Callan picks up a dagger and holds it to the light. “You don’t know us, though. We could be Eastlanders with lies in our mouths.”
Orlena clasps her hands behind her back and meets Callan’s challenging stare. “What’s your name?” Slowly, the Summerland woman walks toward my friend.
Unlike Joran, Callan answers.
“Callan Terzerak.”
“Where are you from, Callan Terzerak?”
“The Mondulak Range. And Winterhold.”
“How many blades are on your person?”
“Five.”
“Who do you most love in this world?”
“My adopted son.”
“Who would you most like to kill?”
“I don’t want to kill anyone.”
“Who in this group do you hate?”
“No one.”
Orlena pauses before Callan, almost toe to toe with the rune witch. “And you were honest, about every question.” She looks at Joran. “His answer was honest too. I know because that is my gift. I do not help anyone who lies to me, or who means my land or my people harm. It’s as simple as that.”
“She already did this with me and Zahira.” The Collector drops his pack in a chair and rests his broad back against one of the four square, stacked-stone piers that seem to be holding up the entire building. “But I’m glad you all were able to hear,” he goes on. “Zahira would never have placed us in danger with Dedrick. I wasn’t sure about him or this situation either at first, but I am now.”
From across the small room where she flutters her fingertips over a wine-colored tunic, Zahira offers him a soft smile and slight bow of her head. A thank you.
Orlena winks at Callan, then gestures behind herself, to a dark curtain. “There’s a sleeping room that way. Only bunked cots, but there should be enough beds for all of you. As for everything you see here—” she motions to the filled tables and shelves “—take what you need. That’s why it’s here.”
Keth heads straight for the weapons table, while Jaega searches through the clothes, probably for new britches now that hers have a rip from knee to ankle. Callan and Zahira begin examining Orlena’s collected documents, their faces masks of focused curiosity.
With her confident walk, Orlena closes the short distance between her and the Collector. I don’t miss the appreciative look she skims from his head to his feet, nor do I miss the way it makes my chest tighten.
Admittedly, he’s a sight to see. Tall and rugged and still dripping, he wears black leathers, his thumbs hooked in the weapons loops at his waist. A white tunic clings to his strong torso, the neck untied and open, revealing a deep slice of rune-marked, golden chest and his iron key, something he didn’t part with on the ship. His wet hair hangs in tousled, black waves, glistening around his angular face.
And his beard. It’s coming back in with a vengeance. The dark stubble adds a seductive edge to his look, making his already bold eyes appear that much bolder. It’s criminal.
“Thank you for this,” he says to Orlena. “We have so much ground to cover. We need to reach Fia as quickly as possible, and I can’t do that without you.”
“You’re welcome, Alexus,” she says, her voice husky, yet soft. “How about we go upstairs for a drink?” As though I’m non-existent, she moves closer to him and slips a piece of his wet hair from over his eye to behind his ear. “I’d like to hear more about your plans. More about you.”
Their eyes are locked, the tension in the air thick. I hate myself when I turn my back on them and cross my arms over my chest like a petulant child. I hate myself even more when I cringe as he says, “I would love that. Go ahead. I’ll be right there.”
Everything inside me seems to wither like a water-starved flower under a scalding sun. I stare at a wall filled with landscape paintings and framed maps—Itunnan—and focus on one, what looks like a storehouse, trying to appear distracted. I don’t know why I don’t move. Everyone else is drifting into the sleeping room, and yet I stand there frozen, awkwardly irritated, maybe a little jealous and… deeply, utterly, devastated.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” the Collector says over my shoulder. “Get some rest. Come sunrise, we’re getting on the road out of Itunnan.”
And just like that, he’s walking away.
I close my eyes and squeeze my fists as he climbs the stairs. His every step on the rickety wood feels like a dagger stabbing my heart. I tell myself they’re just having a drink. That’s all. They don’t even know one another.
And yet, later, I startle from a deep sleep, only to peek down at the last empty bed, the one beneath mine, and find he still isn’t here.
