Page 13 of Beds and Blades

This was a man in charge.

This was a man who made decisions. No lukewarm “maybes” or “have you considered.” This was command.

“Yes, High Commander,” the soldier said.

High.

Commander.

I liked that.

I turned the title over in my head. In my world, titles like that had been replaced by things like Senior Vice President of Transformational Strategy and Executive Director of Organizational Synergies. Titles that were long enough to sound important without ever saying anything as direct as High Commander.

In contrast, High Commander was two words that did exactly what they said and left no room for discussion.

***

Caen occupied the east tower. Her own space, separate from the keep.

The tower door was heavy oak, iron-banded. The iron fittings were dark with age and use rather than neglect. Maintained, but not polished. Nobody had been trying to make this door look inviting.

Inside, a winding stone staircase climbed in tight spirals, torches set into iron brackets at intervals that suggested someone had calculated the minimum number of light sources required and installed exactly that. The torches smelled of tallow.

There were doors off the staircase. Two of them, at different levels, both closed, both secured with hardware that went beyond a simple latch. I did not ask what was behind them. I noted them and kept climbing.

Skip knocked once at the top and pushed the door open without waiting, which told me something about the general hierarchy of patience in this outpost.

The room was not what I had been expecting. This was a scholar’s workspace overlaid with the functional reality of someone who was also a field practitioner: manuscripts stacked in organized chaos.

There was a small fire with a pot suspended over it. Nearby, candles had burned down to stubs. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the ceiling beams, their smell layering over the tallow from the staircase into something more complex. A worktable near the window held instruments I couldn’t name. Glass vessels, a set of scales, small bottles arranged so they could be found quickly in the dark. The window faced toward the mountains.

The woman standing at the table was not what I had been expecting, either.

She was probably in her late forties, and the years had done something interesting to her. Not softening, not diminishing. Sharpening. The sharpening that comes from many years of doing what matters.

Her dark hair, heavily threaded with silver, was bound back in a practical knot.

Strong, angular features. High cheekbones, defined jaw. She commanded attention without requesting it.

Her eyes were the kind that had already finished the sentence you were still forming. Amber-brown, very still.

She was wearing leather. It was not armor exactly, but something more supple than armor.

Her fitted dark cloak fell nearly to the floor, structured across the shoulders and chest in a way that suggested it had been made for her specifically and worn long enough to become an extension of her. The cloak parted in a long slit at the front, revealing one thigh when she moved.

It was belted at the waist with a wide leather belt carrying several pouches. I could not identify the contents, though their shapes suggested tools rather than supplies.

The cloak was open at the collar, the lapels falling back to reveal the throat and the upper chest. The leather had darkened and compacted with years of wear, molded to her body without looking frayed.

Leather boots to the knee, practical and worn.

On the ring finger of her left hand was a warm, glowing ring.

She was lean and tall.

The cloak fell open at the chest in a deep V, and what it revealed was not what I had been expecting from a woman who spent her days surrounded by manuscripts.

Full, generously so. The kind of natural abundance that a deep V cloak could not conceal. Long legs visible where the cloak split at the front.