She jerked in his embrace but stayed as she was and didn’t raise her voice. “You’ll help me escape so I can find Luda?” He laid a hand over hers at the note of cautious hope in her voice.
“No. I’ll go with you to find Luda.”
She covered her gasp with a cough. “You can’t do that!” she said in an urgent whisper. “You can make up some story for how I escaped your vigilance. Dereliction isn’t desertion. There’s nothing you can say to save yourself if you come with me. You’ll be branded a traitor and a deserter.”
She wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. Each of those possibilities had flashed before him between one breath and the next as she revealed Luda’s fate. There’d never truly been a question as to what he’d do.
“I can’t allow you to sacrifice like that, Bron,” she argued.
He hugged her closer to him, her delicate ribs a ladder beneath his hand. “You don’t have a choice, and it isn’t a sacrifice. Luda is my sister in all but blood.”
She didn’t say anything more for the longest time. Finally she laced her fingers with his and squeezed. “I’m so sorry to involve you in this, Bron. I’m forever in your debt.”
“There’s no debt, Disa.” A part of him sorrowed that she’d feel obligated to him. Even when he’d walked away from her, vowing to never again set eyes on her, he would still rearrange the stars if she asked.
They were half a league from the camp when Cimejen met them. A master horseman, he rode his favorite mare bareback, with only a bridle and his knees to guide her. His harsh expression didn’t bode well, and Bron braced for more bad news. “Golius is gnawing at the bit to speak with you.” He glanced atDisaris, one black eyebrow arching to see her riding pillion with Bron. “On the nature of faith and wise deities.”
They galloped the remaining distance to the camp, parting ways at Bron’s tent when he promised Cimejen he’d report to the general as soon as he’d washed off the layers of plains dirt and changed clothing.
Cimejen pointed to Disaris as Bron helped her off the gelding. “I can keep watch over her while you meet with Golius.”
Bron pushed Disaris behind him. “She stays with me.” The other man’s knowing look instantly made him regret declining the offer. He’d just confirmed Cimejen’s suspicions that the itzuli was far more than just a war captive or previous acquaintance.
“As you wish,” he said. “But keep guards around her, as much for her safety as anything else.” He saluted Bron and turned his horse around, trotting through the winding paths made by the landscape of tents towards the general’s more palatial abode.
Bron guided Disaris inside his tent, bringing a finger to his lips to signal they weren’t to speak of those plans he’d made as they rode back from the temple. She nodded, then grabbed his hand and lifted it to her mouth. Her lips fluttered across his knuckles, light as a butterfly’s wings. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Surprised by the affectionate gesture, he almost yanked his hand away, stopping short at the last moment. She must have felt the initial jerk because her grip tightened. She repeated the words he’d spoken to her earlier. “Are we still estranged, Bron?”
A lock of hair had come loose from her braid during their ride. He caught it, coiling it around his finger. “I don’t know, Disa. Are we?”
“I have been and will always be the friend who loves you best, even when it didn’t always seem so.”
He did yank his hand away then, bitten by the memory of her icy expression and flat gaze when she’d told him she no longer wanted anything to do with him. He still loved her. That would never change, but gratitude disguised as renewed affection made him recoil. He’d rather have her indifference, even the hatred she had for Ceybold. At least those were sincere. “I’ve already said there’s no debt. No need for empty honeyed words.” He didn’t give her a chance to argue, pivoting away to open the storage chest that housed his clothes and his few personal belongings.
He spoke to her over his shoulder as he rummaged through the layers of garments folded neatly inside the chest. “Unless we’re in the middle of battle, Golius demands his officers present themselves to him cleaned up. If you’re uncomfortable with me changing and washing in here, I’ll go outside.”
“Don’t be foolish,” she said, a hint of sorrow laced with amusement in her voice. “It isn’t as though I haven’t seen you without clothes before.”
The reminder sent a wave of sensation purling over every inch of his flesh. It had been a long time since Disa had held him in her arms, pressed skin to skin with him. He’d shared a bed with other women since then, but those had been barely remembered encounters inspired by loneliness and inebriation and funded by his soldier’s pay.
He chose the garments he’d wear to his meeting with Golius, keeping his back to Disaris so she wouldn’t see how her words affected him. He toed off his boots and unhooked his belt. His fingers were unusually clumsy as he unknotted ties and unlaced lacings on his outer and inner tunics, and finally his thin shirt. He shrugged all three off and tossed them to one side. He paused at the lacings on his trousers. Modesty didn’t make him hesitate; vulnerability did. As she’d reminded him, she’d seen him naked and far more than that. But it was a time when he didn’t mindshowing her his weaknesses. Things had changed. He left the trousers on.
Someone had left a basin of wash water, dry cloths, and a pot of soapweed paste for him while he’d been at the temple. He grabbed one of the cloths to drop into the basin, intending to give himself a quick standing bath. A tendril of shivers danced up his back when Disaris spoke directly behind him. He looked down at the slim hand that had reached around him to clutch the cloth he held.
“Let me,” she said. “Please.” She eased the cloth out of his unresisting grip, submerging it in the wash water. Gooseflesh bloomed down his arms and chest when she grasped his hair, twisting it into a thick rope that she draped over his shoulder, giving her an uninterrupted view of his back.
A faint gasp sounded, and Bron emitted a huff of humorless laughter. War had left numerous marks on him, inside and out. All were ugly. “Not a pretty sight,” he said.
Silence settled heavy between them as she wiped down his back and shoulders with the wet cloth. A moan threatened to escape Bron’s throat when her fingers skated across the largest scar decorating his shoulder blade. It was one of a dozen. More adorned his chest and legs.
“What troubling tales these must tell,” she said. “I’m sorry for the pain they caused you, Bron.”
He shrugged, wondering how long he could endure her butterfly touch before he turned and dragged her into his arms. His relieved exhalation when she stopped touching him sounded loud in his ears. If she heard, she didn’t comment.
The reprieve didn’t last. Disaris dipped the cloth again and reached for the pot of soapweed paste. “I’ll be gentle,” she assured him.
Bron wasn’t sure if he should laugh or cry at her statement, especially when she slid a wet palm across his upper back anddown his spine in a slippery caress. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as she repeated the motion several times, veering off occasionally to soap his sides.
