Chapter 5
Chapter five
Petur
In the end, it took them over a week to find the last group of mages terrorizing the border.
In another life, Petur would have been annoyed by the inefficiency of it.
He would have been irritated that the mages had learned from the mistakes of their fallen comrades, using everything from spells to physical traps to scent blockers to obscure their location.
He would have railed about the waste of time and possibly even done something rash that might have gotten himself or his people into real trouble.
In this life, though, Petur found himself not only sanguine about the delay but satisfied by it. Every day they spent searching was another day he got to spend with Deyvid. And every day with Deyvid was one more chance to convince him to come back to Delomar.
The biggest sticking point was Deyvid himself, who was resolutely against the idea.
“The last place I need to be is in the capital of a country that loathes me,” Deyvid said flatly when Petur brought it up.
“Not every Riyalian loathes you,” Petur said.
“You only think that because you’re insulated from the things common people say about High Harriers,” Deyvid replied. “I’m not bothered,” he added. “No one likes us, not even our own people. We’re a necessary evil on the plains.”
“Why necessary, though?” Petur asked as they stretched their legs out by the fire on the fifth night of their fruitless search.
“What is it about your abilities that makes your position a necessity for your people? From what I understand, Harriers aren’t dedicated magic users.
So what advantage does not being affected by magic bring you? ”
“Quite a bit in situations like this,” Deyvid pointed out, but Petur wasn’t going to let himself be redirected again. Deyvid was taciturn to the point of mute, and he had a way of turning questions around that made Petur forget what he’d been asking in the first place.
It was a smart habit, dare he say even a sexy one, but just because he appreciated it didn’t mean he wanted to fall prey to it when he was busy being curious.
“Obviously, you’re very useful right now,” Petur said.
“But neither of the countries your clans border have many offensive magic users. Bekkon’s too small to muster a comprehensive magical force, and well, you know how we Riyalians look at things. So why?”
Deyvid turned from Petur to gaze into the fire, the flicker of the flames reflecting in his pale eyes as he considered the question.
“We’re told,” he said after a minute, “that it’s a symbol of our dedication. Giving up our souls proves that we value our families over everything else, including the gods.”
“It’s surprising that the gods let you give up your soul, in that case,” Petur quipped.
“That’s the thing.” Deyvid shook his head.
“They don’t. Nothing about how I was turned into a High Harrier had anything to do with godliness.
It was …” He closed his eyes. “I can’t even really remember the process.
It took a long time and started when I was very young.
I remember feeling cold and dazed. I remember getting so skinny I could see my bones through my skin.
I remember feeling sick for days on end …
” Deyvid trailed off, then opened his eyes again.
“Being a High Harrier is supposed to mean that my dedication to my clan and the will of our clan leader comes first and foremost.”
“But in your case, it didn’t,” Petur said.
“It did for years,” Deyvid parried. “From the time I was nine to the age of twenty, I followed my father’s dictates almost to the letter.
I killed”—his gaze went hazy—“many people. So many people, all on his command. I didn’t think twice about it at first or feel any particular sadness because of it.
It was hard to feel anything for a long time.
The only satisfaction I got was through obedience.
“Then eventually I married and had a daughter, and—”
“Wha—wait, what?” Petur sputtered as he held up a hand. “I’m sorry, what? You’re married?”
“Not anymore,” Deyvid said easily, like he hadn’t just set Petur’s mind spinning. “When I repudiated my clan, I repudiated the marriage as well. I honestly don’t think my wife minded. We were never very close.”
“And you have a child?” Petur pressed.
“A daughter,” Deyvid said, a note of tenderness entering his voice. “Her name is Alie. She’s coming up on ten years old now.”
Petur felt his way through the next part cautiously. “You thought it would be best to, uh, leave her with your clan?”
He wasn’t careful enough. Deyvid looked away, his demeanor frosting over in an instant.
“Rather than dragging her into a world filled with people who would kill her as soon as look at her? Yes,” he spat.
“I do think that leaving her with my clan was preferable to that. It’s not as if the life I’m living is an easy one. ”
“No, no, I understand,” Petur said, raising his hands innocently. “I’m not second-guessing you. I can’t say whether what you did as a parent was right or wrong. I only—I imagine it’s hard for you to be apart from her.”
“It is,” Deyvid admitted, thawing a bit.
Petur breathed an internal sigh of relief.
“I miss her terribly. It’s been five years, but—” He shook his head.
“I can still perfectly recall the way she looked the night I left. She was sleeping beside her mother. I’d braided her hair that night, but it was already starting to come undone.
There were all these little blonde tufts sticking up, and I was so tempted to smooth them down for her.
” He rubbed his hands together absently.
“I wanted to kiss her cheek, but I was afraid of waking her up. So I just … I just left.”
Triple gods, what a tale. “Well, that’s terrible,” Petur murmured. “And now here you are.”
“And here I am,” Deyvid agreed.
“Clearly, the gods have a sense of humor, to bring a runaway High Harrier and an itinerant prince together.”
“The will of the gods doesn’t concern me,” Deyvid said, finally lying down on his bedroll. “And I’m sure I don’t concern them. Face it, we’re not fate. We’re just—we met by chance. There’s nothing special about us, and when we part, it will be for good.”
“I don’t want it to be for good.”
Deyvid shrugged and closed his eyes. “You don’t always get what you want, astonishingly. Sleep well, Petur.”
His breathing evened out quickly, and he was asleep before Petur could formulate a suitably dramatic comeback. “Bastard,” he whispered, “showing me up like that.”
Petur wasn’t going to let it stand, of course. He would find a way to convince Deyvid to come back with him to Delomar if it was the last thing he did.
He wasn’t even sure why he felt so strongly about it, only that he’d never been as drawn to someone with such strength and speed as he had with Deyvid. The man was wholly unique, deliciously frustrating, and it didn’t hurt that he was achingly sexy.
Petur ran through his best arguments over and over again as the night wore on.
He could have been sleeping, probably should have been sleeping—there was a watch out, and he needed the rest—but he couldn’t make himself relax.
He needed to find a way, some way, that would convince Deyvid to give coming with him to Delomar a chance. Perhaps if he—
Petur froze as every hair on his body seemed to rise at once. That was all the warning he got before absolute chaos descended on their camp.
“Up!” he roared, his voice shifting into its bestial range as he took his warrior form.
Petur’s clothes shredded around him, and he ran for the edge of camp as the air around them began to glow.
He didn’t know this spell, but if he could end the caster’s life before it exploded, or caught them on fire, or—
It didn’t do either of those things. Instead, the glowing pockets of air coalesced into four humanoid figures. They were rough-hewn, without facial features or individual fingers. Petur attacked the closest one with a snarl, then faltered as it evaporated in his grip.
“I don’t understand!” Rhys called out from where he was swiping his sword at one of them. “They’re not doing any damage! What’s the point?”
“Guard your blades!” Deyvid called out, but it was too late.
Two of the figures had managed to snatch swords from where they’d been laid down by Petur’s people, and the other two grabbed whatever they could bring to hand.
In one case it was a branch, in another the metal pot still hot on the fire.
Then all four of them, in eerie synchronization, went after Deyvid.
Fuck. Whoever was in charge of this group of mages had finally honed in on the worst threat among them.
Their magic couldn’t touch Deyvid, but real metal blades could.
Deyvid, of course, was already on his feet and parrying the attacks like they were nothing, but four against one wasn’t sustainable forever.
“Go get the mages!” he shouted at Petur. And Petur knew he should, it was the smart thing to do, and yet he couldn’t bear the thought of being away from Deyvid right now.
“Brannan,” he shouted instead, and his sergeant nodded and led the rest of their squad to fan out into the woods. Hopefully, it wasn’t too dangerous for them out there.
One of the attackers broke off and came for Petur with the branch.
He wrenched it away with a snarl and ripped it in two, to make it a less-attractive bludgeon for the magical golem, then flung the pieces aside.
The golem in front of him vanished, which made him feel satisfied for half a second before he realized what that meant.
Petur spun around and saw that the golem had rematerialized near Deyvid. Worse, it grabbed the sword that Petur had left by his bedroll and was swinging it at Deyvid’s back without him even being aware of it.