Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty
Fadon
Their breaths created steam as they panted inches away from each other’s mouths, trying so hard to be silent. The ground was hard and cold, even with layers of furs underneath them. But Sierra felt so good in Fadon”s arms, his cock inside her heat, her body writhing underneath his, that he didn’t care if they were lying in a field of glass shards. All day he had been hungry for her, just like the day before and the day before that. Tonight was his night.
He kissed her jaw, his mouth finding her neck. There, her scent, his mark. His tongue sucked on the silken warm skin, and his balls tightened right before he flooded her with his seed and bit into her neck, marking her yet again. His hand was covering her mouth lest she let everyone know that she was being pleasured.
When he spent himself fully, he rested his forehead against hers, then kissed her sweetly. Her murmurs and whimpers, Ongar, all the sounds she made during and after were the most glorious sounds in existence. He couldn’t wait until she and he could have their own private space, a room with a bed and a fire burning in the hearth.
“Melerra,” he breathed. “I didn’t hurt you did I?”
“Mmm, not at all.” She stretched and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. “That was wonderful.”
He straightened their clothes and pulled a blanket over them, then held her. The tents on this part of the journey had to be shared with others and were just cover overhead, with the two parallel sides open to the night.
Fadon ran his fingers through Sierra’s hair, his other arm propped under his head, her hand resting on his stomach. Her breathing evened out and he knew she’d already found sleep. These nights on the road did that to people. But tonight, he was anything but sleepy.
They had left Providence six days ago. The travel had been wrought with hardship, but the cervos made the going so much easier than on horseback. It hadn’t snowed since that last night in Providence, but the snow that had been prominent all winter long was still dense, and the promise of it melting anytime soon was nil.
So far, there hadn’t been any incidents, and their pace was moderate, considering the conditions. There was plenty of food, adequate clothing and bedding. Finding dry wood had been a problem, but they had a system and the tools to have a fire going within the first hour of camp. The problem was it was just slow-going, the actual traveling. If all went accordingly, they’d be in Syrus Crossing sometime next week.
As long as it didn’t snow.
Around him he could hear the others in the tent settling down for bed, some whispering, a few chuckles, and the rustling of bedclothes. Outside he heard Lucius’s voice somewhere nearby, among the other voices of Ongahri. A few bleats and snorts from the cervos. But no crickets or bats or any wildlife. The effect was eerie and made Fadon’s skin feel strange. He was not one to commune with Nature, but he’d always listened to it when need be. What they were experiencing now wasn’t the beginning of spring like it should have been, but a season in stasis: the antithesis of Nature.
He didn’t like it one bit.
His mind wandered to Lucius, to Phobius’ revelation about Fadon’s father, like it had been for a while now. Had it not come from Phobius, Fadon would have never believed the truth about his father. King Gregoras was a rapist. What else did he not know about the man Fadon had admired, had loved? Everything he thought he knew about the late king was a lie, and now, there was a part of him that felt a need to make things right, to be his father’s missing conscience, to see… some kind of justice served for Lucius’ poor mother.
How disgusting, how despicable. But the only thing Fadon could do was to try to make an effort in getting to know Lucius. Somehow. Blood was blood, after all.
“Fadon?” someone whispered.
He turned his head to the right and made out his brother. “What is it, Ander?”
“Is she asleep?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Demos and Phobius need to speak with you.”
Fadon looked around the darkened tent at all the Ongahri males under the tent’s ceiling. He wasn’t about to leave Sierra sleeping in here without protection. Ander seemed to pick up on that, though, because he squatted down and took off his boots and coat.
“Get up and I’ll lie with her until you come back. Just wake me up if I fall asleep.”
Fadon huffed. “Fuck. Fine. You have a weapon on you? I’ll leave you my knife if not.”
Ander patted his side. “Got it on me. Go on, I’m cold.”
Fadon almost rolled his eyes. He reluctantly moved Sierra over. She mumbled something and turned to the other side. Ander took Fadon’s place and snuggled into the bedroll, pulling the blanket over him and Fadon’s mate.
“No funny stuff,” Fadon warned, only then remembering that Ander was probably the least likely person to touch Sierra in a way that Fadon would have to kill him for otherwise. “Never mind. Just guard her with your life.”
Ander grunted. “Go.”
“Leaving now.” Fadon pulled on his boots and wool cape, then headed out into the cold night. The other tent was several feet away, and when he went through, ducking under the canopy, he saw Demos and Phobius sitting in the back, a lantern burning on a makeshift table between them.
Fadon stepped over a few sleeping Ongahri and went over to the two strange brothers.
“Good, Ander found you,” Phobius said. “Have a seat.”
“What did you want?” Fadon asked, sitting down on a cushion of cloaks, wary. He didn’t care for Phobius. Something about him had always rubbed Fadon the wrong way, but he figured it was the crow part of him that mostly was the cause. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that shifters existed, nor that the man had been his father’s advisor. Had Phobius truly married Fadon’s parents?
Phobius crossed his arms, seeming both young and old at the same time. “Since Demos and I are the only ones who know the Basilica so well, we’ve been mapping things out, getting the logistics down in case things go… awry.”
“Awry.”
“Awry,” Phobius repeated. “There’s no doubt in my mind that Servant Sarbo escaped back to the Owl, and who knows what he told them. We need to be prepared. Therefore, we need your army, Captain.”
Fadon could appreciate a man who didn’t beat around the bush, but the man in front of him had balls.
“You do know,” Fadon reminded him, “that Goth Mor Helle is on top of a very high mountain? In this weather? Unless they are waiting at the foot of it right now, the logistics alone, of my men making it down in time, are slim to none, and I won’t risk their lives, Phobius.”
Phobius only looked at him, his smug handsome face impassive. “They could take the Glasius river down to the harbor, as many men as they can at a time, and sail to the Basilica’s port.”
It was a thought, but… “Lucius burned down our ship and our boats. I assume you were there, Phobius. I remember that stupid crow.”
“I had forgotten about the fire,” Demos said, finally joining in the conversation. “I was the one who saw it go down in flames.” He meaningfully looked at Fadon. “I was in my owl, searching for her that night. I was the one who had let you know.”
“Yes, I remember.” The mention of being “in” his owl brought so many things to light now. “So who was responsible, Phobius?” Fadon still was fuming over that.
“I was there, none of that happened, I assure you,” Phobius said.
“Then, again, who was it?”
Dark blue eyes narrowed. “It wasn’t us.”
“Fadon,” Demos said, leaning forward. “Is it possible the culprit you and your queen were looking for, the one who aided Servant Sarbo… perhaps they were responsible?”
Fadon rubbed his prickly chin. He missed his clean-shaven face.
“You can ask Lucius,” Phobius offered. “He will tell you the same. It was not us, Captain.”
Sighing, Fadon dropped his shoulders, feeling tired. “Fine. The point I was trying to make is that there are no vessels to use. Winter is always harsh on Great Mountain, and considering what we’ve seen so far in the lower lands? It will be impossible for my men to come.”
The three men sat defeated.
Fadon picked up the scent of a True Alpha.
“What is it?” Lucius asked, having come in to join them. “Where’s Sierra?” Fadon could smell the change in the House Dega leader’s scent as his territorial instinct went on high alert.
“She’s sleeping. Ander is with her,” Fadon replied. “She’s safe.”
Lucius looked relieved. “Then what is it?”
“Due to the winter that won’t stop giving,” Phobius provided, “we are on our own once we get to the Basilica. No Trajan army. It will be just our party here.”
Lucius didn’t seem alarmed by those odds. “We’ll be fine. More will join up, remember. I will give them a week to make an appearance, and if they haven’t shown up by then, we’ll make do. These are Servants we’re talking about facing, not a warrior encampment, Phobius.”
“Who do you think created that weapon, Chieftain?” Phobius lowered his chin. “Don’t underestimate them.”
“I have faith,” was all Lucius said.
Fadon scoffed at him. “Well, pass some along to us.”
They made it to Syrus Crossing a week and two days later. The Crossing was a fork: the right would lead north, home, to Goth Mor Helle; The left, west, would lead to the Journeymen’s Path, the path that would take them to The Owl Order. Fadon wanted more than anything to choose north, but even from this distance, the road was blocked by snow several feet high, unblemished, with neither animal nor man leaving a trace. The snow was packed seamlessly from the frigid dry air—impenetrable, dangerous. Hard as granite.
Even if he did want to go home, it was impossible.
Their party had grown somber a few days ago, Fadon and his inner circle especially. They had passed the cave where so much loss had occurred during Sierra’s first heat. Sierra had borne the grief well, though, sticking with her mates, who were always at her side no matter which male she rode with that day. Fadon had shown her the grave site where he had buried her watcher, though he was only able to point out the general area, not the specific place due to the snow. Later on that same day, Lucius, Demos, and Fadon had made it a goal to come back at a warmer time and build some kind of memorial to the young Lucinda, as well as the Ongahri men Fadon had lost that day back in autumn.
Now, Fadon shook his head at the darkness the memories were taking him. He looked around him, gathering his wits. He and Lucius were at the head of the line, now at the fork. They turned their cervos to face the group.
“The Basilica is a three-day ride,” Lucius called out in a strong, clear voice that could reach the farthest Ongahri in the back. “Since it is growing late, we’ll ride as far as we can on the Journeymen’s Path, then find a place in the woods at least a half-mile out to camp.”
A few acknowledgments were heard, but mostly the riders were content to just listen and wait for the signal to keep riding. Each rider was bundled up, sitting astride their wooly cervos, looking like giant toddlers on the Longest Night, readying for a sleigh ride. Fadon glanced to the front, where Sierra rode with Demos. Both shared a thick blanket. Fadon could only make out Sierra’s teal eyes, as the rest of her was covered up. When she gave him a wink, he couldn’t help the grin that lifted the corners of his mouth.
Soon, he would have her in his arms. Tonight was his night to have her again, and it couldn’t come soon enough.
Like a reoccurring dream where the landscape never changed, they rode for several more hours. At least here the path had been marginally clear, being flat and well-trodden enough for snow to have moved on, packing into a thin icy path. Yet it was still work for the cervos, and every few paces chunks of dirty snow and ice would hit the riders from the sides and the front as they rode onward.
They trekked through the woods and found a clearing, but it was too thick with pine to erect both canopies side-by-side, instead they were separated by a good walk between. No one cared, however, not when the fires burned, food was passed around, and saddle bags were unpacked.
It wasn’t long before Fadon had Sierra in his arms, kissing her, making her warm. Their joining was fast and heated, and in no time they were asleep.
Sometime, hours later, Ander was at his side, and Fadon jerked awake.
“What is it?”
“Mari’s here, Fadon.”
Fadon sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Here?”
Ander pointed a thumb. “A scout found us. Jeris. They are camping a mile out. Jeris just went to tell her the news.”
If his sister was here, that meant she’d brought her army. Maybe things weren’t so bleak after all.
Ongar be thanked.