Breathe (The Destiny Series: Book 1) (8 page)

“Well? What are you waiting for?” Dearra demanded. “Open the door!”

“But, Dearra,” Bryan stammered, clearly at a loss for words.

“Absolutely not!” Jacob stated. “Lord Hugh ordered us to keep watch over the prisoner!”

“So? Keep watch. No one’s stopping you.” Dearra took a step forward and placed a hand on the heavy board barring the door. As she braced herself to lift the board up and out of her way, Jacob’s hand clamped down on her upper arm.

“I said, no, Dearra.”

“Let go of me immediately.” Dearra’s voice was calm and cool, but a bolt of panic swept through her as the grip tightened painfully around her arm. Her temper flared to life. She saw Bryan take a step back, recognizing the golden flames that sprang to life in Dearra’s eyes. Bryan had always been a friend to Dearra, and the look of fear on his face unsettled her where nothing else would have. Though the pain in her arm increased along with the pressure of Jacob’s grip, Dearra took a slow deep breath before speaking in as calm a voice as she could muster under the circumstances, “You’re hurting me.” Dearra’s voice shook with the effort it was costing her to remain in control, but only slightly so.

Bryan’s eyes popped wide open, and his jaw dropped as far as it could go as he stared at the scene in front of him in disbelief.

Two sounds came to Dearra almost simultaneously, one in her head, the other clearly coming from the other side of the door. The first was easily recognizable.

I’ll bet you wish I was there now, don’t you, Fuzzy?
Her sword spoke in an ‘I told you so’ manner that grated on her nerves. And that nickname was going to wear quickly thin.

Who knew the blasted thing could hear her thoughts even when it wasn’t with her?

The second sound was indistinguishable at first, but as it grew in intensity, there could be no doubt the prisoner behind the heavy door was…no, he couldn’t be…but he was. Dearra could clearly hear that the fierce Breken warrior was…growling a low, throaty sound. Jacob hastily loosened his hold, though he did not let go completely.

Things could have gone badly had Daniel not chosen that exact moment to make an appearance at the base of the stairs.

Daniel spoke, and the fierce growl coming from behind the door ceased abruptly.

“Is everything alright here, Dearra?” Daniel’s eyes (and ears for that matter), had assessed the situation rapidly, and if he were to be honest with himself, he had to say that, in this circumstance, he was completely with the Breken.

Jacob took a wise step away from Dearra before speaking again. “Of course, Daniel.” A simpering smile appeared on Jacob’s face as he continued. “Dearra was…confused. She thought to enter the room with the Breken dog, and so, naturally, I had to protect her.”

“Protect her from what, exactly? One injured man against Dearra with the two of you standing guard just feet away? Open the door, Jacob,” Daniel said, daring Jacob to contradict his instructions, “and when you’ve finished with that, please fetch Serah to take your place at watch. You’ve clearly had a busy day and are deserving of some rest.”

“You want Serah, Daniel? Wouldn’t one of the men be better suited to…?”

Daniel raised one brow at the now tongue tied Jacob, who went at once to remove the board barring the way to the prisoner, then turned and left without another word.

“I’ll be right here for you, Dearra. Until Serah arrives.”

“Thank you, Daniel.” Dearra reached out, patted Daniel’s arm in gratitude, and walked into the storeroom turned cell.

A scowl grew on Dearra’s face as she saw no blankets, nor food, nor even water, for that matter, had been brought to the prisoner. She quickly stuck her head back through the door and instructed Bryan to bring some of each to her immediately. Having witnessed Daniel’s ire with Jacob, Bryan didn’t need to be told twice, and was gone almost before Dearra was done speaking. Dearra closed the door before turning back to her patient and lowered herself beside him on the wooden floor. He was large, of course, but seemed smaller than many of the Breken she had seen earlier that day. He was, maybe, only six and a half feet tall. His skin was the beautiful, copper color she remembered from their earlier encounter, though it was harder to see now, with only one small torch lighting the room. His thick, black hair looked even blacker, if that was possible, with the blood matted and dried in the strands. And then there were his eyes, made even more glorious by the flickering light of the torch, that deep, rich brown with flashes of gold. They looked right into Dearra, and her breath quickened, and she had to look away. She busied herself opening her bag, and laying out all of the contents before her to better evaluate what she would need. The young Breken watched her intently as she worked; she could feel his eyes on her as she arranged and rearranged bandages, unguents and salves in a neat row.

Bryan returned with the water, two blankets, and some fresh bread and soft cheese. Dearra handed the young warrior a chunk of bread and some of the chilled water, and dipped a soft cloth in the bowl of steaming water Bryan had brought in anticipation of her needs. He shied away as she reached to begin cleaning his head wound, but then held himself still as she worked. Dearra noticed the pained look on his face and paused.

“What is it?” she asked hesitantly. “Am I hurting you? You can tell me if I am. Please, you look so…strange.”

He didn’t speak, but raised a hand, ever so slowly, and traced the bruise just beginning to show on her upper arm.

Dearra froze at his touch and the jolt running down her arm as his fingers brushed, feather light over the red bloom making itself evident on her pale skin.

“Why?” he asked softly, the deep timbre to his voice strong and menacing in the small room.

“Well…” Dearra spoke the word and had to swallow to begin again, the feel of his hand on her arm making her mouth go suddenly dry. “I have always bruised easily. It’s a terrible nuisance, but I’ve gotten used to it.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, and though his hand had dropped back to his side, his eyes never left the mark marring her porcelain skin. “I meant, why did you do it? Why did you challenge him just to come in here?”

“Oh! Well, you needed attention. Your wounds aren’t going to clean themselves, you know.” She was relieved to have such a simple answer to give, though he seemed genuinely startled by her response.

Dearra dipped the cloth in the water again and continued to do what she could to clean the nasty lump at the back of the Breken’s head. She leaned in close in the dim light, to get a closer look, probing as gently as she could to make sure the injury wasn’t more serious than it seemed.

The silence of the room enveloped her, and she couldn’t, at first, identify what had changed. She looked down at the Breken sitting placidly before her, and realized that, in her effort to get a better view, she had provided the Breken with a view of his own—her chest was directly in front of his face. His jaw was clenched tightly, and his eyes stared straight ahead, as though he were completely unaware of what was right before him, but Dearra noticed that the silence she had sensed had been due to the fact that the fierce warrior was no longer breathing in his efforts to remain completely still. She eased back from him and returned to her bag of supplies pretending to not have noticed the awkward moment, but she couldn’t stop the grin that spread across her face when she heard him exhale loudly behind her.

She finished with her task, and after gently covering him in one of the blankets, turned to leave.

“Wait!”

Dearra turned back to face him as he spoke. “Yes?”

“Thank you…Dearra.”

His voice was rough and the words were spoken haltingly as if they were words he was not used to speaking. She had not introduced herself, but it was not surprising that he knew her name, as at least a dozen people must have used it around him today. Still, it was presumptuous of him to speak to her with such familiarity without her consent.

A small smile lit her face and she said, “You are truly welcome…Darius.”

His eyes flew open wide, as he knew he had definitely not given
his
name to anyone.

Dearra left the room with a grin on her face.
Let him ponder
that
for a while
, she thought.

Darius’s days blended one into another, the only bright spot being when Dearra would flit into his room, bringing food and a medicinal salve that she would gently apply to his head wound. He wanted to tell her that his head was fine now, but he was concerned it might end her visits altogether. The guard, Jacob, had not returned to his post at the door, but had been replaced by a rotation of less hot headed keepers in his stead. This was a very good thing…for Jacob. With nothing to do but think, Darius had come up with some inventive ways to repay Jacob for the marks he had left on Dearra’s arm. He shook his head and smiled at the thought of the tiny warrior.

He had heard that these people used both men and women to fight their battles. His trainers had instructed him not to underestimate their skill, but the sight of the fragile beauty with the sword in her hand had stunned him. She didn’t look large enough to lift the sword, let alone use it. Then he remembered his own part in the battle and decided he would be wise to not throw too many stones, as he had spent most of the fight face down in the dirt. Distracted by a pretty face—what would his father say to that?

His heart wasn’t in the fight, anyway, and he had gone to great lengths to merely disable rather than seriously wound or kill as a result. This was his chance to prove himself one of them, worthy of the name Breken. He was old for this to be his first true test of battle, but his skill was such that he had been able to convince his family his talents would be better utilized as a teacher, but his father had sensed a weakness in his son. Darius was tremendously gifted with the sword, but lacked the cruelty of his race. Prone to pulling back on the practice field, or overlooking an insult, he mostly chose not to participate in the crueler games played by his kinsman. His excuses for this were always the same: it was foolish to damage a valuable slave, or the humiliation of loss would better teach his student than a broken arm.

His father had accepted this up to a point, but enough was enough. The boy was nineteen years old and had yet to bloody his sword in battle, and so he was sent to fight against the Maj.

Life as a Breken was a perilous thing. From the moment a boy reached the age of five they were sent from their own homes to training academies and forced to defend themselves against rivals for position and ranking. Weapons skill was first thing they learned. If a child lacked skill with at least one weapon, some “accident” or another invariably occurred, thereby removing the weak, genetic link from society. If a child could be trained sufficiently with weapons, he was deemed worthy enough to learn how to read and write in his seventh year. All of Breken life was about moving up in the world, and who had the most power, the most slaves, and the most skilled warriors were the concerns of everyday life.

Darius had always been an enigma to his family, from his eyes, to his reluctance to vie for better standing (which he could have certainly attained with ease), to his almost completely useless magical ability. His father had ranted and raved about “the fool priest” who had tattooed Darius on his fourteenth birthday. An ability to understand animals? What purpose could that serve? If you wanted an animal to do your bidding, you simple beat it. What more was there to know?

A small tap at the door caught Darius’s attention. He chuckled to himself, knowing it had to be Dearra. Who else would knock to request entry to a prisoner’s cell?

“Come in, Dearra,” he called mildly.

The door swung open and Dearra bounced lightly into the room with almost childlike enthusiasm, as always, the magnificent sword belted at her waist. A finely crafted scabbard of worked leather held the blade securely to her side.

“Oh! You’re standing,” she said. He noticed a small frown line, etched into her forehead.

“I thought you would be pleased. Or was the salve you’ve been applying meant to poison me?” He spoke these words sincerely, but a wicked grin spread across his face.

“Of course not. It’s just that…well…” Dearra struggled to find the right words, unable to tell him she was sorry he didn’t need her anymore. What would he think of her?

Oh, for the love of all things sacred, girl. Say something. He’s going to think you’re an idiot.

You mind your own business,
Dearra shot back to the intrusive voice in her head.

“Dearra?” Darius spoke with some concern.

“I…umm…I was just going to say…well…I need to check the wound and…uh…I can’t when you’re standing. You’re too tall for me to see it properly.”

Nice save.

“Oh! Of course. I can sit if it will make it easier.” He lowered himself gracefully to the floor.

“It’s looking much better,” she said as her fingers skillfully checked the wound. “Hardly any bump at all now, and I think the danger of infection has passed,” If Darius noticed her hand strayed a bit too long in his soft locks, he didn’t give any indication.

She stepped abruptly away, and he lifted his eyes to her, expectantly.

“Darius? What’s wrong with you?” Dearra asked without preamble.

Lovely, just lovely
, the voice in her head chided.
You’ve been holding out on me, girl. You’re a true diplomat at heart, aren’t you?

Darius tilted his head, as he tried to reason through what Dearra was asking him.

Darn
, thought Dearra,
that wasn’t very good, was it?
“What I meant was, you seem very different from the other Breken who came here,” she said. I have never heard of a Breken warrior who hesitated to kill an enemy. You seem quite in control of yourself and…well…kind of…nice, even.”

“I don’t have the same…ambitions as the rest of my people. And to be honest, I couldn’t quite bring myself to kill a little girl with no defenses. It seemed somehow… unsporting,” he said, his tone, mocking.

In a flash, Brin was in her hand and at Darius’s throat. “Hardly defenseless,” she said, her words as sharp as the weapon she wielded.

Nice temper, Fuzzy. That will surely win him over.

She ignored the statement and held her ground. To his credit, he never flinched, but reached out a slow hand to push the tip of the sword away from his throat and in a slightly safer direction.

“My apologies, Lady Dearra.” He got to his feet, his face unreadable. “I’ll not doubt your ability to defend yourself in the future. I had forgotten that even a kitten has claws.”

“I…You…How dare you! I am not a kitten!” The words were lame, even to her own ears, but she was unable to take them back now.

“Was there anything else, Dearra?” he asked in a bored voice.

Unbelievable! He was dismissing her! How dare he? She would have liked to storm from the room, but that would be giving him exactly what he wanted. So, instead, she sheathed her sword and adopted an imperious tone. “No. I also came to inform you that my father will be coming to speak with you this evening after supper. He will decide the best way to deal with you.”

Now that she had had her say, she did turn, and left the room without a backward glance.

That wasn’t very nice, girl,
Brin said, his tone disapproving.
You made it sound as though his fate was going to be quite grim. Your father has no intention of harming the boy. Darius has been quite kind to you.

Huh! Serves him right,
she thought.
Kitten, indeed! And how come you use his name when you speak of him, and I am always just girl or Fuzzy? Plus, what’s with letting him touch you to push you aside? One little sizzle would have killed you?

Respect.

“Respect!” Dearra blurted aloud. “Respect for him?”

Yes.

It seemed the sword had decided that was enough talk for one day, as no further explanation was forthcoming. The silence following gave Dearra plenty of time to replay her own actions and words over in her mind. She really had made a mess of things. She wasn’t a cruel person, and felt the need to go back and apologize. She wanted to tell Darius there was nothing to fear from her father, but her pride pricked at her, and since it wasn’t really that long until supper, she decided she had best leave well enough alone for now.

She had planned to spend a large portion of the afternoon with Darius. Now that those plans had been so inconveniently altered, she turned, instead, to go to Daniel’s room and spend some time with the weapons master. The sight that greeted her when she entered took her by surprise. She had expected to find Daniel quite alone. Instead, the room was filled with several dozen Maj warriors and ship builders. At the center of the group stood Daniel, Lord Hugh, and Carly. Carly must have just returned. Dearra was about to run to her friend and embrace her in welcome, but the sharp words being spoken halted her steps.

“No help? No help at all?” Hugh’s tone was angry and disbelieving at once.

Carly shook her head. “His majesty believes, at this time, it would be too dangerous for the mainland to spare any ships to help with Phillip’s recovery.”

Dearra was taken aback. With everything that had happened lately, she had been unaware that a runner had been sent to Carly with news of Phillip’s capture, and to request assistance from the king.

“We give our lives for them and he will not render aid in return?”

Carly was as upset as anyone about the loss of Pip. More, even, for he was like a little brother to her, but she also saw things from the king’s point of view. If the Breken were active again, it would be foolhardy to split up what few ships remained to attempt the rescue of one little boy. The King of Mirin Tor was nothing if not practical. He probably felt badly for the people of Maj and did appreciate their sacrifice, but he had to think of the greater good and the safety of all of his people.

Carly spoke again, her words full of sympathy for the torment Hugh must be feeling, “He did send a dozen of his best shipwrights, Lord. Surely, with their help, we will be able to build a ship quickly and launch a rescue attem—” Seeing the dangerous look in Hugh’s eyes, she quickly amended her sentence. “A…umm…a rescue mission.”

“Even with the assistance, it will take several months to get the ship built and ready, and that’s working through the winter. We will have to wait until the ice breaks in the spring to begin,” Daniel said solemnly.

“That’s too long!” Lord Hugh raged. “Who knows what they will do to him in that time?”

Dearra stepped forward and gave Carly’s hand a quick squeeze of welcome before making her way to her father’s side. “They will do nothing to him, Father. He is too valuable to them as a hostage. We all know the Breken thrive on power and station. Would they be so foolish as to throw away this opportunity?” Her voice softened to a whisper as she spoke only to her father, and said, “Think, Father…he is a brave, little boy, and you raised him well. He will know we are coming and he will do what needs to be done to keep himself safe until we can reach him. Even if we could leave now, it would be for nothing. By the time we retrieved Pip and started back, we would surely be trapped by the grip of the winter ice on our return. Then we would
all
need saving.”

Hugh raised a hand to his daughter’s face and gently smoothed away a stray lock that had escaped her braid. Without looking up, he spoke to those assembled. “Begin the building at once. And…send our thanks to King Jaymes.” Though it galled Hugh to add that last, diplomacy was ingrained in him, and he knew that to anger a king when not strictly necessary was beyond foolish. Best not to close any doors so tightly they couldn’t be opened again.

The group dispersed as plans were put in place, and Daniel and Hugh retreated to the far corner of the room. The two men planned an expedition into the forest to harvest and bring back the tall, straight trees that grew in only a few spots, surrounded by the more common gnarn trees. These would provide the masts needed for the new ship.

Dearra drifted toward Carly and hugged her friend closely.

“Oh, Dearra, I’m so sorry about Pip. I wanted to be here with you when I heard the news, but there was no way.” Carly gave a small sob and she hugged Dearra more fiercely.

“I know, Carly. I wanted to be with you too. So much has happened, and I had no friend to confide in.”

Carly sighed. “And now I can’t even stay. I have to go back again to relay the message to the king and see if there are any further instructions.”

“You don’t mind, do you, Carly? My father relies on you so much in these matters.”

“No, I guess not. It’s just that I feel so useless, Dearra. I want to fight by my people’s side, but I am too small and weak. Had I been here I could have at least looked after Pip and he would be safe with us now.”

Dearra shook her head at her friend’s words. “Don’t say that, Carly! You know how Pip is; he would have found a way. And you are needed! Who else could do what you do and do it so well? Can you imagine Father sending me, for example, to bring calm and rational messages to the king? What do you think
my
response would have been when he refused aid?”

Despite herself, Carly couldn’t suppress the image conjured in her mind, and she let out a hearty laugh at the thought. “Peace, Dearra,” she said. “No more, or I will laugh myself silly.” She paused. “But truly, I have missed you. I see you have some stories of your own to tell,” she said, looking at the sword belted at Dearra’s side. “And I hear we have a visitor with us. A visitor you have taken it upon yourself to look after.”