Chapter 24 #2
‘I’m trying to find Warsword Hawthorne,’ she replied with more confidence than she felt. She hadn’t thought how it might look with her returning a warrior’s clothing…
‘Hawthorne doesn’t live in the fortress,’ Esyllt told her, his brow furrowed. ‘What’d you want with him?’
Thea squirmed inwardly, wishing she’d thought things through. ‘I have some of his belongings he loaned me from our journey to Harenth,’ she said. ‘I was hoping to return them.’
Esyllt made a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat. ‘Well, he’s not here. He’s got a cabin on the western foot of the mountains.’
‘Right. Can I leave these things with you then, Sir?’
Esyllt’s arms folded over his chest and he gave her a hard look. ‘I’m no delivery boy, Althea. You’ve got a task, do it yourself.’
‘Yes, Sir. I just… I wasn’t sure if it would be… appropriate?’
‘Appropriate?’ the weapons master scoffed. ‘That ship has sailed. What’s less appropriate? Returning a Warsword’s belongings in a less than timely fashion, or holding onto them for weeks?’
Thea gaped at him.
‘I’d run, not walk, if I was you,’ he prompted.
‘Where —’
‘Do I look like a map? Figure it out yourself.’ And with that, the tetchy weapons master strode in the opposite direction and into a private residence, slamming the door behind him.
‘Gods,’ Thea muttered, shaking her head and peering down at the clothes she still held. She went back to the Great Hall where some of her cohort still lingered and she asked around.
‘Surely someone here has been there? On an errand? To deliver a message?’
‘Nope,’ Lachin mumbled around a spoonful of custard, slurping loudly. ‘He’s private. Doesn’t want the likes of us around him at the best of times, let alone after hours, eh?’
Thea ground her teeth. ‘That doesn’t exactly help me.’
‘I can’t know what I don’t know.’ Lachin shrugged, before his spoon stopped midway to his mouth and he stared at her, brow furrowed. ‘You look different.’
Thea gestured to her hair casually. ‘No braid.’
‘Right…’ Lachin said, seemingly still perplexed, before he remembered himself. He gave another shrug. ‘It’s a good different.’
Thea rolled her eyes. ‘Gee, thanks.’
Just as she was about to give up and retire to the dormitories, she half-collided with Torj in front of Three Furies.
‘What are you up to?’ he asked, leaning against the monument.
Thea looked around for the Guild Master, knowing he wouldn’t stand for a show of such disrespect, but he was nowhere in sight and Torj was looking down at her expectantly.
‘I’m trying to find Warsword Hawthorne, I need to return some things to him.’
‘Is that so?’ Amusement gleamed in Torj’s eyes.
‘Yes,’ Thea replied, trying not to sound frustrated. ‘No one will tell me where his cabin is.’
‘I can tell you that,’ he informed her smoothly.
Thea blinked. ‘I’d appreciate it,’ she managed.
‘Well, he certainly won’t,’ Torj said with a laugh, but he leaned in and told her the way.
At last, with Torj’s instructions memorised, Thea buttoned up her cloak and lit a torch. Bracing herself against the wind, she went to find the Warsword’s cabin.
Taking the hidden trail beyond the training arena, Thea navigated the spindly forest. It was different to the Bloodwoods south of the fortress, many of the trees were already bare for the upcoming winter.
In the near distance, the mountains loomed beneath the glowing orb of the moon and soon, she heard the roaring of the falls.
She must have walked through the dark for over half an hour, repeating the directions she’d been given in her head before she saw the soft glow of candlelight up ahead filtering through small, square windows.
Tendrils of smoke coiled into the crisp night air from the chimney, drifting dreamily up into the sky as she approached.
Suddenly nervous, Thea stood on the small porch, raising a fist to the door and knocked loudly. She waited, straining to hear any noise from within the cabin.
It was silent.
She knocked again. Her stomach was churning. What if she woke him? What if there was someone in there with him? Or what if he wasn’t in? Could she leave his clothes on the front step? She stepped back, trying to decide what to do —
The door flew inward; the frame filled by a huge figure.
Wilder Hawthorne gripped a white towel slung low around his hips, and in the other hand brandished a dagger.
Her dagger , Thea realised, before all the thoughts emptied out of her head.
He was naked, save for the towel, and he was dripping wet.
Water sluiced down his body, following the carved paths of his broad chest, down the ridges of his abdomen, a ragged scar there, and lower, to the V-shaped grooves that disappeared beneath the fabric of his towel.
Droplets clung to the dark dusting of hair across his torso and Thea couldn’t look away.
His body… Well, it had been made by the gods, honed by —
‘What are you doing here?’ he growled, lowering the weapon.
Thea’s mouth had gone dry. She had to clear her throat before she found her words. ‘I came to return your things – your cloak and your shirt. Do you always answer the door like this?’
‘Do you always show up to places uninvited?’ He made a disgruntled noise. ‘How’d you find this cabin?’
‘Torj told me how to get here.’
‘Of course he did,’ Hawthorne scoffed, still holding the towel that hung dangerously low. He didn’t exactly invite her in, but he stepped back and left the door ajar, so she entered.
As her shock subsided, she studied the tattoo that she’d glimpsed before, the pattern that trailed from his left hand all the way up his arm and shoulder, and down the same side of his powerfully built back.
Upon closer inspection, she saw it was an extensive artwork of black whorls and a language she didn’t recognise – except for one section.
A line of text that ran parallel to his spine: it was the same text engraved on the blade of her dagger, the dagger now in his possession.
It took all of Thea’s willpower not to close the gap between them and run her fingers down the words.
‘What does it mean?’ Her cheeks flamed as she spoke. ‘The text on your back, I mean. It’s the same as the inscription on my dagger.’
‘Still insisting it’s your dagger…’
‘It is.’ Thea waited, watching as Hawthorne faced her again, still in his gods-damned towel, twirling the aforementioned dagger between his fingers. He looked from the steel to her, considering – always considering.
‘It means: Glory in death, immortality in legend . It’s written in the ancient tongue of the Furies – the original Warswords.’
Thea forced herself to swallow the lump in her throat. ‘Are you going to get dressed?’
The corner of Hawthorne’s mouth tugged upward, showing a hint of that dimple she knew lay beneath his beard. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Am I making you uncomfortable?’
‘It’s…’
‘Distracting?’ he finished for her.
‘Yes,’ she said, unamused, only just realising that she’d balled up his freshly laundered cloak and shirt in her hands.
She dropped them onto a bench that lined the wall, heat flooding her body.
She had to look away from him. She glanced around the inside of the cabin.
It was not at all what she expected. Unlike the Warsword himself, it was warm and welcoming.
A small fire crackled in the hearth and an array of potted plants were positioned all over the room, adding a pop of colour.
A table and chairs were shoved up against the wall beneath one of the windows, and two tattered armchairs sat before the fire.
‘Don’t even think about making yourself at home,’ came that deep, rumbling voice.
Thea nearly jumped.
He re-entered the room still barefoot but wearing loose-fitting pants, an unbuttoned shirt hanging over his chiselled body as he surveyed her.
‘You seem to have healed well enough,’ he commented.
‘Thanks to my sister,’ Thea replied. ‘And to you,’ she said earnestly. ‘I’m not sure what would have happened to me if you hadn’t helped that day.’
‘You would have died in a broom closet.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’
‘Let’s see it then.’
Thea baulked, her skin suddenly tingling. ‘See what?’
‘Your wound. How it’s healed.’
‘It’s fine. My sister —’
‘Show me.’ It was not a request. Command laced his voice and Thea knew from experience that the Warsword was used to getting his way.
For that fact alone she wanted to be the one to deny him. ‘No,’ she said.
He was a blur of movement and suddenly she was pinned to the wall; her cloak pushed aside and her shirt untucked and lifted, revealing the bare skin of her side beneath, and the fresh, pink scar that marred it.
‘Don’t you usually offer your guests a drink before you rip their clothes off?’ she muttered, trying to ignore the heat of his body so close to hers.
‘Not usually, no.’
But she heard the whistle of air between his teeth as his fingers grazed the newly healed wound. ‘He should have been flayed for this.’
Goosebumps rushed across Thea’s skin at the contact, and she could have sworn invisible lightning crackled between them.
‘He’ll get what’s coming to him,’ Thea vowed.
Hawthorne’s fingers lingered on the scar, sending a forceful current racing through her. ‘You’re going to have to be stronger and faster than this when that day comes.’
Gods, he was close. Thea would only have to lift her head and lean in for his lips to be on hers. Her traitorous body nearly did exactly that as she inhaled that intoxicating rosewood scent, as she felt the heat from his freshly bathed body radiate onto her.
‘I will be,’ Thea promised, her voice hoarse, her hand reaching for the hem of her shirt to drag it down.
Hawthorne seemed to hesitate, his hand suspended by her hip, as though he wanted to —
He stepped back, and the warmth between their bodies snuffed out. ‘You’re becoming a constant thorn in my side, Alchemist.’
Momentarily stunned, Thea tucked her shirt back in a tad too vigorously. ‘I may be a thorn in your side, but you know well enough by now I’m not an alchemist.’