Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
T hea woke to a hard wall of muscle at her back and a strong, but surprisingly gentle arm around her waist, fingers wrapping above the curve of her hip.
Despite the chill of the night, solid heat enveloped her, reassuring and sturdy.
Instinctively, she leaned into it, relishing the warmth, the contact and the subtle scent of rosewood soap and leather.
The arm around her waist tightened and Thea went rigid.
Head throbbing, her eyes flew open, the stars above blurring together in one vibrant streak. Slowly, her vision sharpened and by the moonlight, she began to make sense of her surroundings and the fact that she now shared a saddle with a Warsword.
Still groggy, Thea raised a weak hand to her temple, but Hawthorne’s fingers wrapped around hers and brought her arm back down.
‘It’s only just stopped bleeding,’ he growled.
‘Don’t touch it.’ His words were hot on the nape of her neck.
He was so close, too close – his body rocked against hers, and as she shifted, his arm grazed the underside of her breasts, sending a hazy pulse of desire through her.
She fought the urge to lean into him and forced herself to take a breath.
Clearly she’d hit her head hard. Why else would her legs be involuntarily parting?
Why else would her fingers ache with the need to reach out and caress him?
‘What happened?’ she asked, keeping her voice steady and glancing across at her mare trekking beside them, the lead rope wrapped around the saddle horn in front of her.
Hawthorne pressed a canteen into her weak grip. ‘Drink this.’
Dazed, Thea obeyed, the cool water tasting divine on her swollen tongue.
‘You passed out.’ Hawthorne told her. ‘Hit the ground pretty hard by the sound of it.’
The side of her head was throbbing. ‘Feels like it too.’
She wasn’t sure if she was imagining it, but had his arms tightened around her? She swallowed the lump in her throat, trying to distract herself from the press of his chest against her, the brush of his muscular inner thighs cradling her sides.
Their earlier argument came back to her, a flush creeping across her cheeks. They’d yelled at each other, she’d tried to hit him… and now this?
‘I can ride my own horse.’ She reached for the reins.
‘Recent events say otherwise,’ Hawthorne replied, and his deep voice shivered along her bones.
‘I’m fine.’
‘There’s a good spot to camp a little further ahead. You ride with me until then.’
‘But —’
‘You’re in no state to ride if you pass out in the saddle.’
Thea clenched her jaw. Gods, she hated it when he was right. ‘I suppose you think this proves your point, that I shouldn’t or couldn’t be a warrior.’
‘I never said that, not once.’
‘You said —’
‘Several things,’ he cut her off. ‘All still true, but not that. If anything, your fierce stupidity and need to prove yourself —’
Thea drew herself up, ready to explode.
‘Means you’d fit right in with those idiots.’
‘Oh.’
Somewhere in the near distance, something rustled in the undergrowth. It was hard to determine the detail of the surrounding landscape, but before she had fallen, they’d been in the middle of nowhere, nothing but plains of grass stretching on before them.
‘You heard it too…’ Hawthorne said quietly.
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know yet. But when we set up camp, I’m going to find out.’
By the time Hawthorne brought his stallion to a halt, Thea’s head was spinning.
It was bad enough that when the Warsword dismounted and reached for her, she didn’t object to those large hands encircling her waist and helping her down.
Wordlessly, he set her on one of the saddle blankets and handed her more water.
There was no arguing with the Warsword and Thea didn’t try to. She couldn’t tell if he was more angry at her, or himself. He didn’t speak as he went about tending to the horses and building a small fire. He passed her some dried meat to chew on, and she found she felt better as she ate.
Thea suspected the warrior was creating tasks for himself about the camp to avoid her. Perhaps she’d pushed him over the edge.
‘There is nothing I want more than to be rid of you,’ he had shouted earlier.
Well, he nearly got his wish , she mused, still chewing on her piece of meat.
Thea must have dozed off not long after, because she woke up to someone shaking her gently by the shoulders.
She started, pain blooming in her head once again. ‘What?’ Blinking rapidly, she followed the Warsword’s gaze into the near distance.
A pair of vibrant yellow eyes stared at them through the grass. A monster?
Hawthorne placed himself between her and the beast, drawing her dagger from his belt. ‘You’ve noticed we’ve got company,’ he murmured, moving like a graceful shadow.
‘I have,’ Thea managed, squinting into the night.
In a crouch, the warrior was a born predator, readying himself for attack. ‘It’s been following us since we left the Bloodwoods,’ he whispered. ‘Strange that it seemed to wait for our return. Stranger still to see a lone wolf in these parts…’
Thea frowned, leaning forward, her hand reaching for Hawthorne’s, forcing his weapon down. ‘It’s not a wolf.’
‘What?’ he asked, his gaze shooting to where she touched him.
‘It’s not a wolf,’ she repeated, unwilling to let him advance on the creature with the blade. ‘It’s Dax, the former Warsword Malik’s dog.’
Hawthorne stiffened. He seemed to stare harder into the night, and then, he loosed a tight breath. ‘You know…’ he trailed off.
‘Dax? Malik?’ Thea asked. ‘It’s hard to know one without the other.’
‘How do you know them?’
When Thea was satisfied the warrior wasn’t about to slice into Dax, she sat back against the boulder once more. ‘Malik is my friend.’
At his master’s name, the lanky mongrel came padding towards them. He sat at Thea’s side and she wrinkled her nose.
‘You smell terrible,’ she told him.
Hawthorne watched them, transfixed. ‘Your friend?’ he prompted, looking more intense than usual.
Thea lifted her chin defiantly. ‘Yes.’
‘And how did an alchemist become friends with a Warsword of Thezmarr? How did you meet him?’
Thea’s skin prickled at his sudden interest, her fingers coiling in Dax’s fur. ‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘It’s not a common occurrence.’ He gave the space between them a pointed look. ‘Clearly.’
‘True,’ Thea had to admit.
‘So how did you become friends with Malik?’ Hawthorne’s voice was different, gentler, as though his interest was genuine, as though he truly cared.
Thea didn’t understand why he wanted to know, or how this subject of all things seemed to be the catalyst for the subtle change in him, but she much preferred this version of the Warsword to the growling, impatient escort she’d had before.
‘Slowly, I suppose,’ she answered, the pain in her head fading.
‘I saw him when they first brought him back to the infirmary. I found his dagger on the Mourner’s Trail and, believe it or not, went to return it.
’ She glanced at the blade now sheathed at Hawthorne’s belt.
‘I didn’t know who he was. Back then there were more than three Warswords…
’ She hadn’t thought about those days in some time.
‘There used to be many of us. But over the years, things have changed. Some relinquished their totems and Naarvian steel for a quieter life, some retired from fighting to honorary positions among the royal courts… And many left the midrealms the only way they knew how.’
‘You mean in battle?’
Hawthorne nodded. ‘It’s something that’s instilled in us long before we undertake the Great Rite, that there is glory in death. But I was asking about Malik, Alchemist.’
Thea considered him. She supposed if she wished to question the Warsword, he had the right to answers as well. ‘He didn’t want the dagger. When I brought it to the infirmary, I mean. Malik didn’t want it.’
‘He spoke to you?’
‘Well, yes… But not about that.’
‘What did he say?’
Thea chewed the inside of her cheek as she searched for the words. ‘His head was badly wounded. It didn’t make any sense.’
‘Tell me anyway.’
‘He said… “Beware the fury of a patient Delmirian”… Does that mean something?’
Hawthorne’s lips parted, his brows furrowing. ‘I don’t know…’ His voice was distant. ‘He didn’t speak again after that?’
Thea shook her head. ‘Not with words, but just as clearly. When I tried to give him his dagger, he pushed it back to me. He wanted me to have it. It was like…’
‘Like what?’
‘Like he saw me. Not just a scrap of a girl training to be an alchemist, but… me. Or who I wanted to be.’ Thea laughed. ‘Sounds stupid, doesn’t it?’
‘No,’ Hawthorne said firmly. ‘It doesn’t.’
Thea smiled then. ‘From there, I don’t know…
I saw him around a lot when he recovered.
He was always so alone. I guess I felt alone too.
Neither of us could be what we wanted. It wasn’t long after that he found me in the library.
He… He wasn’t alright. His injury still affects him now.
Sometimes there’s too much for him to process, sometimes he can’t remember things.
Listening to me read seemed to help, so I’ve been doing it ever since. ’
Hawthorne was silent. Thea could see the muscle working in his jaw, his hands fidgeting.
‘You read to him?’ he asked eventually.
‘Yes. What’s wrong with that? He likes it.’
‘Nothing is wrong with it.’
Still frowning, Thea went on. ‘I wondered if he’d once had a wife or a family. Maybe someone else used to read to him.’
‘Warswords take no wives. It’s one of the vows we make upon the Great Rite.’
‘Oh.’
Hawthorne hesitated a moment before he spoke again. ‘He’s lucky to have you,’ he said quietly.
His words caught Thea off-guard and she glanced across at him in surprise. He was a medley of contradictions, this Warsword. Rigid where he sat, jaw clenched, but those silver eyes… sadness brimmed there.
‘How do you know Malik?’ she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
‘All Warswords know one another,’ he replied.
‘Does that mean you’ll tell me about them all? You could start with who trained you.’
A smile softened the harsh lines of his face for a moment. ‘A fair effort, Alchemist.’
A quiet laugh escaped Thea. ‘Can’t blame a girl for trying.’
‘I suppose not.’ Hawthorne stretched out and stoked the fire. ‘You should get some rest,’ he told her.
For once, Thea did as the Warsword said.