He surprised her with a nonchalant shrug. “Believe it or not, I get it. We’re all just out here trying to do the right thing. I’ll be honest; I don’t think a damn one of us knows what that is. All I know for sure is two things: one, eventually my time will come. And two, I never felt more alive than when I played for that small audience in Everferd. Having said that, I’m going to go play this lute for a group of traumatized swordsmen who are too terrified of Sikras’s wrath to heckle me.”
Helspira smiled through her fatigue. “Sikras would be the least of their worries. If they don’t appreciate your music, they will know the wrath of a demon.”
“Abominations for life.” Ben rapped his knuckles on her shoulder. “I’m glad you’re alive, Hels, and not just because it’d be hard finding a replacement to mind Sikras should anything happen to me.”
Her eyes widened. “You’d still trust me with such a thing?”
“Well, my pool of candidates is pretty slim, but”—he nodded—“I trust you with my life. I kind of have to, since you were willing to sacrifice yours for it.”
His exoneration eased the tension in her shoulders. “Anything for a friend.”
“Thanks, Hels. I appreciate it.” A strange inflection hid in his tone as he gripped the lute and started for the crowd.
Sikras returned to her side shortly after Ben had left it. He leaned down, one arm behind his back, as he proffered a mug of water. “Your beverage, milady.”
Helspira accepted it with one hand, using the other to pat the space beside her. “Sit with me? It sounds like Ben’s about to play some music. Might be a nice distraction from the daily onslaught of doom and gloom.”
“You don’t have to ask me twice.” Sikras sat but frowned upon testing the support of Helspira’s bedroll. “This is what they gave you to rest on? I’ve eaten stale loaves of bread softer than this.”
“In their defense, I don’t think they planned on me surviving the night.”
“Well, you did, and you deserve suitable accommodations.”
“About that ...” Helspira sipped on her water, then rested it on her leg. “Ben told me how you gave Death her scythe. Seems like I owe you some gratitude.”
Sikras grimaced and turned away. “That gabby little skeleton. He sure talks a lot for someone without vocal cords.”
Helspira slid a hand toward his but stopped short at touching his fingers. “Thank you.”
His gaze fell to their hands. “You owe me nothing. What you did for me, for Benjamin ...” He shook his head. “Siaphara needs your spirit more than Enos ever will.”
That softly spoken admission wrapped around her like heat from a fire on a cold night. Urges pulsed in her heart, her veins, her core. It took every ounce of composure not to surrender to them, to claim him with a passionate kiss, to sink her nails into his arms, pull him close, and yield to primal lust.
She couldn’t.
Surely, he was still very much in love with the ghost of Imri Nikabod.
Surely, she only imagined the desire she saw reflecting in his pale green eyes.
That tempered yearning in his every vocal inflection and subtle movement was nothing more than her mind manifesting things that weren’t there, right?
... Right?
Sikras
THE SOUNDS OF CONVERSINGsoldiers and crackling flames faded into obscurity as Sikras sat beside Helspira, locked in a tender stare. Silence fell over them. An intimate one. He could’ve sworn that just beyond the shimmering brilliance of Helspira’s red iris, an invitation waited. His gaze slid from her eyes to her lips. How easy it would be to surrender to the moment. To slowly lean forward and ...
No.
He pulled away, commanding his mind to clear, thumb picking at the golden band on his finger, as he tugged on the collar of his tunic. Even without his structured bone-in vest that the cleric had insisted he remove to heal his various wounds, his tunic’s lightweight fabric suddenly felt oppressive. Words poured from him in an unrehearsed rush, accompanied by a short, nervous laugh. “Where’s Benjamin with that music, huh?”
His heart throbbed in his ears as he scoured the camp for his brother-in-law, his focal point, his anchor to reality. He found Benjamin in the fire’s orange glow, the very fire illuminating the horrified faces of the Red Sentinels gathered around it. They gawked, wide eyed, jaws parted, their pupils little pinpricks. It was almost as if they had never seen a sentient skeleton strumming a lute before.
Across the distance, Benjamin’s voice flowed forth. He singled out one of the soldiers with a pointed finger. “This song goes out to you there, the man cowering in the back.”
The sentinel cringed under Benjamin’s gesture, forehead sweating. He looked skyward, at his boots, toward the horizon—anywhere but at the talking skeleton wielding the musical instrument.
Apparently undeterred, Benjamin plucked a few strings. “Join in if you know the words, ladies and gents. This one’s a Nyllmas classic.”
