It quickened again when Olvir knelt in front of her, the top of his chestnut head bent level with her breasts, and slipped the rope around her in a rough harness. There were many enjoyable ways that matters could have proceeded from there. Vivian imagined them and thrilled both to the ideas and to Olvir’s nearness.
“It does seem a waste,” he said, looking up at her with gleaming dark eyes. His hands lingered, warm on the sides of her waist, then stroked upward to the undersides of her breasts. They tingled in response, the nipples going hard. Vivian wished the layers of leather and wool were gone so that Olvir could see how she reacted to his touch.
But the rock waited, and the rest of their mission after that.
Olvir rose and caught hold of Vivian’s hands. He only drew her to him for a few moments, just long enough for his lips to settle over hers, soft and warm and seeking. “A tragic waste,” he repeated when he stepped away.
“Or,” said Vivian, “a reminder for when we have more time.”
She felt his attention on her as she turned and began to climb. Most of it, Vivian knew, came from concern, and she wouldn’t have had it any other way. That made him valuable as a companion and marked him as a good knight. Now, however, she was sure that there was a healthy amount of lust mixed in with his regard, lingering from the kiss and enhanced by the view she offered him while she was climbing. She was glad of that too.
No gladness,Ulamir reminded her, frustrating but useful.No fear. No hope. Only the stone, and you.
Chapter 19
It wasn’t a long climb, and the height itself wasn’t overpowering, especially since a fair amount of the stone had broken off. Falling from ten or twelve feet had killed people, though. Bringing down the full weight of a rock on top of that would be very unpleasant, even for a Sentinel and certainly for Olvir.
He didn’t want to dwell on the possibility. He had to be aware of it. The trick, Lord Farren had told his squires, essential in all matters of life and death, was to let the gravity of the situation inform the mind without letting the mind dwell on that gravity.
As Emeth would have put it, it was a hell of a trick.
The view while Vivian was climbing helped a good deal. She rose without haste, cautiously seeking out niches for her hands and feet, alert for any detail that could be significant, but she moved lithely, and her clothes showed off the flexing of her muscles.
She met Olvir’s gaze from the crumbled top of the rock before she began hammering in a spike with a rope tied to it. Her grin was apparent across the distance between them, as was the teasing lift of her eyebrows. She’d guessed where at least some of his mind was, and she clearly approved.
Knowing that gave extra strength to Olvir’s arms as he started on his own journey up, though they were aching nonetheless when he hauled himself over the top. He barely saved his dignity by getting to his feet rather than collapsing beside Vivian. It was some consolation that she was also rubbing at her biceps.
“Darya was right,” she said, pulling a wry face. “Fighting is less preparation than you might think. Perhaps I should’ve taken more missions that involved running around in the wilderness or ruins.”
“You preferred to stay on the ground?”
“On or under. Ulamir’s a greater help in subterranean places, by and large, and I’m more comfortable there myself.”
“I helped get a family out of a wine cellar once.” Olvir tugged on the rope to make sure he hadn’t pulled the spike loose, then dropped it over the other side of the boulder. “That was the closest I’ve come to underground work. Morgan once had to track a kidnapper and her victim through the sewers of Abhlien.”
“Wine sounds considerably more pleasant.”
“To me too.” He stretched one last time, then gripped the rope and began climbing down, easing his feet into cracks as he found them to once again avoid putting too much strain on any single spot. “It was a few weeks until I could really enjoy a glass, I’ll grant.”
“How did it happen? I can’t imagine people lock themselves in wine cellars often, temptation to the contrary.”
“There’d been a bad windstorm. They’d taken shelter, which was wise, even given what happened. My squadron had to dig through the house first.” The memory was still vivid, one of the less grisly images in an unfortunate collage. “Nobody would’ve survived staying there.”
“They probably wouldn’t have survived the cellar either. It was fortunate that you were there.”
Olvir stared at the rock. Climbing meant he didn’t have to squirm at the compliment. “I had good people with me,” he said. “Morgan was alone. She had the harder mission in general too. Wine is better than sewage, as you say. And it was a tough fight—close quarters, you know, with a sword. As it was in the tent.”
“Never my favorite,” said Vivian, “but I’m fonder of closeup work than I am having to try and get at your foe from a distance, or when they have reach and you don’t. That was the problem with the geisbar.”
“In all truth, there were more than a few problems with the geisbar.”
Olvir heard her laugh as he reached the bottom of the boulder, making sure his footing was solid before he let go of the rope. He watched once again as Vivian followed, reflecting with gratitude this time in addition to lust. This was not her favored terrain, but she’d offered to come—insisted on coming—regardless.
He would have expected it from her. They were both creatures of duty, raised to it from long before they’d been man and woman. All the same, Olvir wasn’t so jaded or his priorities so misplaced that he could overlook the value of carrying out that duty. Heroism, Tinival taught, was worth no less for being steadfast—worth all the more, in fact, than a flashy and surprising act from someone you couldn’t depend on normally.
* * *
Vivian made the sign of the Four once she was on solid ground—relatively solid, that was, given the winding mountain trail. She’d never minded danger, but trying to balance her weight while she groped for holes was a different matter.
