Val had taken Jos and Garet with him when he left to rescue Alanna. Ballanor’s new army was decidedly lacking in Mabin soldiers, and the poorly trained new Blues hadn’t seemed to be aware that they’d left the skies wide open. That was how they’d get to Alanna. Tor’s plan was for Val and the other Mabin to sneak into Kaerlud, flying in via the cemetery, grab Alanna from the main square and then fly her back out.
It was a good plan—the right plan—but only those with wings could go. All Keely could do was wait. She was forced to watch them leave, unable to help, unable to do anything useful at all. And if there was one thing that she really, truly hated, it was waiting for someone to come back. It was even worse than watching them leave in the first place.
The last time she’d sat around waiting… Bard. Even all these years later, the memories were just as clear and poignant as if it had happened only days before. Keeping busy. Watching the road. Helping with the tenants and managing the farm. Feeding the chickens. Alone. Watching the road. Telling herself that Niall was fine. That he would come back. That he had promised her, and he kept his promises. Watching the road.
Waiting and watching the road day after day until the messenger came, carrying Niall’s signet ring, dried blood crusted on the emerald.
Bollocks. This was exactly why she didn’t think about it. She had pulled herself back together and built herself again, piece by piece. She’d built her life into a new shape. It was a shape that would forever hold the empty space where the man she’d expected to grow old with should have been, but it was a bearable shape, nonetheless. And yet, here she was, watching the road once more.
Tor grunted, and she turned to look at him. What had he wanted? He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow as if expecting an answer… oh yes. Find something to do…. What in the Bard’s name was she supposed to do?
She tried to think of an amusingly sarcastic reply but failed. She was too distracted—her thoughts jumping and skittering with as much agitation as a flock of unruly chickens let loose in the yard with a falcon in the sky. Bloody hell, why did she have to think of chickens? She hated chickens.
What was happening at the palace? Had Val and the others reached Kaerlud in time? Was Alanna still alive? What the hell was she going to do if—
Damn. Tor was right; she needed something to take her mind off Alanna and Val and what in the Abyss was going on in Kaerlud. She looked around for something to do but all the squad’s possessions were packed, and the horses stood saddled and ready. As soon as the Mabin returned with Alanna, they would be moving out.
But only if they reached Alanna in time. If they could get her free. If they managed to evade the mass of guards arrayed against them. If…if…if…. She swallowed heavily against the ache in her throat and pushed the thoughts away. They would rescue Alanna. And escape. She had to believe it. She couldn’t lose another person she cared about.
A woodpecker drummed vigorously somewhere in the woods. The noise thudded in her brain as she paced the small clearing, biting her lip, her eyes returning to the small path that was the only way into and out of their hiding place. Still no one there. As there hadn’t been on any of the previous thousand times she’d checked.
“Maybe you could help me with this thread?” Tor tried again. “If you want.”
She stepped up to the log he was sitting on. “What are you doing?”
“Mending my shirt.”
She glanced at the cotton undershirt he was holding, noticing the neat row of stitches mending the collar and the series of small, ripped holes down the front that Tor hadn’t sewn together yet. And was that…? She pointed at the faded brown stains. “What happened there?”
Tor shrugged without answering and then held out a needle and strand of creamy flax thread, both almost lost inside his massive hands. She took them, her fingers brushing against his warm palm, and squinted to thread the needle before passing it back.
Keely sank onto the log beside Tor, ignoring the shiver that small touch wanted to send down her spine, and looked at him more carefully. He was focused on his mending, eyes on the needle as it slipped in and out of the shirt, his stitches surprisingly small and tidy for someone whose fingers swamped the needle so completely.
He clearly didn’t plan to say anything, but it was obvious he’d been hurt. “What happened?” she asked again.
He stayed silent for a long moment, but eventually he lifted his eyes and answered, “Gatehouse.”
Nim and Tristan looked up from their conversation while Mathos pushed himself off the tree he’d been leaning on, everyone focusing on Tor.
“Gatehouse?” Tristan asked quietly.
Tor shrugged, ignoring them all.
Nim had already told Keely about how Tor had sacrificed himself to save a woman in the food market—yet another of the deeply honorable things he’d done—but in all the stress of the past few days, it seemed no one had thought to ask him if he was hurt. Damn. She hated the idea that he had been wounded, had been suffering, all while taking care of her.
She twisted to look at him more directly. “Lift your shirt.”
Tor grunted. “Not wearing one.”
She rolled her eyes. “Then take off your jerkin.”
The needle paused, hovering over the fabric as his dark eyes focused on her. Bard. He was completely still and utterly silent. But the intensity of that look captured her. A look that dared her to tell him to take off his clothes again.
Bard, she wanted to. She wanted to touch him as much as she wanted him to touch her. She cleared her throat and tried to sound unaffected. “Take off your jerkin, Tor.”
Tristan stood with a grunt, breaking the moment. “What didn’t you tell us?”
Tor looked away, releasing her from his gaze, and set aside his mending before slowly unbuttoning his jerkin and pulling the sides apart. Damn. She had never imagined he would be hiding such heavy, defined muscles, rippling as he moved, or such horrendous bruising.
