“Your grip is off,” she instructed. “You forget that my father was the finest swords maker in all the Outlands. He even made a sword for that Mir royal family you’re so taken with. Now, loosen your grip. Yes, like that.”
Rangar was one of the finest swordsmen in the Baersladen, rivaled only by his brother, Valenden. But, for all that Valenden played the part of a useless rogue, he was actually highly skilled in combat. And though Rangar’s swordsmanship instructor had given him the opposite advice about his grip, he didn’t question Aya’s suggestion.
She stood behind him, extending her arm alongside his, folding her small fingers around his larger ones. “There. Do you feel the difference? If you squeeze too hard, the sword won’t have enough give to take the impact.”
Though Aya stood half a head shorter than him, Rangar could feel her breath clouding against his bare shoulder. Her wool cloak tickled his skin. He tested out loosen his grip and found his sword felt much better in his hand.
“Yes, I see,” he noted, and then before he thought better of it added, “You smell good. Like honey bread.”
She paused, cheeks warming. “I’ve been helping bake rolls this morning in the kitchen,” she said, her hand still cupped over his on the sword hilt. “Yousmell like, well, a sweaty soldier who’s been training too hard.”
He grunted a laugh.
As he sheathed his sword, Aya came to face him and touched a hexmark on his bare bicep. “The finding hex. It was the first one I ever got. I use it all the time—I’m forever misplacing things.”
Rangar combed back his messy hair. Now that he wasn’t exerting himself, he was starting to feel the cold as the snow continued to fall around them. It was invigorating—he had always loved snow.
Aya moved her hand over the hexmarks on his shoulder to his pectoral muscle. She tapped another hexmark. “What is this one? I don’t know it.”
“Protection from nefarious spells.”
“Do you have many mages trying to curse you, Rangar?”
“Everyone has enemies, Aya.”
“Please. You and your brothers are beloved by everyone in the Baersladen. They even have a soft spot in their hearts for Val.” She cocked her head. “Or were you thinking of enemies beyond our borders?”
Rangar couldn’t help but think of King Deothanial forbidding him and his family from setting foot in the Mirien, all for the apparent crime of saving his daughter’s life. Of course, it hadn’t been the rescue they’d taken issue with—it had been the Baer belief that a life saved is a soul owned. Rangar’s father claimed Bryn belonged to Rangar and wanted to take the young girl back to the Baersladen with them. The Mir King had refused with harsh threats, saying Bryn would never belong to savages.
But she’s mine, Rangar thought. Not his to own, not his to command—but his to protect. The belief ran deep within his culture that he was responsible for her safety now, and for nearly ten years, it had been torturing him not to be able to fulfill that duty.
Aya slid her soft fingers along the hills of his chest muscles, watching goosebumps rise from the heat of her touch on such a cold day. His pulse picked up. He swallowed, unsure suddenly about how he was feeling. He’d never quite noticed until now how Aya was the perfect height for him to hold close and rest his chin on the crown of her head.
“I enjoyed yesterday evening.” Her voice had softened. “The dance, I mean.”
It had been part of the Anniversary of Sovereignty celebration when Barendur Hold’s great hall was filled with music and festivities. Saraj had teased and prodded Rangar until he’d joined in on the dancing, and he’d found himself taking a spin with most of the girls in the castle, Aya included.
He’d enjoyed dancing with her. They’d laughed together. For a second, he’d even thought what a good pair they made…
“I’m not much for dancing,” he said, looking away, flushed with guilt that he was having improper thoughts about any girl other than Bryn.
“You’re not as bad as you believe yourself to be. You just need to loosen up. Like your sword grip. You’re too stiff, Rangar Barendur.”
Aya placed her hands on his taut shoulder muscles, kneading them in jest in a way that made his breathing tremble, but then her face turned serious. “I mean it, Rangar. Dancing with you was the best part of my day.”
He gazed down at the pretty falconer apprentice in indecision. He and Aya had never been anything more than friends, and yet there had been that moment at the dance last night when he’d wondered if there could be something more. While he wasn’t like his brother Trei, who only devoted attention to one woman at a time, nor was he as promiscuous as his other brother, Valenden.
He’d never considered Aya in a romantic way. His heart had always belonged elsewhere…but maybe he’d been a fool. Maybe his brothers were right to tease him about loving a girl a kingdom away that he barely knew.
What if there had been someone else in front of him all along?
Chapter4
Trei
“Zephyr!” Trei shouted as the falcon assailed him. “What in the gods’ name?”
Saraj’s falcon was one of the largest birds in the mews. Its stall was next door to the one Trei and Saraj occupied, and he had assumed the bird was sleeping as it did most afternoons.
