Knight Awakened (Circle of Seven #1) (42 page)

Too bad he didn’t have a few more specifics.

As it was, he was flying blind. The goddess hadn’t provided any details. Which led Xavian to believe there weren’t any. A problem. But one that was easily solved. People talked. Word of such things always traveled. If King Bastard was building an army, there would be signs: supply wagons, workers, whispers to point him in the right direction.

Whittled down to naught more than its core, Cristobal tossed the apple at the wooden refuse box beside the door. It bounced on the rim, teetered a moment, then fell with a thud. “When do we start?”

“Soon?” Henrik asked as he sheathed the knife in his chest holster and took out another. Testing the midpoint, he balanced the blade on the tip of his finger and shot Xavian a hopeful look.

Xavian snorted. Only his best friends would look forward to fighting what amounted to the devil—or at least his minions. But he couldn’t fault them. He was having trouble curbing his own excitement. Christ, a challenge—one in which he would get to hunt again. ’Twas ironic, really. All his life he’d yearned for a home, a place to call his own. But now that he held Drachaven he realized the day-to-day running of it bored him. He was a hunter at heart, built to attack in order to defend, not sit on a wall and wait for conflict. That his men saw themselves in the same light was no real surprise.

Catching movement in his periphery, Xavian lowered his voice. “We start when everyone is on side and in the fold.”

“We keep it close?” Henrik’s eyes narrowed, catching a flash of color from inside Xavian’s bedchamber.

“Very. Only the core of us...the ones we trust...will know the truth.” Xavian pushed away from the table, flexed his hands, rolled his shoulders, running through a list in his mind. He wanted Drachaven and all who lived inside his walls prepared to defend, no matter the circumstance. His home was now Afina’s, his walls her safeguard. By the time he finished with the castle, a groundhog wouldn’t be able to burrow anywhere near them without his knowing about it. “I do not want Afina exposed any more than that. Her purpose and ours must remain a well-guarded secret.”

“Hmm, secrets,” Afina said, coming through the open doorway to his chamber. “Sounds intriguing.”

Gowned in the green silk he’d taken from Ismal, she tipped her head to one side and drew a fine bone comb through her hair, smoothing the knots. Xavian followed each sweep through her raven locks, trying not to notice the color of the gown matched the flecks in her eyes. The strategy didn’t work, and shifting focus to cool his ardor, his gaze jumped to her hands. A mistake. Watching her brush out the tangles made him realize he’d put them there—had made her thrash against the pillows in his bed. And that made him remember other things...like the way she tasted and how good she felt around him.

He tightened in reaction, the traitor behind his laces keen for another round. Xavian wanted to give in to the urging. He had two choices: slam the door in his friends’ faces and carry her to bed or stay and finish the conversation. It was a close call. He
teetered on the edge for a moment before he found control and reined himself in.

Holding out his hand, palm up, he invited her to come to him. She crossed the workshop, hips swaying, comb forgotten, skirting the table and his half-carved dragon to reach him. As her hand slid into his, the connection they shared flared. Afina smiled and his heart flip-flopped, thumping hard in his chest. With a gentle tug, he reeled her in until she rested against his side.

Cristobal grinned. “About time.”

“Goddamn it.” Henrik scowled at Cristobal then turned his fury on Xavian.

He dug in, tossing Afina’s brother a warning look of his own. His friend was obsessed. What did Henrik expect him to do? Pull a priest out of his arse, for Christ’s sake? Besides, there’d been no time to discuss marriage. He’d been too busy—first claiming Afina and second, meeting the goddess. Prepared for all-out war, he opened his mouth to tell his friend to shove off and mind his own affairs.

Afina beat him to it. “Stay out of it, Henrik.”

“Christ, Afina.” Henrik’s knuckles went white around his dagger hilt. “I warned—”

“I mean it,” she said, her voice so sharp Xavian flinched, feeling the razor edge of her tongue.

In a move contrary to his nature, Henrik snapped his mouth shut.

Cristobal chuckled.

Xavian gave Afina a gentle squeeze. “Where are you off to?”

“The keep.” She hurled another dark look at Henrik, no doubt to ensure her brother stayed mum, then turned her gaze up to
meet his. “The boys will be done with their lessons soon. I want to take them and Sabine out for a while...run their little legs off.”

Xavian nodded. Jesu, she was a marvel...made him so damn proud. She’d taken to his lads without hesitation, and in less than a fortnight had won them over, becoming the mothering influence he wanted for them. Even Dax, the oldest and most damaged of his wards, accepted her with open arms. Forgetting was impossible—Xavian knew that better than most—but mayhap now they would begin to heal, to move past the pain and embrace a new future.

Dipping his head, he pressed a kiss to Afina’s temple. As far as “thank-yous” went, it wasn’t much. But with his throat gone tight, it was all he could manage.

“Ram?” A folded piece of parchment in his hand, Qabil hesitated between the shafts of the doors of his workshop. “A missive just arrived for you.”

“From?”

“Ivan of Ismal.”

“Shit,” Henrik muttered, of a sudden very interested in the tip of his blade.

Afina grimaced, a flush spreading over her cheeks. “Sherene’s husband?”

“Aye.” Xavian raised a brow, curiosity piqued by the siblings’ reactions. What the hell had they done to his seamstress? Hmm...a mystery, one worth investigating. But not now. Qabil had that look about him. The one that said whatever he carried held great importance. Giving Afina an encouraging nudge, he pointed her toward the door. “Go, love. See to the children. I will meet you for the evening meal.”

Color still high, Afina headed for the exit. She smiled at Qabil, murmuring a greeting as she passed him. The lad turned
an interesting shade of scarlet but remembered his manners and nodded before she rounded the doorframe and was out of sight.

“What does it say, lad?” Cristobal flicked his fingers, inviting Qabil into their meeting.

“News from Grey Keep.” Worry in his eyes, Qabil raised his hand. The vellum crackled between his fingertips. “More boys are to be delivered to Al Pacii.”

With a snarl, Henrik pivoted and hurled his dagger. Steel whistled before it struck wood, the twang audible as the blade bit into the doorframe. “Fucking Halál.”

Xavian ignored the damage to his chamber door. Henrik’s outburst was one he could get behind. He understood that kind of hatred. Felt it himself for the man responsible for their pain. “How many?”

“Ivan doesn’t say, but word is they are transporting them via the North Trail.”

Cristobal cracked his knuckles. “When do we leave?”

“An hour before dawn,” Xavian said, their route already mapped in his head. The North Trail snaked through the mountains, the terrain rough at best, deadly at worst. They would reach it by traveling through Gully Pass, come out of a hidey-hole positioned above the path. ’Twas the perfect place for an ambush.

“I will see to the supplies and tell the men to prepare.” With a nod, Cristobal headed for the exit. “Come, lad. You may help.”

“How long will we be gone, Ram?”

Asked without heat, and still the query held the power to shift his foundation. He understood Henrik’s worry—couldn’t help but feel it himself. “Afina will be all right, H. Until today, I hadn’t touched her in a fortnight. A sennight without me will do her no damage.”

“You’ll check with Garren to be sure?”

“Aye,” he murmured, needing reassurance as much as his friend.

Short absences from her couldn’t be helped. Especially now that he served the goddess. But he needed to know how long she could go without him. Xavian prayed the shifter held the answer. Leaving her would be hard enough. Leaving her to suffer would be unbearable.

Safe behind Drachaven’s walls, Afina stood on the ramparts, looking out over the forest. A thin mist hovered, playing between the sway and creak of treetops. Thick evergreens, tall maples, stout beech trees pushed skyward eager for the sun’s first rays. In the stillness of the closing night, she sensed them lean toward the east, impatient for the coming day to banish the gloom.

Afina placed her hand flat against stone, between two blocks jutting up like sharp teeth from the outer wall. The granite pressed into her palm, scraping her skin. The chill leached into her hand as she leaned out, trying to see past the tree line.

It was no use. She couldn’t see them anymore.

Mother Mary, what was she doing? They’d been gone over an hour—Xavian with them. No amount of looking or wishing or praying would bring them back.

Rubbing a circle over her heart, Afina searched the lip of the forest one last time. She was being foolish. Xavian was a warrior with a warrior’s purpose. He couldn’t spend all his time with her. Knowing that, however, didn’t make his leaving any easier to bear. The good-bye had been so hard. On him too, she knew. He hadn’t wanted to leave her any more than she’d wanted him to go. Although she couldn’t deny his farewell had been spectacular.

Not the hard kiss. Not the pat on her behind. Nor the part where he’d told her to “behave” before he mounted Mayhem. But beforehand...in his chamber, up against the wall. Well now, a good-bye didn’t get much better than that.

Afina sighed. She needed a distraction.

The more she thought of Xavian—skilled bed-play or otherwise—the more she missed him. And as much as she ached to have him home, she refused to carry on this way the entire time he was away. For one thing, it was unproductive. For another, she wasn’t a lily-livered ninny without a brain in her head. Drachaven and its people needed her care. And she would make certain they got it. No matter how woebegone she became over Xavian’s absence.

Turning away from her perch, Afina snugged her cloak up to cover the nape of her neck and headed toward the east tower. Footfalls as heavy as her heart, she listened to her boot heels click against stone on the battlements.

A thick shadow shifted in the guardhouse and stepped down to her level. Afina nodded to the huge man now blocking her path. Wide of shoulder with long legs and muscled arms, the captain of the guard was a fierce specimen whom those with any wisdom gave a wide berth. Taken from a country far to the north, Hamund’s ferocious expression hid a gentle soul, though with his sword unsheathed one would never know it.

“Good morrow, Hamund.”

“’Tis barely that yet, my lady.” The captain’s mantle parted to reveal his throwing knives as he cupped his hands and blew on his fingers. His eyes narrowed on her thick cloak and boots. “You’ll not be wandering off today, will you, my lady? Ram wants you inside the walls while he’s gone.”

The news made Afina grit her teeth. Of a sudden, Xavian’s short command to
behave
took on a whole new meaning. What did he expect her to do? Stay cooped up inside the whole time he was away?

“I thought to walk the woodlands,” she told the guard. “Midmorning, mayhap.”

Hamund grunted, the sound as ominous as his expression. “Not wise, that.”

Probably not, but she itched to get outside Drachaven for a while. The sensation had taken hold the moment she lost sight of Xavian from the wall. His leaving left an empty space inside her, one the forest would soothe. The evergreens called to her. The maples murmured and the beeches lured with quiet insistence. Each whispered in its own way, voices distinct, craving the life-giving essence she carried with her. Not that they needed her among them to receive it. She felt the flow now, gave the goddess’s power without effort. Connected in a web, each tree reached out to touch the next, spreading the energy between them, passing it along until everything—to a single blade of grass—received what it needed to flourish.

Afina breathed deep, filling her lungs with autumn’s chill and the smell of morning dew. The freshness—the vibration she felt as nature hummed—lightened her heart. Finally she was part of a solution, not in the middle of a problem. She was helping reverse her mother’s mistake. Making right a terrible wrong.

“An hour, no more, Hamund,” she said, a pleading note in her tone. She needed out, if only for a while. To hear the birds call. To touch the leaves and see squirrels play. To walk among the roots, lay her palm to tree trunks and listen to the hum beneath the rough bark. “And I’ll take a guard.”

He gave her a dubious look.

She folded her hands in the prayer position. “Please...I’ll go mad cooped up inside. I miss Xavian already and the woodlands will keep me happy until he comes home.”

“More than one, then.”

“A dozen burly guards with mean swords and even worse scowls.”

Hamund’s lips twitched. “All right. But only when the sun’s high. And you stay within sight of the walls.”

“Deal.” Releasing a breath, she gave him a big smile.

He shook his head. “Off with you then. I’ll fetch you midmorning...after I’ve found guards with fierce enough scowls.”