Veil of Shadows (35 page)

“Actually, I have.” Xan’s mouth twisted in a cold smile as he drew the long, wicked blade from his back. “Please step away from him—”

“Insar!” Dais’s eyes rounded, and he shoved himself to his knees, staring at Xan in shock. He started to babble in halting Anqarian, but this time, Syn understood the words.

“Please—Battlelord, aid me. I beseech your aid and in exchange, I offer up a prize any Warlord would pay much to acquire.”

Battlelord
—what in the hell?

Silver flashed. A knife hurtled through the air and buried itself in Dais’s left eye.

Morne muttered, “Bleeding sands, Kalen will have all our hides.” He moved to crouch beside Dais.

But it was too late. Dais was already dead. Syn could feel the echo of his passing—angry and bitter—as his soul faded.

Morne shot Xan a black glare. “Damn your aim, Insar. The commander isn’t going to be pleased.”

Xan wasn’t looking at Morne. He stared at Syn. Only at Syn.

Something about the intensity of that look had her heart quivering. Insar—?

Licking her lips, she looked from Dais’s lifeless body to Xan. “Why was he talking to you in Anqarian? Why did he seem like he knew you?”

A muscle twitched in Xan’s jaw as he sheathed the long blade. His gaze fell away from her face, and his big shoulders rose and fell with a rough sigh. “I have seen the man before, Captain.” His gaze flicked to Morne, then the freed Warlord, before returning to her face.

“How? When?” Her voice was shaking. Hell.
She
was shaking.

He clenched his jaw. Strong, broad hands opened, then closed into fists. “I believe you already know the answer to that.”

Oh, God.

Oh, God.

“What does
Insar
mean?” she demanded.

“Battlelord.”

With a sharp, humorless laugh, she snapped, “I got that much—thanks. But what in the hell is a Battlelord?” When he didn’t answer, she looked at Morne.

He stared at her, his gaze softening with sympathy. He didn’t say anything, but he did reach out, lay a hand on her shoulder.

Xan snarled, drawing his blade again. “Get your damned hands off of her!”

Syn ducked away when Xan would have grabbed her. The world—dear God, the world felt like it was rocking under her feet, spinning around her. The roaring in her ears got louder and the pain behind her eyes threatened to blind her.

Xan wasn’t from Ishtan. He was from Anqar—he was whatever in the hell a Battlelord was. Reaching up, she curled her fingers around Morne’s arm. Blindly, she looked in Xan’s direction. “I’d trust Morne with my life—
Battlelord
. Which is more than I can say for you.”

“Laisyn.” Morne murmured her name gently, covered her hand with his. She felt him reaching out—not physically, but on the energy plain, on that level where they shared a similar gift.
This man will not harm you—part of you already knows that
.

Shaking her head, Syn backed away. Xan had already
harmed
her. He’d lied to her—all of them. But she didn’t, couldn’t, say the words out loud. In that moment, all she could do was run, because if she didn’t run, she’d shatter.

Syn started for the door and Xan moved to touch her. “Syn, wait, please.”

Then she realized she could speak. It was like forcing broken glass through her tight throat, each word painful. But she managed. “Get the hell out of my camp,
Battlelord
.”

The door slammed shut behind Syn, and Xan flinched, closing his eye.

Syn . . .
Aching, he reached up and rubbed the heel of his hand over his heart.
Bleeding sands, I should have told her
. He
knew
that . . . He just hadn’t known how.
Dear one, I have a confession I must make—I come from Anqar. I am not a Warlord, but I come from a long line of them. My ancestors enslaved yours for centuries. Can you try not to hold it against me?

“Damn it all to hell,” he growled, whirling around and driving his fist into one of the stone support beams. His skin split and pain shot up his arm, but he ignored it, punching the stone a second time.

And now, it was too fucking late.

“You’d best go after her.”

Xan opened his eye and glared at the man she’d called Morne. Yes, Xan had heard of him. More often than he could recall, to be true. “She has no desire to speak with me.” With a bitter laugh, he added, “All she wants from me now is my absence.”

“Since when does an Insar let a trifling thing like that interfere?” Morne asked.

Xan shook his head. He’d betrayed her, all this time, he had betrayed her. Not because he had come here wishing to cause harm, but because he hadn’t told her who . . .
what
he was. Grief and guilt swamped him—he couldn’t think. He needed to, needed to make himself return to his dormer, gather his belongings and leave.

But he couldn’t make himself take that first step. Couldn’t think. There was no room inside him for anything but his grief, anything but his guilt.

He moved to stand at the window and as he did so, he caught sight of Syn.

She was at the stables, just across the path, guiding her baern out. It was dark—not quite dawn. Xan moved to the door, growling under his breath, “Damn you, woman.”

She was already gone, the baern flying down the deserted paths as though he had wings.

It seemed there was room for something besides guilt and grief after all. Rage. Fear. Worry.

Behind him, Morne and Laithe echoed similar sentiments, but it was Laithe who moved to grab Xan’s arm. “Whether she wishes your absence or not, it isn’t safe for any woman, especially a witch, outside these walls—not alone. Lord Reil is in the forest, and it’s likely his men will be near—no Warlord with any measure of power could have missed the magic that emanated from this area a few days ago. She’ll be in danger.”

He glanced at Morne and then back at Xan. “I shall go with you.”

“No.” Morne’s mouth twisted. “Insar, it must be just you for now—I have to speak with the commander about Laithe.” He slanted a look at Laithe and added, “If we do not do that
first
, we will have more trouble, and that will not serve Syn or this camp well at all. So we’ll speak to the commander, and you had best be with me. Otherwise, we’ll have another problem on our hands, what with half the camp combing the forest for
you
.”

He gave Xan one quick glance and said, “I’ll have Kalen send word to Bron to help you look for her.”

Xan barely heard. He was already out the door, moving toward the stables himself. He didn’t bother using one of the saddles, just searched for the baern that looked to be the quickest. In a matter of heartbeats, he was mounted and chasing after Syn.

Kalen grunted as a voice touched on the edge of his mind.

Snarling in his sleep, he rolled over and flung an arm around Lee’s waist. She snuggled closer, absently stroking a hand down his side, caught within her own dreams.

The voice came louder and this time, Kalen came awake with a swear, jerking upright in bed.

Sighing, he rubbed a hand over his eyes and said, “I’m awake, damn it. But this had better be urgent—Morne, it’s not even dawn.”

At the door? Kalen scowled and kicked his legs over the bed, tucking the sheet around Lee and bending down, pressing his lips to her cheek. “Lee, wake up. We have company coming.”

A sulky frown darkened her face and she rolled onto her belly, burying her face in her pillow. Sighing, Kalen stroked a hand down her back. “Come on, pet.”

She turned her face toward him and popped open one eye. She glared at him through the tangle of her hair and said, “ ’M tired. ’S early. If there isn’t a fire or attack, I wanna sleep.”

“Me, too.” He snagged a pair of his pants from the foot of the bed and said, “But it’s Morne, which means it’s of the bed and said, ”But it’s Morne, which means it’s likely important. He wouldn’t be in the camp if it wasn’t.”

“Morne?” She shoved up onto her elbows, a position that pushed her very nice breasts together in a way that had Kalen’s mouth watering—he tore his eyes away before he pounced on her. “Did you say Morne?”

“Yes.”

She was out of the bed and shimmying into her own clothes. As she pulled on a thin undershirt, there was a knock at the door. She went to lunge for it and Kalen blocked her, shoved a tunic at her. His eyes flashed hot and bright as he brushed the backs of his knuckles over one nipple. It hardened, stabbing against the skimpy material of her undershirt. “Please, let me be a jealous boar here—I’d rather no man see these quite so clearly.”

Lee blushed and rolled her eyes, jerking the tunic on. “Open the damn door.”

He did.

No sooner had he opened it than Morne was inside, shoving a man in before him and closing the door quickly at his back.

Kalen’s hand flexed.

It was the Warlord. He slanted a look at Morne and, without saying a word, grabbed his pulsar from his desk and raised it, leveling it at the Warlord. “You’ve got five seconds to explain why he is out of the pit, Morne. Five—”

Lee barely heard him. She found herself staring into a pair of eyes that were eerily similar to her own. Not just the shape, not just the color—
everything
—they were
her
eyes. Without understanding why, she reached out and shoved Kalen’s pulsar down. Distantly, she heard Morne talking.

“I only need two. He’s her brother.”

Kalen snarled and jerked the pulsar up again. “That’s not good enough for me—remember what her
father
tried to do?”

Lee hissed and shoved the pulsar down, glaring at her husband.

He was speaking—saying something to Morne. Morne was talking back.

But none of it made sense. The words bounced around in her head without connecting. They could have been speaking ancient Latin for all she understood. She shook her head and said quietly, “Kalen? Baby . . . please, for me. Shut up.”

There was a harsh sigh. Kalen reached up, curled his hand protectively over her shoulder. “Damn it, Lee.”

Absently, she reached up and patted his hand. “It’s okay.”

And it was. She didn’t know how she knew—it
shouldn’t
be okay. She could feel this man’s power. It had rivaled the power she’d sensed in her father, but there was more . . . She sensed the echo of a person she barely remembered. Her mother.

Swallowing past the knot in her throat, she said softly, “I don’t remember you.”

The Warlord stared at her, his eyes intense and probing, studying her face as though he wished to memorize her. “I remember you. You were so tiny. You laughed and smiled and danced. And you loved to listen to our mother when she sang. As did I.”

“Yes. I remember her singing.” Tears burned her eyes. She blinked them away and took a deep breath, trying to get a grip on the rampant emotions whirling inside her. “My brother.” She licked her lips and tried to manage a smile. It was wobbly and weak, but it was the effort that counted, right? “So, I feel really lame asking you this . . . but what’s your name?”

“Laithe.”

“Laithe.” She whispered it and it echoed inside her mind, rippled, like somebody had tossed a pebble into a pond. Closing her eyes, she whispered it again. “Laithe.” Something tickled at her mind and she frowned. “I recognize the name . . . I don’t remember you, but I recognize the name. But wasn’t there . . . ?”

Her words trailed away as she sensed a heavy tension in the room. Looking up, she glanced at Kalen and saw a familiar look on his face. It was the same one he always had when he was having one of his weird little mind-to-mind discussions. And if the look on Morne’s face was an indicator, she had no doubt about who else was in on the conversation. “Kalen?”

He glanced at her and she reached out, touched his arm.
He’s okay . . . I don’t know what you two are talking about, but Laithe . . . he’s okay.