“The trip is done for you. You won’t work beside a…girl.” A glint of amusement lit the wagonmaster’s eyes as he looked at Tyriel and she knew then he hadn’t made the mistake many humans did, assuming her youthful face meant she was young. “Since I have no intention of passing by an excellent swordsman and mage in favor of you, you are done here.”
Effectively dismissing Benjin, Gerome gestured to the other two guards who’d come along with him.
“This is Vjorl.” Gerome gestured to a tall, wraith-like man with skin the color of soot.
Tyriel recognized the man’s appearance, if not the man himself. “You’re from the Burin lands.”
Vjorl dipped his head in acknowledgment as he pressed a hand to his chest, the People’s way of showing respect when meeting an equal from another race, dignitaries and such, since no elf ever would bow before anybody.
Smile breaking out across her face, she returned the gesture before moving to him and offering her arm, a gesture more recognizable in the lands outside her own, a warrior greeting another.
“Lady Tyriel,” Vjorl said in High Elvish, as he wrapped his hand around her forearm, squeezing slightly before ending the clasp.
Her eyes widened before she replied in the same tongue. “Just Tyriel, Vjorl. Here, it is just Tyriel.”
The Borinian inclined his dark head. “If that is your wish.” He hesitated a moment before asking, “When next I see the prince, am I to withhold mention of this meeting?”
“Heavens, no.” She broke into laughter. “Although what a small world it is. Few who know him travel so far west.”
“The same could be said of those who are of the People.” He smiled easily and dipped his head once more.
She caught sight of the smooth, bare skin of his scalp and noticed the fine lines of the tattoos there, marking him as a sojourning warrior-priest.
“How did you come to meet my father?” she asked, still speaking in her father’s tongue.
“We had chance to meet when on a hunt.”
The emphasis he put on the final word had her brows rising. Her father was a prince and sat as guardian to the Western Gate, the mountainous range that separated Eivisia from the human lands, and one of his duties as guardian there was protecting that land, and those surrounding territory from any and all threats.
He was also one of the High King’s most trusted warriors, dispatching threats to Eivisa and the lands beyond.
Although it wasn’t often, Prince Lorne did leave the lands of the fae to hunt down threats that came too close to their borders or were deemed to be too much a threat to ignore, regardless of where they were.
There were always those bold enough, or desperate enough, to push for power beyond their control. Lorne, with his elite unit, had eliminated more threats to the peoples of their world than Tyriel could fathom over his centuries.
She recognized the look of a similar warrior when she studied Vjorl. “Knowing the kind of hunts that might lead my father to cross paths with a warrior priest from Burin, I won’t ask any more then.”
“It’s actually an interesting tale.” Vjorl’s lean face lit with a smile. “But not one I’d care to share when there are prying ears to overhear.”
“Vjorl, I’m getting my feelings here hurt.”
Tyriel looked at the second man, a stout redhead with a warm, wide smile that twisted on the left, thanks to a vicious scar that bisected his cheek. He nodded at Tyriel before looking at the warrior priest.
“Nine years, I’ve known you and it took you four of those to say half of many words to me,” he said, pointing a finger at the taller man. “For all your preaching on celibacy in service to your god, you’re easily turned by a pretty face.”
“In my defense, old friend,” Vjorl said. “Her face is far, far prettier than yours—even after that scar. You’re the only man I know that actually had such a scar improve his appearance.”
“Oh, so harsh.” But the redhead’s grin widened as he turned to Tyriel.
The wagonmaster had stayed silent as Tyriel and Vjorl spoke but now he cleared his throat. All three warriors looked at him.
“Chastin, this is Tyriel, the warrior and mage I told you I’d be bringing on.” His brows arched as he looked between Vjorl and Tyriel. “Clearly, you will have no trouble settling in.”
“It may be a struggle but I’ll try to get by.”
Gerome snorted. With a nod, he indicated a figure off in the distance, approaching on horseback. “There’s another one of my men. One of my best. Aryn. Between the four of you, I will sleep much better at night.”
* * * * *
“You.”
Tyriel raised her head, one hand holding a suede cloth, stroking it up and down the length of her blade.
The man in front of her stood with his back to the sun, towering over her. Raising one hand to shield her eyes, Tyriel made out the features of the swordsman from the inn she had met the previous fall.
“Yes, me,” she replied evenly.
“I wondered if the Tyriel Gerome told me about was the one I had met a few months back.”
“Looks like it,” she said cheerfully, sliding her blade into its sheath. “Aryn, is it?”
“I didn’t know the Kin hired themselves out to wagon trains,” Aryn said, squatting down beside her. Damp tendrils of hair clung to the sides of his face and neck and his bared chest glistened with sweat. And it was every bit as fine as she had imagined it would be, wide, sculpted, muscled. His arms were roped with muscle, but not overly so, his shoulders wide and powerful, and she imagined, would cradle a woman’s head perfectly.
After.
Oh, yummy.
Hmmm. Maybe, just maybe, this trip could turn out to be rather pleasant. Very pleasant. If he would just…cooperate.
Since the day was rather cool, Tyriel guessed he had been practicing. Nodding at the shallow nick on his forearm, she asked, “That happen in practice?”
Glancing at it, dismissing it, Aryn said, “Yes. The short, stocky redhead. Chastin. He’s got a fast hand. How did you end up hiring your blade out? I’ve never known a lady of the elves to want to leave the wonder of their lands for ours.”
“I’m a breed, Aryn,” she said shortly, sliding into her harness and rising to her feet. “You know what that means? I don’t belong with the People. And as much as I love my mother’s folk, I can only take so much of them at a time.”
“Who are your mother’s folk?”
“You’re not as closemouthed as I would have expected,” she mused with an arch of her brow. And then she reached up, grabbing a hand full of springy black curls. “With hair like this, who else? The Wildlings, of course.”
A laugh tumbled from Aryn’s unbelievably beautiful mouth as he dropped to sit beside her, mirth making his eyes dance.
“Oh, bloody hell. That is rich. The Wildling lady and a lord of the kin—I’d think an angel and an incubus would have made a better match.”
“Quite possibly. And you’re not the first to make such a comparison.” A sad, bittersweet smile tugged at her lips and her exotic eyes took on a faraway look. “But we’ll never know. My mother died in childbirth. If she hadn’t been with the Kin when she went into labor, I wouldn’t be here.” Shrugging her slim shoulders, she said, “I can say, without hesitation, I had an interesting childhood.”