Fifth Quarter (6 page)

"Nice place." Vree wiped sticky fingers on her thighs. The oranges had been bitter, but she'd been too hungry to care. At the head of the valley stood a sprawling, single-story house, its thick mud walls bleached a pale cream color by the constant sun. There were stables, and gardens, and the less attractive buildings that housed Aralt's servants. One slope of the valley held olive groves while the other grew oranges.

"How do you think we should go in?" Bannon asked.

If she didn't turn, she could believe he was crouched beside her. "We'll follow the line of trees to those currant bushes, behind them to that building, up onto the roof, a short jump up onto the house, and down into the central courtyard." There had to be a central courtyard—there were almost no windows in the outside walls.

"They'll be able to see us from the kitchens."

Vree squinted down at the open-sided building. "It's noon," she said. "And hotter than a garrison whore. Everyone's asleep."

They listened to the heartbeat they shared for a moment. Finally, when it became obvious that Bannon wasn't going to break the silence, Vree started toward the villa.

"I don't think there is a wind." The air hung down from the searing heights of a yellow-blue sky like the beaded curtain in the governor's stronghold—not quite solid but a physical barrier nevertheless. Vree could almost feel the heated beads brush against her skin.

One foot on top of the low stone wall; both hands flat against the tiles; bare toes dug in for purchase; and she was on the first roof. The dog twitched but had no intention of abandoning its dream.

It would take a running leap to reach the roof of the main house, and during that one exposed moment disaster would be a single person glancing upward.

The windows in the servants' quarters stared like eyes. Vree could feel them watching her as she gathered herself for the jump.
They can't all be asleep
…

"They
have
to be."

"Shut up, Bannon." Pressed flat, trying to push herself into the roof, Vree tried to hear past the dog's frenzied barking. It wasn't easy. Either the animal really hated pigeons or it had seen them. Her.

The three voices began to weave an intricate cacophony of name-calling and it no longer mattered just what the dog had been barking at.

"Time to go."

Vines hung from the trellises that edged the deserted courtyard and in the center, a shallow pool reflected the sky. Quickly, her weight spread over as much area as possible, Vree moved to one of the carved pillars supporting the trellis and climbed down it. Training and experience turned her toward the rooms unmistakably occupied by the master of the house.

"What if he's not in there?"

"Then we search the rest of the place." She kept her mental voice matter-of-fact as she padded across the cool tile to the louvered doors.

"What if he's left already."

"He was up all night. He has to sleep." No point in adding she'd also been up all night because she
couldn't
sleep, not yet, so why think about it.

Through the angled slats of faintly scented wood, she could see a northern style desk and chair and the low, cushion-piled rectangle of the bed. On the bed lay a body. Bannon's body? There wasn't light enough in the room to be sure. Fighting the tremors that racketed through her in the wake of her brother's nearly chaotic emotional response, she slid a long, narrow dagger from its sheath on her thigh.

"What are you doing! That's my body! Mine!"

Her hands began to spasm. "Bannon, stop it! No one tries to run with a knife at his throat. I'll hold him, you get back in."

Slowly, he calmed. Vree could almost hear him panting.
"My
body," he repeated. "Mine."

Slowly, more out of concern that Bannon would try to take control again than any fear of discovery, Vree pushed open one side of the louvered doors just far enough to slide through. With the scorching heat of midday unable to penetrate the narrow windows and thick walls, the room had a cavelike feel about it. No longer instantly evaporating, sweat plastered her filthy clothes to her skin as she crossed silently to the bed. Just before her toes hit the edge of the cotton pad, she stopped and stared at the naked man stretched out amidst the cushions.

It
was
Bannon's body. Aralt had bathed at some point, for the short brown curls sprang crisply back from his temples and the taut sheath of dark olive skin stretched over lean muscles seemed almost oiled. There the scar where the barbed Ohkan spear tip had been dug out; there where a dying rebel had managed to open a line across his ribs; there the puckered rosette on the crown of his knee where at nine he'd knelt on an ember. Her gaze lingered on the long muscles of his thighs, moved upward, swept past the soft protrusion of his sex—in spite of a sudden urge to linger she knew came from the brother within—and locked on his face. His chin came to less delicate a point than hers and his cheekbones angled higher and sharper. Combined with the arc of his brows, the length of his lashes, and the wide bow of his mouth, they gave him a feral beauty that would look at home in any shrine of the Wild God. It wasn't difficult to imagine a rack of horns sweeping up off his brow.

Bannon remained quiet, almost withdrawn, while she stared down at his body. Although his curiosity was unmistakable, he was wrapped too tightly for her to separate out any other emotions. She supposed that
was for the best as her own emotional fabric had begun to fray.
This is my brother. This is not my brother
.

"Mine…"

"Hush, Bannon, I know."

There was something wrong, but she couldn't put her finger on it. She'd seen Bannon asleep a thousand, a hundred thousand times, but…

But Bannon never slept on his back.

Shifting her grip on the dagger, she reached down with her free hand to lightly touch the broad chest that rose and fell to another man's rhythm.

He opened his eyes.

They were still so dark a brown that they seemed to be all pupil. They looked like they always had and were, at the same time, completely different.

"Now, Vree! Now! The knife!"

Her instant of hesitation was all he needed. Vree suddenly found herself caught up in an iron grip and flung to the floor. She twisted to avoid his knees slamming at her gut, shoved a foot into his armpit, and kicked out hard. She'd sparred with her brother many times in the past, but this time he had all the advantages. He was obviously trying to kill her. She couldn't hurt him. He was rested. She was exhausted. He had a single life driving him. She had two, for Bannon kept flinging bits of her about.

With the pressure of his chest grinding her against the floor, his hand closed around her wrist; the other reached for her throat. To her surprise, she broke his grip with a desperate move that Bannon should have been able to counter easily.

Not all the advantages.

This wasn't Bannon. Aralt might have Bannon's body, but he'd only been in it for hours. He didn't know it. Didn't know what it was capable of. Didn't have the training that made physical responses instinctive.

And a man fighting naked had areas he
had
to protect—whether he did it consciously or not. She crammed her hip into his groin. When he turned to shield it, she threw her weight against his shoulders and this time, hitting the floor, she rode him.

His skin was cool, smooth. The nest of hair between his legs brushed against her ankle as they struggled. They were so close she could smell the peppers on his breath.

Then he was gone. The place he'd been echoed, empty. He stared up at her for another instant, triumphant; then his eyes widened in fear. Then they were a stranger's eyes again.

"NO!" Somehow, she reached out and clutched at the life being hurled into oblivion. For a heartbeat she was Bannon, she was Vree, then, as terror—hers; not hers—scraped jagged edges of panic against the inside of her skull, she slid into darkness.

Chapter Three

The rough hemp rope abraded skin as the corporal secured wrist to iron bolt. Her mouth set in a grim line, she muttered, "You both should've known better." as she tied off the last knot.

Head up. Don't let them see you're afraid
. At the last flogging, the recruit had blubbered like a baby even before the first welt rose on his back.

A tug against the binding nearly brought panic. It was one thing to know that movement would be impossible and another thing entirely to be held immobile.
No. Don't struggle. Don't give them the satisfaction
.

So maybe it had been a stupid bet. But they'd been cooped up inside the garrison for far too long; it was time to fly. After all, wasn't this what they were being trained to do? What difference was there between sneaking out of the garrison after lockup and sneaking into an enemy camp?

What difference
? Lips twisted into a trembling parody of a smile.
Nine lashes
.

Wood pressed against shoulders, belly, and thighs, the breezes felt cooler than they should against bare, exposed skin.

Getting out had been easy. They'd danced through the shadows of the town, picked up the proof the bet required, and danced back. The feeling of freedom had been exhilarating; even the night air had seemed sweeter. They'd almost made it.

We
should
have made it
.

From behind, the lash snapped out, striking a practice blow at nothing.

Swallow with a throat gone suddenly dry.

Shake off the comforting clasp of fingers. The corporal had bound them together before lashing their inner wrists to the punishment beam.

We would've made it if I'd seen that rotten board
. Impossible not to tense, anticipating the pain.
I
should've
...

…
seen that rotten board
. Vree struggled to pull herself out of the memory before the lash could fall. She'd gone through it once when she was fourteen and had no intention of going through it again. And then she realized. That hadn't been
her
memory. "Bannon?"