
Brand almighty. He was a complete, unmitigated fool. "Did you know you would convince the headman to allow the Knights Ardante to come to Cobbleston so easily?"
She turned to him, brown eyes speculative in the light. "Most men are easy to convince." She gave him a perfunctory smile. "All one needs to do is give them what they want."
I should have had her.
He cleared his throat, feeling like he was a third of his true age, like the ground lurked under his feet. "If you knew that the roads were growing dangerous and that such incursions were likely―"
She sidled up to him and peered up at him, gaze warm and intelligent. "If I knew, after last night's attack, that I could convince you and your village to let me hire you on for the benefit of the Knights Ardante, why did I not simply say so?" She smiled at him sadly. "Is that what you want to know?"
When she was close, he wasn't sure how to speak. He nodded, frowning.
She studied his face, the expression in her eyes difficult to read. But then it grew shuttered and she stepped away. "If you are as honourable as you seem, Sir Olberic," she said, softly, "then let me say nothing and cling to my tattered pride."
Then, with a polite bow of her head, she strode away.
Olberic watched her go with a growing pit in his stomach.
By Brand and Winnehild both, Primrose was right.
He was an honourable fool.
And for the first time in his life, he cursed himself for it.
"Leaving in the morning, then, are you?" The tavernkeep said as he placed a plate in front of her.
"I am," she said, smiling at him politely. "Though not with any particular relish."
"Glad to hear it. Cobbleston has its charms, and we're glad our visitors notice," he said, stepping away, and that ended the conversation. She did not call after him to indicate her agreement. Instead, she turned to her plate, contemplatively, and tried to remember that she was hungry.
She speared a boiled potato and broke off a piece, eating it without any particular enjoyment.
Eliza Woodward was not accustomed to rejection.
Not, she knew, that this was anything less than a triumph. Cobbleston had long been hesitant to welcome the Knights Ardante. She'd have to manage this progress with a deft, delicate hand. But she knew she could do it.
So why did everything taste like ash?
Well. She knew why. What she couldn't accept what that it still stung. By the Twelve gods, he'd allowed her to keep her dignity. Hell, he'd even given her a fair justification.
So… Had she dreamed the hunger in his eyes?
She was poking at a carrot when the light grew dimmer, and she realized someone was standing by her table.
She looked up.
Sir Olberic was peering down at her. Gods, but he was tall.
"May I sit?" He asked, gesturing to the chair across from her.
She nodded mutely.
He pulled a chair out and sat in it stiffly, looking for all the world like he was torn between his desire to sit and an urge to run. Eliza, though, cared only to collect the remains of her pride and wrap herself in them as well as she could. She straightened, looked at him head on, and prayed she looked as dispassionate as she hoped.
He cleared his throat. "I searched for you at the inn, and was told you'd already left their hospitality." His eyes went to her single bag, which she kept at her ankle.
"Yes," she said. "Having secured what I needed, it seemed fanciful to stay when duty calls."
He said nothing to that. "I… came to apologize." He averted his eyes. "I fear I have given offense. I hope you know it was not my intent."
Her insides squeezed. She managed a thin smile. "No offense was taken. If anything," she said, "I should be the one apologizing. I was terribly presumptuous."
He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out, and thus he pressed his lips shut again.
They sat in silence for a brief instant, as Eliza felt the embarrassment rise. When at last she could bear it no longer, she inhaled, but he cut her off.
"I should have said yes," he blurted out.
This was as astonishing as the moon growing legs. She blinked at him, lips parted, and… And tried to process what he had just said.
Olberic's tanned face had taken on a quality she had never seen on him. He was… flushed.
Oh dear.
"That's…" He stood suddenly, the chair scraping on the floorboards. "That's it. Forgive me. I shall… leave you to your meal. Be safe on the road."
And then he turned away, and made to leave.
But Eliza's heart was glowing, and she stifled a grin.
"I could stay one night more."
Her voice was low, and yet it carried to his ears as clearly as a horn. And even if he had misheard her, his body hadn't. That voice, those words, trembled down his spine with a warm shiver, sending a jolt of want straight into his gut.
He turned to her, hoping his mind had not betrayed him.
She was looking at him directly, openly. There was neither mockery nor hesitation in her gaze.
"If you wished," she added.
By the Flame, he wished it. "Please." Only now that he contemplated that possibility, he remembered he had no quality food to offer, no elegance to impress her with. Would she still think it quaint, or would she think him a sad shadow of a man, a faded legend?
But she smiled, her lips quirking, and she seized her bag, hefting it. She left a few coins on the table, then stood.
"Alright, then," she lightly said, walking past him, "let us be about it."
In a daze, he followed her out of the tavern, into the street, where she pleasantly waved to some villagers.
"Wait," he said, after a moment, when he realized she was going up the street towards his house, "now?"
She paused, turning on her heel to look back at him. Once again, he felt like a boy rather than a full-grown man. In the bright sunlight, her hair was a red halo around her face, and those warm brown eyes were filled with obvious amusement. "Is now not convenient?"
Now was indecent. Now was tempting. He hadn't really thought about it. "Now is fine."
"Well, then," she said, pleased the matter was settled. "Shall I wait in the street while you tidy up or do you trust me to be generous?"
Morning woke Olberic up for the first time in years. Blinking at the odd sight of sunlight, when he was accustomed to waking before dawn, it took him a few seconds before the world found its axis again.
He owed his bleary understanding to the soft, very feminine form tucked against his side, a stream of red curls splayed over his shoulder and arm.
In the morning light, Eliza Woodward did not look like a soldier. She looked like… a woman. Just a woman. He studied the lines of her face, the shadows her lashes cast, the smoothness of her brow, the angle of her nose, the fullness of her lips, and not for the first time marveled at how well each feature formed a harmonious whole.
She stirred, but he was in no hurry to wake her. Instead, he let his eyes flutter closed once more, and enjoyed the warmth of their proximity.
Her hand moved first, uncurling from its loose fist to splay against his skin. And then he felt her move, felt her lips press into his chest once more, and knew she was awake.
"Hello," she murmured, when he opened his eyes to look. Her voice was low, raspy with sleep, but warm and good-humoured.
"Hello," he replied, in kind.
She pushed herself up on an elbow to better look at him. "I hope my presence did not keep you from sleeping too soundly."
He hadn't slept better in ages. "You'd be welcome again the next time you visit Cobbleston."
Her brow rose, and her cheeks took on a colour he had not expected. She was blushing. It was very interesting to witness, and Olberic stifled a smile.
"Am I to understand," she asked, cautiously, "that you are extending an invitation?"
He shrugged, as lazily as he could, and she rolled her eyes.
"Very well," she finally said. "I suppose I will need somewhere to sleep when I check in on my trainees."
"Your recruits," he corrected her. "My trainees." She snorted.
They were silent for a few comfortable moments.
At length, he said, "I will be absent next month. Every year, I meet with my young companions to reminisce. But I would be full glad to see you again. After."
She leaned her cheek into her palm, and studied him, a faint smile on her lips. "Is that an invitation to court?"
His hand came up, brushed aside a lock of hair from her face gently. Her smile faded, replaced with a sort of soft apprehension. Olberic mustered his courage.
"Yes," he said.
Now it was her turn to run a hand over his cheek. She felt his scratchy stubble, her eyes dancing over his features. At last her lips pulled into a smile. "Very well, Sir Olberic." She grinned. "Though I confess we seemed to have gone about all this backwards."
He disagreed vehemently. In his humble opinion, the order of things had gone exactly right.
"If you say so," he muttered, letting his head fall back on the pillow.
She laughed.
Olberic found himself studying the ceiling, glad he hadn't said anything compromising in the heat of the moment. He would need time to figure out how to phrase a newfound discovery just right, and he wouldn't frighten her away by speaking too soon.
But the epiphany was there, a warm glow in his chest, reminding him of possibilities he had almost abandoned, of futures where his house need not be so silent, so empty. A future where he could be part of Cobbleston by more than just choice, by laying roots here, by settling in, by having children.
He only hoped Eliza Woodward intended to stay in the Highlands for at least another few decades.
"When you return from your yearly expedition," she said, and he realized she was still studying him, "I'd like it if you stopped by Stoneguard."
Brand be blessed ― it was comforting to know he wasn't the only one hoping. "It would be my honour."
"I'll have a first contingent ready for you by then."
His good mood faltered, and he shot her a look of clear annoyance, which only made her laugh more earnestly. "Am I to be your personal servant, then?"
Her smile turned devilish and she pushed herself forward to kiss the tip of his nose, eyes dancing with amusement. "Oh, yes, Sir Olberic. Mine and so much more."
And though he glowered at her for good measure, Sir Olberic Eisenberg the Unbending Blade found himself thinking that the prospect was rather more appealing than he'd ever admit.