Tempted by Ruin (Sons of Britain Book 4) Page 8

  In the spaces between battles, fight your enemy in your mind, his other grandfather, Marcus, had told him long ago. On the treks to their camps, during those long nights lit only by stars, in the moments before a fight, while he crouched, waiting for the signal to attack. Imagine each potential opponent. The hand he strikes with, the length of his reach. His weapon, his stance, the gods he just prayed to. Fight them all, and you won’t be surprised.

  Now that he’d been a warrior for nearly a decade, he could see that Marcus had meant to shore up their confidence. Well, and give them something constructive to do so they might not get into trouble between skirmishes. But no matter how much a man prepared, he could still be surprised.

  Or he could walk into precisely the sort of situation he expected. That he dreaded. It had been seven winters since Lot’s eldest son, Agravain, had brought a small force of northmen south to fulfill a promise of cooperation Lot had made when he’d run off with a daughter of Cymru. Seven winters for Agravain to remind his father how Arthur had endangered those men by raiding the Saxon camp they were meant to be watching only. Neither father nor son would be glad to see him.

  “Your brain is going to boil out your ears.”

  He looked sidewise to find Bedwyr eyeing him. They rocked back with the motion of pulling their oar. The ship’s captain had almost relegated Bed to menial tasks, believing him incapable of rowing with one hand. But then Bed had given the man a glare so like Uthyr’s that Arthur had nearly laughed. The captain wasn’t one to be intimidated easily, but he’d agreed to give Bedwyr a chance to prove himself at rowing. He had done, every day since they’d left. “Remind me to rub down your arm tonight.”

  “What’s got your gut in a bind?”

  “Waiting.”

  Bed tipped his head in acknowledgment. “Not your strong suit.”

  “Thank you, shieldmate.”

  “I’ll shorten the wait for you.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Think only on tonight, when you’ll give my arm a thorough massage.” Bedwyr winked.

  Later, Bed led him past the sleeping spot they’d chosen, pausing only enough to scoop up the bedding. When he stopped walking, they were deep in the forest. Silvery light filtered through the branches of the firs and oaks overhead. No sound but the mulch under their boots, and Bedwyr when he settled on their combined bedrolls and heaved a contented sigh.

  “You may begin.”

  Arthur knelt beside him. “Oh, may I?”

  “And take your time with it. You’ve missed a couple nights.”

  Arthur snorted. “Arse.”

  Bed shrugged. “You can rub that too. Just tell me when to roll over.” He closed his eyes. “I’ll try not to fall asleep.”

  A very large part of him wanted to attack the fool. To dig his fingers into Bed’s ribs until he couldn’t help but fight back. But he’d promised to do this, and it would occupy his mind. He laid his hands on Bed’s left shoulder and began to massage it.

  He kneaded it for a long while before working his way down Bed’s arm. The muscle was tighter here, still bunched up from rowing. Arthur squeezed it to pliancy, then rubbed his forearm, pressed the meat of his palm, spread his fingers to stretch his wrist. When he finished Bed’s arm, though, he didn’t want to be done. Settling his hands on Bed’s chest, he set to massaging it as well. Bedwyr groaned. Just a soft sound, one that settled into the forest loam around them.

  “Feel good?”

  “Always does.” Bed’s hand rose to cover one of Arthur’s. “What was on your mind today?”

  “Lot,” he said, then added, sheepishly, “Agravain.”

  Several heartbeats thumped into his palm before Bed spoke again. “We told Gawain he wouldn’t be alone. I’ll tell you the same.”

  “I know it.”

  “Do you?”

  Arthur looked away, into the dimness surrounding them.

  “Cub.”

  “What?”

  “Look at me.”

  “Can’t see you. Too dark.”

  A scuffle and a thump, and Arthur found himself on his back. For a man who’d looked ready for a nap moments before, Bedwyr was quick.

  And heavy. He sat astride Arthur’s waist, his hand and his stump planted on either side of Arthur’s head. He remained so for a long moment before speaking.

  “You aren’t alone.”

  Arthur knew that. He did. Only…

  “Arthur?”

  “Yes?”

  “Say it back.”

  “That’s stupid.”

  “Stupid is churning over something you can’t control.”

  He searched for Bed’s features, but saw only the faintest hint of the whites of his eyes. He focused on them. “I have to. Rhys sent us.”

  “If anyone bears a burden here, it’s Gawain. It’s his father who needs convincing.”

  “You heard him. Lot thinks nothing of him.”

  “But we know his worth.” Bedwyr shifted, pulling one of Arthur’s hands up and anchoring it under his own. “And so we’ll back him up. Protect him. Amplify his message. That’s why we’re here.”

  “But…”

  “But what?”

  “Rhys expects us to make it happen.”

  “Rhys hopes we’ll make it happen.”

  “Men don’t hire mercenaries on hope.”

  “We’re not mercenaries. We’re diplomats.”

  “Bed.”

  “And you, cub…” Bedwyr dipped down and brushed his lips over Arthur’s cheek. “You are not solely responsible for the outcome.”

  He felt a blush rise in his neck, crawling up his skin to his ears. Bedwyr had caught him out in his hubris, and he was glad the night would cloak his embarrassment.

  Except that Bed’s lips were brushing over Arthur’s ear now, up and around the hot edge and then sucking the lobe between them. His skin grew hotter, and a soft snort huffed against his hair.

  “That’s what you think, isn’t it? That you have to carry all this on your shoulders?”

  Didn’t he? For years, they’d executed missions for Rhys. More and more, they were the ones he sent to do these things other men didn’t want to do. Or that Rhys didn’t trust them to do. And while Bedwyr always stood beside him in those meetings with Rhys, Arthur had felt the way Bedwyr deferred to him. Both of them expected Arthur to take on the responsibility. He hadn’t imagined it.

  Had he?

  Bedwyr shifted again, and his hair trailed across Arthur’s throat. He gave Arthur’s shoulder a gentle bite. “I’ll admit they’re suited to the task. Strong. Capable. Obscenely broad.”

  “You should talk.”

  “And you should listen.” Bed settled on his elbows, and his forehead came to rest on Arthur’s. “Lot is one man. We convince him or we don’t.”

  “But the north—”

  Bed smothered his words with a kiss. Just an insistent press at first, to quiet him. Arthur wanted to throw him off—nearly did—but then Bed eased the pressure. Gave him the choice.

  What he chose was to slide his fingers into Bed’s hair and claim his mouth.

  Bedwyr groaned again and met his tongue. Sparks crackled across Arthur’s scalp as Bed tightened his own grip. Arthur slung his free arm over Bed’s back, pulling him down, demanding his weight, begging to be pressed into the forest floor. Bedwyr obliged him, grinding into the bargain. Arthur struggled under him, but Bed knew him well enough to know it was only a struggle to feel more. He gave Arthur what he wanted, surrounding him, overwhelming him. Stilling him, eventually.

  “The north is the north,” Bed breathed against his lips. “It’s important, as any other bit of Britannia is, but you… You are not responsible for the whims of the cockerel who rules the Orcades, or those of his heir, for that matter. You are not responsible for the defense of the north or the future of Cymru. Not alone. Do you hear me?”

  He did.

  And maybe so had the great dragon and bear in the night sky.

  He nudged Be
d’s chin. “Look up.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “They’ve come for us.”

  Palahmed had been watching the fire in an attempt not to stare at Gawain’s every feature, but his words jerked his attention to the trees surrounding them.

  “Not there. In the sky.”

  He saw nothing at first. But then…something changed. What he’d thought a cloud suffused with moonlight turned distinctly green.

  Gawain stood. “Follow me.”

  An innocent command, but Palahmed’s body rioted even as it obeyed. He stood without thought, pulse ticking in his fingertips, and then stepped out of the firelight and into the trees. Plunged into darkness, he stumbled into Gawain.

  A strong hand pushed at his chest but then remained, still and calm. “Hold.”

  He waited, knowing his heart pounded under Gawain’s palm but helpless to do anything about it.

  “Close your eyes.”

  He did, his other senses leaping up, searching for the slightest movement on Gawain’s part.

  But the hawk was perfectly still. “We’re fire-blind,” he said low. “Five more breaths.”

  As if things like breathing and counting might be done so easily when everything in him wanted only to haul Gawain against him. But he tried, and when Gawain’s hand left him just short of five, he opened his eyes.

  He could make out individual trees now, some edged with firelight, others only darker columns up ahead. Just in front of him, Gawain’s pale jaw canted as he nodded down the track.

  They emerged from the forest onto a snowy hillside, which Gawain began to climb. Focused on following him, Palahmed forgot to look up again until they topped the rise. What greeted him nearly sent him tumbling back down the slope.

  What he’d mistaken for a cloud wasn’t. Looked like a cloud, but it moved too quickly, changing form until it seemed to hang in the sky like one of the great carpets that adorned the walls of Rhys’s hall, only leagues long.

  And the colors. It began the pale green of a spring leaf just unfurled, the bottom edge of the strange curtain hinting toward gold. Then, before he could blink, the entire wavering length was shot through with the rosy glow of a hibiscus blossom.

  He must have been gaping, for Gawain said, “Have you never seen them before?”

  “I’ve only heard tales.” He shook his head, dazed. “Never thought I’d see them myself.”

  When the hawk didn’t respond, he tore his gaze from the sky. Gawain’s skin seemed lit from within by the otherworldly light.

  “What are they?”

  One side of Gawain’s mouth tipped up. “The once and future.”

  Chapter 10

  Palahmed looked back to the sky, trying to make sense of the words.

  Snow crunched as Gawain moved to stand next to him. “Did your people tell tales of your ancestors?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, these are ours. Every ribbon is the story of a life. Or lives, I suppose. Hundreds. Thousands. End to end and interwoven.”

  “Like a fishing net?”

  “Aye,” Gawain said softly. “Just so.”

  Palahmed looked down at those hushed syllables. He thought he’d find the hawk eyeing the sky, but he was looking at Palahmed instead, as if surprised. “So you’re somewhere up there?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “I left my people. I’m no longer part of their story.”

  “You always will be, absent or not.” At the pinch of Gawain’s brow, he hurried to add, “You said yourself you heard tales of Arthur at the evening fire. He was far away. Don’t think your kin will so readily forget you.”

  Gawain swallowed and looked skyward again. “Do your kin remember you?”

  It landed like a blow to his ribs. He drew a steadying breath and pretended to study the sky too. “I assume so. If they’re still alive.”

  Were they? He’d never asked his father how old he was, nor his mother. Both had had a few strands of silver in their hair last he’d seen them, but his own silver had begun to show itself a few years ago, so they might have been fairly young. For the most part, he tried not to think about them. If he did, he would have to face what he’d done to them: run off without a word and stolen their other son in the same instant. He tried not to imagine the aftermath, but sometimes he did wonder if they’d had more children.

  If so, he hoped someone was looking out for their safety.

  His heart was knocking about in his chest again. He took another breath to calm it. “You said once and future. These ribbons—they include descendants as well, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “So we’re seeing what’s to come?”

  “Aye.”

  “What if someone doesn’t have descendants?”

  “The net develops a hole. Just as if they run away.”

  Another blow, but softer, for though it was true of Palahmed, Gawain probably referred to himself. “Fisher-folk mend nets. I’ve seen you do it as if you were born to it.”

  Gawain only stared at the wavering lights.

  “I see no holes up there, hawk. Seems to me your gods don’t care for loose strands any more than you do.”

  “What are you saying, Saracen?”

  Palahmed smiled at the mild warning. This is my heritage, it said, even if I left it behind.

  But no man could leave it behind entirely. He might try. Might even come close to succeeding. But some things ran in the veins, mingled with one’s blood. Only one way to end that.

  “I’m saying our tales don’t end because we’ve left a person or a place. You’re still tied to Lot, after all. You wouldn’t be on this mission if you weren’t.”

  “I have no ties to him, I told you that.”

  “Yet you’re here.”

  “Arthur asked me to do it.”

  The words were tight things, shoved through Gawain’s teeth. They became puffs of steam in the night air, further warning of something hot the man held in his chest.

  Hoping to quench it, Palahmed tried a different approach. “I also believe we find new family wherever we go. We create it if we have to.”

  He thought Gawain wouldn’t respond, but after a long moment, he said, “Strange theory for a mercenary.”

  Palahmed chuckled. “Just because I choose my employers doesn’t mean I have no family.”

  Gawain looked at him, chin up. So defiant. “And who’s in this new family of yours? Safir doesn’t count.”

  Safir counted more than any other, but he understood this challenge. “Rhys and Caron. Elain and Gwenhwyfar. Arthur. Bedwyr. You.”

  A breath, then, “You’ve only named the people you fight for.”

  “Who would you fight for more fiercely than for your family?”

  “No, I mean, people you’re paid to fight for.”

  “No one could pay me enough to fight for you.”

  Gawain’s jaw dropped. He looked caught between outrage and amusement, but he wasn’t going to get time to decide which.

  “Like it or not, you’re still part of that ribbon of light up there.”

  “Because I’ve made new family?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re a part of it.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re up there in the sky, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s fucking annoying.”

  Palahmed rocked on his heels with laughter.

  “Funny, is it? I’ll show you funny, you arsehole.”

  Snow hit his face. His eyes snapped open at the chilly shock of it. He reached up to wipe it from his cheek when he got a mouthful of the stuff.

  He spat it out, then lunged at Gawain.

  The hawk was lower to the earth, and quick, but Palahmed managed to hook him about the waist. The only problem was that snow was snow, and not known for its traction. His feet slipped and skidded, and with Gawain flailing against his hold, there was only one possible outcome. They hit the ground in a muffled whump t
hat sent a spray of snow glittering into the clear night air.

  The first time he and Safir had seen snow, during their first winter in Cymru, they’d pitched it at each other and ended in a similar tussle, trying to see who could shove more snow down the other’s shirt.

  That wrestling match, however, had had none of the blood-fire of this one. When he finally came out on top, with Gawain’s limbs pinned, all Palahmed could think was that the man’s mouth was inches from his own.

  “Leave off.”

  “Not yet.”

  Gawain’s chest rose and fell on sharp exhalations, his warm breaths cooling quickly on Palahmed’s lips.

  “Thank you for showing me the lights.”

  Gawain blinked, as if surprised.

  “Thank you for sharing what they mean. But don’t believe for a moment you can disappear from their tale. You’re neither that fast, nor that forgettable. You matter, hawk.”

  The young man blinked again, but now his eyes shone with the beginnings of tears. He frowned and turned his head. Proud, even lying in this ungainly sprawl. Palahmed let him go, and Gawain rose on his own.

  They descended the hill in silence as the tale of their future danced overhead, inscrutable.

  ~

  The captain called a halt.

  It was out of the usual rhythm, and so Palahmed looked over his shoulder to see what the cause might be.

  Another boat, narrower and swifter than their cargo vessel, was rowing toward them.

  “That one of Lot’s?”

  He turned back to the captain, who’d addressed the question to Gawain.

  Gawain nodded. “Patrol.”

  “Right,” the captain said, then called, “Ship the oars.”

  The ship clattered and rumbled as they drew in the oars. Palahmed wiped the seawater from his hands and glanced at Gawain again. He stood still and straight, watching the other boat come on with steady eyes. Only the tight clench of his fists belied any nervousness. He must have felt Palahmed watching him, for his green eyes flicked down to Palahmed’s. Gawain’s expression didn’t change, but when he turned his attention back to Lot’s patrol, his hands flexed into a looser curl.