There was no more adrenaline or fear left to heat my body. I was depleted and knew I had to find shelter. Had to make a choice. Balen’s image flashed in my mind, the closeness of his face as we’d knelt on the Great Hall floor, the unrelenting expression as he stared at me for what had seemed like an age, but, in truth, had only been a mere moment. His very being had overwhelmed me. Though, that wasn’t surprising. He was a leader, a king, a champion who had lived longer than most.
He’d simply left me in his tent. No guards. No bindings. I wasn’t a prisoner.
I went back.
No alarms had been raised, no activity abounded as they searched for me. It was quiet in the encampment. The scent of meat roasting on an open fire made my mouth water. Low voices drifted on the wind. I followed the back row of tents until I came to the one I’d left, stopping just short of going in to brush off my cloak. Once that was done, I lifted the back flap to the washing tent and ducked inside.
Blessed warmth greeted me. I stayed there for a long time, rubbing my hands together and letting the heat seep into my frozen body, before pushing the heavy tent material aside to enter the main area.
Balen sat at the table.
His amber gaze rose from his plate to study me before placing a piece of shredded meat into his mouth and chewing it slowly, never taking his eyes off me.
I was too startled to move, to bow, to form words.
He leaned back, entirely too big for the chair, in a relaxed manner. But I wasn’t fooled. The power coiled beneath the surface was unmistakable. “Did you enjoy your walk?”
My shoes were muddy and the hem of my cloak was dirty, stained, and adorned with small pieces of grass. Heat crept up my neck and into my cheeks. I blinked hard, mentally preparing myself for what I’d come back to do. I lifted my chin and looked straight at him as he grabbed a goblet from the table and drank.
“Aye, I did, thank you.”
I fixated on the way his fingers held the goblet, the thumb rubbing up and down the curve of the cup as he considered me. This was a patient leader, one who thought well his words before he spoke them. A calculating male.
“You wish to know my intentions, Deira D’Anu?”
I wanted to bite my tongue and follow along, but that was never my strongest trait. “Aye. I do. But—” My nervousness burst force, rushing my thoughts. “Let me tell you mine. I’m a scribe, a good one. A very good one. I’m dedicated. I work hard, and I’d be an asset to your house. I can scribe the languages of three houses: Anu, Taranis, and Dagda, as well some letters of the ancients. I’m familiar with the inner workings of a palace, but I’d be just at home in a village, city or, preferably, a Hall of Records.”
By the time I was through, I was out of breath and probably more red in the face than I’d been before. His thumb had stopped rubbing the goblet. His whole body had stilled. His chest rose, then fell on a deep exhale, drawing my eyes to the silver raven on the black tunic.
One corner of Balen’s mouth twitched, the movement causing an indentation in his cheek. It transformed his rugged features into something . . . wicked. The reactions of the servers in the Great Hall came back to me. Now I understood their giggles and excitement. Breathing fire might not be a bad thing, indeed.
“Let me understand correctly,” he said, and I wanted to roll my eyes at the fact that I now noticed how deep and rich-sounding his voice was. “You wish to work for me?”
“Aye, of course. That’s what I do, work.”
His eyes remained hooded, completely unreadable. “I already have a scribe. Several, in fact.”
“Oh.” The small, disappointed response escaped my lips before I could prevent it.
He drained the goblet, set it on the table, and waved a hand to the empty seat nearby. “Please, sit.” He threw a quick look over his shoulder and called, “Orin!”
Sitting at the table brought us closer together.
For once I wished I had my veil. At the palace I’d gotten used to the stares on the rare occasion when my veil came off or I was caught without it. But under Balen’s intense scrutiny . . . it felt different somehow—more hurtful. It bothered me. I gave myself a mental shake. I’d resigned myself to what I was a long time ago. I understood why he stared and it wasn’t because I had dimples.
“Why do you smile?”
I jerked my head up. It wasn’t a smile on my face, but a smirk at my own stupid thoughts. I sat straighter, wiping the expression off my face, grateful the servant Balen had called came into the tent, bringing with him the murmur of voices gathered outside.
Orin was larger than Balen, and a warrior, dressed in the same tunic as Balen. A long scar ran from his forehead to his left temple. One would never know the different stations between the two, though Balen was without the full beard. My grandfather, even out of battle regalia, always wore the finest clothes, always stood out among his men. Balen did not and Orin was unlike any servant I’d ever seen.
“Aye, Balen?” Orin asked, though his eyes were on me.
The wariness and wonder of his look made me cast my eyes to the tabletop. If just one person would look beyond the red hair, just one! I drew in a deep breath and let it out gradually.
“Please bring a plate for Deira. I believe she’s hungry after her walk.”
After Orin left, I regarded Balen with the same outright intensity that he’d bestowed upon me. “Why didn’t you stop me?”
Balen filled an empty goblet and offered it to me. “Where would you have gone? There are leagues of Grasslands between camp and the nearest town.”
“You don’t think I could’ve made it.” I took a long drink.
He smiled wide, not answering. He was even more beautiful when he smiled. I hated him for it. I hated myself for thinking it.
“I would’ve managed,” I muttered.
Typical male Danaan. He might look different than those of my house, but he was just like the rest, bloated on his ego. Balen’s smile deepened. Light flashed into his eyes.
Orin returned with a plate piled with meat and greens, the savory scents making my stomach grumble. I glanced at Balen’s man. “Thank you.”
“An honor to serve you Deira D’Anu,” he replied easily then dipped his head to Balen. A look passed between them, something significant, as he left the tent.
“What did he mean by that? Why is it an honor to serve me?”
“Eat.” Balen gestured to my plate, dismissing the question.
I gripped the edge of the wooden table, leaning forward. “You say I’m safe. You give me shelter, feed me... Yet you haven’t told me why.”
Lidi always said I was never good at holding my tongue. Balen had no obligation to tell me anything. I was at his mercy. Yet it was easy to forget my place when he lived in a simple tent, with simple food, and simple clothes.
Darkness slid across his features, reminding me of a fast gathering storm, of thunderclouds rolling in on themselves. Turmoil flashed in his eyes. He rose. “You must trust me, Deira.”
Frowning, I went to speak, but he held up his hand. “Eat and rest. Tomorrow we leave for home.” He crossed to the entrance.
I shot to my feet, the chair toppling. “Home? But you can’t go home. You just made an alliance to stay and fight.”
Again that sadness in his eyes, coupled with a heavy breath and a grim set to his jaw. “We will fight, Deira, and end this war without your grandfather and Mael ever leaving their lands.” He ducked under the flap and disappeared into the cold.
CHAPTER 5
I righted the chair, plopped down, and ate, irritated at Balen and vowing that the next time he entered the tent, I’d get my answers. Once my stomach was full, I finished off the wine in the jug then pushed away from the table to examine the room.
The area was sparse, only furnished with a large trunk, a wide desk, and the table and chairs, which appeared to be made from local wood—an army this size didn’t travel with an abundance of furniture; they made their own.
Another table in the corner served as a desk. A large map was spread on the rough wood surface. The language of the Fire Breathers was similar to all Danaans, though certain words, meanings, and inflections varied. Reading the map wasn’t a struggle for me, though there were some words I couldn’t translate.
I slid onto the chair, soaking up the beauty in the carefully drawn lines, symbols, and writing. Mountain ranges, valleys, rivers, lakes... The artistry was stunning. I loved maps. We had several in Murias, but nothing this old. The thin leather was aged to a soft yellow brown. All four ends curled up slightly. The map had been well-used for a very long time. My fingers traced over the Woodlands and then over the Grasslands and Plains to the Lakes. I found the island of Murias easily as it was the largest island in the largest lake.
It was my world, a world finally thrown open to me. I traced the path that led to the Bren Cara Mountains, home to the descendants of Sydhr, the Ageless One who gave them the gift of fire. Balen’s home. I’d get to see those mountains for myself.
Not only would I write about the War Raven, but I’d write about my journey. I’d scribe a great work of adventure, things no Islander had ever seen or read of before.
Orin entered the tent, holding the flap open for a female, carrying two towels and a pile of clothes followed by a young male with two buckets of steaming water. “This is Nuallan and her son, Ferryn. They’ll prepare your bath.”
If Orin was surprised to find me sitting at Balen’s desk, studying his map, he didn’t show it. I pushed to my feet.
Ferryn was shade shorter than Orin, but his black hair was longer, falling to his shoulders. A lock of hair fell over one eye. He blew it out of the way only to have it fall right back where it had been.
It was rare to see a young one, male or female. Danaans, as a whole, weren’t nearly as fertile as the plants and animals around us. In my small corner of Innis Fail, I was the young one; there hadn’t been a child born to the House of Anu since I’d come into the world.
“We’re pleased to serve you, Deira D’Anu.” Nuallan said. She was tall, slim and beautiful, with high cheekbones, pale skin, and amber eyes. A red tunic covered black leggings and soft black boots. She reminded me of the dancers in the Great Hall, and I wondered if she’d been among them.
