It was unseasonablycold in the small circular chamber she shared with Amron in the tower, as if the stones oozed the icy fog of winter. It whirled around Melia’s feet, slipping under her skirts, touching her bare skin with its frosty fingers. The fire in the fireplace looked as if it were painted on the logs, a blob of orange and yellow emitting no heat. Goosebumps rose on Melia’s arms, and for the first time in her life, she envied the soldiers and women sleeping in a thick cluster of warm bodies in the great hall.
“I’m so cold,” she said, sitting on the edge of a narrow bed with a straw mattress. “Will you stay with me tonight?”
“I can’t,” he said. “We’re leaving tomorrow and I still have questions for the garrison.” He unclasped his fur-lined cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. “This should keep you warm. I’ll try to be back soon.”
Melia had no talent for divination, but as the coldness filled her from the inside despite the warm fur wrapping her body, she was absolutely sure something bad was coming. Death passing by once more, white flowers of frost blooming where her robe touched the ground. Melia opened her mouth to utter a warning, but she and Amron were still strangers, there was notrust between them, no intimate language of couples that could transmit her fear without sounding dramatic and ridiculous.
In the end, all she managed to say was a feeble “Take care.”
She mulled over the kitchen conversation, wondering if the women had reason to lie, until sleep defeated her. She dreamed of cold watery depths where no ray of sunlight ever pierced the darkness. She struggled to move through it, her limbs leaden, her lungs screaming for air, until the pressure abated and she found herself in an unfamiliar courtyard. The flagstones were slick with blood, the people around her pushing, fighting, crying for help in the flickering light of the burning buildings. Amron stood before her, smeared with blood and ash, with a bemused expression on his face. Her eyes slipped down to his hand pressing his belly, black blood pouring through his fingers, soaking into the blue silk he wore, dripping on the flags. He opened his mouth to tell her something, but no sound came out as his legs folded and he fell.
She screamed and woke up. A lonely bell was tolling outside. At first she couldn’t recognize the freezing room with the fire burnt down to ashes, but then she remembered the fort, the border, their journey. She was alone in the bed, Amron hadn’t come back.
The bell tolled again: a cold, desolate sound in the dark. Whatever she’d feared earlier that night had reached them now.
She jumped out of the bed, fully clothed, and unlocked the door, unwilling to remain trapped in that small room with no way out. She rushed through the abandoned corridors to the great hall. The fire was still burning there, but there was no man in sight, just a scruffy girl sleeping in front of the fireplace.
Melia shook her awake. “Where is everybody?”
“Out,” the girl muttered in her sleep. “It’s the bloody smugglers again.”
Melia jumped away from the girl as if she were cursed. Panicgrabbed her and squeezed all the air out of her lungs. Images rushed through her head: the brigands with their blades, the red dust soaking in red blood. She looked around for a weapon. There were some battle axes stashed in one corner, old and probably blunt. She had no idea how to wield them, she had no idea how to use any weapon but a dagger. Years ago, Rovin showed her how to defend herself, but it had been against one man with a short blade, not a horde of killers with swords and spears.
She ran into the courtyard looking for a way out just as the gate opened and men poured in. She ducked into the shadows, trembling, before realizing it was the garrison men and the king’s guard, with torches, shouting. The women and the ragged boys hurried out, bringing more light as the men dismounted, revealing the blood and grime on their faces and uniforms.
Melia saw it then: a horse with a motionless man thrown across the saddle, a wisp of fair hair catching the light. The hairs on her neck rose as a cold gust of wind touched them with the icy kiss of death. Old nightmares rushed in to bury her, guards bleeding out on the ground, Rovin begging for mercy.
“Amron!” she screamed, running towards the unmoving man. “Amron!”
“I’m here,” a voice said. A hand caught her, turned her around, and she found herself facing her husband.
“You’re alive!” Her hands flew to his face, wiping off the dirt, and slid down his armor, looking for holes, dents, blood.
“Very much so.” He laughed and she caught the bitter aroma of arrowfoil on his breath. His connection to the men at the fort went deeper than she’d assumed if they’d shared it with him. “It was just a group of smugglers, nothing serious.”
“And what about him?” She craned her neck, motioning towards the unconscious soldier.
“Knocked out. He’ll be fine by the morning.”
The cold lingered, the sharp shards of the dream still cut her from the inside with the image of Amron’s wide-open eyes, the blood pouring through his fingers. Death was still too close, the whole courtyard filled with it.
“Come,” she said.
“No, I must—”
“Come,” she insisted, pulling his hand, her eyes burning. She felt sharp and spry as if she were the one who’d swallowed the bitter herb.
She led him upstairs and locked the door. He radiated the energy of the skirmish, the elation of survival. As she removed his armor, as deft as any squire after years spent in Syr, she soaked in the heat of his body. They kissed in silence, urgent, hungry, unwilling to waste their breath on words. He unlaced her dress without breaking the kiss, unwrapped her from the burdensome layers of clothing. She couldn’t discern what moved her, a sudden surge of desire or some primal lust for life, but when his fingers reached between her thighs, she moaned and leaned towards him.
They crashed onto the bed, the ancient wooden frame creaking in protest. He opened her legs; she pulled him close, her limbs wrapped around his body, her mouth on his, stealing his breath. No words, just two bodies moving together in a desperate need to prove they were here, unscathed, chasing pleasure as if their lives depended upon it.
The cold disappeared as he pressed her down, his hips grinding against hers in a rhythm that made her cry out. She pushed him over then, straddled him and rode him as beads of sweat formed on her skin and her bruised thighs screamed in protest. When he closed his eyes and bared his teeth, when the breath caught in his throat in a silent scream, she was already there, suspended in a moment of pure bliss, bright white and searing hot, filling her body from the tips of her toes to the rootsof her hair.
They remained embraced, reluctant to let go as their bodies cooled and their breathing slowed down. Melia outlined the shape of his face with her fingers, memorizing the contours—the high cheekbones, the sharp nose, the long curve of his mouth, the angle of his chin—turning this stranger who lay beside her into someone she knew.
He remained quiet, watching her, his hands stroking the soft skin of her back. Up close, she liked him. If this room and this bed were their whole world, they would’ve been fine. His gentle distance, his controlled intensity, made her feel safe.
And yet, even as he lay beside her, his gaze seemed distant, his thoughts far away from her. He would become a stranger again as soon as he put on his uniform, his leathers and steel or his silks and fur, his soldier’s ruse or his courtier’s mask. A volatile ally in a tangled web of other people’s interests.
