Scars and secrets shield.., p.21
Scars & Secrets (Shield & Sorrow Book 2), page 21
“I haven’t received in a while. I didn’t mean to deny you pleasure or constantly push you into a role you didn’t like, I just … got nervous.” A flush crept up his neck and he couldn’t look at Penn, imagining what the other man must think of him for being afraid of a little intimacy.
The cart continued rolling along and Valerian wasn’t sure if Penn hadn’t accepted his apology, or if they’d somehow lapsed into the kind of relationship where they could only converse through arguments.
“I enjoyed it,” Penn said, “but I still would have liked to see other parts of you. You keep yourself so closed off Valerian—you’re always in control, even when you’re supposed to let go. Except”—he hesitated for a long moment before explaining—“except when you rescued me from Gavril. You were filthy and absolutely deranged, and you looked at me like I was the only point standing still in a world spiraling out of control. When you kissed me, it felt so much more real than all the transactional bullshit. And then I saw …”
He trailed off, but Valerian hardly noticed. He was too focused on the passion in Penn’s voice as he described the kiss.
One Valerian didn’t even remember.
Chapter Thirty-One
By the time Silas reached his bedroom, his emotions settled from a tumultuous sea to a river in spring—still high and dangerous, but easier to navigate. He slumped on his bed and put his head in his hands, Griselda’s words echoing through his mind.
You’re too merciful.
You’re making a mistake. Worse was when she had turned to Archer and said: you know as well as I do. Archer hadn’t protested, hadn’t argued with her at all.
He’s a man of few words, Silas tried to reason. Though Archer had made more of an effort to communicate lately, he still wasn’t the type to enter an impassioned argument. Knowing that didn’t stop the ache in Silas’ chest or stop him from equating silence with agreement.
Silas didn’t realize that some part of him had been waiting for Archer to burst into the room and tell him everything Griselda said was wrong, until it didn’t happen. He groaned and rubbed his tired eyes, feeling more like a whiny child than a king, and pushed himself to his feet.
Discarding his training clothes, he reached for a new shirt but paused, the edge of the mirror catching his attention out of the corner of his eye. Naked, he stepped up to the mirror and scanned his reflection. Even smothered by regalia, he never thought he’d looked like a king. He rarely wore a crown, but the times he had, all he could focus on was the heavy weight, the way it pressed into his skull. Now the only crown he wore was the brown curls of his hair, longer than they’d been since he was a boy.
His face looked better than it had a week ago. Exhaustion still bruised his eyes, red from not-quite-crying, but his skin didn’t look as dull and lifeless as it had after his stint in prison. He’d lost weight both while traveling with Archer and from Niall’s starvation tactics, then gained some of it back through good food and exercise.
Most of the bruises had already faded. As he turned in the mirror, he could see the scar from the crossbow bolt. One of his own men had shot him, and he could hear Griselda’s voice in his head again, lecturing him for not immediately making an example of the man. Not that I even know who it was, he thought with mild annoyance.
The one mark that hadn’t faded were the handprints on his calves. Even after weeks had passed, they remained huge, purple bruises. The memory of being dragged under water flashed across his mind. Panicking as it covered his head and filled his lungs. Icy hands surrounding him in an unbreakable grip.
Instead of fading with time, the bruises seemed a scar of their own. Another reminder of Alistair’s power and his willingness to destroy anyone who stood in his way.
Maybe I should have killed him when I first had the chance. Silas flinched away from the thought. If Alistair had died during their mental battle, everything would have been so much easier. But he’d lived, and killing him after the fact, when he was just an unconscious old man, had been a step too far for Silas. Imagining it didn’t make him feel righteous or kingly; it just made him feel like a murderer.
Griselda wants me to make an example of traitors, but how am I any better than Alistair if I kill people for challenging my authority? As he thought the question, he knew that was an exaggeration. Griselda wasn’t demanding executions for everyone who disagreed with Silas or showed him the slightest hint of disrespect—or she’d have to include herself on that list—she was only trying to eliminate threats. After all, those soldiers had kidnapped one of her friends. Even if she’d treated Penn like an annoyance most of the time, they were still obviously close. Silas had seen them trade jabs over the fire, heard her version of teasing—mostly growls and insults—countless times. Perhaps the whole time she’d kept a stoic face, she’d been terrified of what they would do to him. When she saw the men responsible … Can I really blame her for being angry? For wanting to punish the men who hurt her friend?
But why isn’t imprisonment punishment enough? It’s not like I locked them in rooms at the palace! Trapped behind bars, sleeping in dirty hay, no privacy, not even the smallest luxury. Silas hadn’t known how bad the jail was until he’d been forced to spend weeks in those cells. He intended to reform the prison system, one of the projects he hadn’t had time for yet.
Maybe a woman who’s been through wars and served for years as a mercenary doesn’t think prison is a hardship. Griselda had handled being imprisoned with her usual unbending spine and curled lip. When Alistair had first come to the jail, she’d insulted him. Called him a “shit-reeking bastard” straight to his face, and then gladly accepted her punishment in isolation. Even after she’d spent days in the dark, claustrophobic cell, her only complaints had been about Penn and Valerian annoying her.
Death is so permanent. Torture is worse—inflicting pain to interrogate or prove a point. That’s not the kind of king I want to be.
Silas had never wanted to be king, he just wanted to be … Silas. He thought of his conversation with Archer, where they had dreamed about being regular men meeting in a tavern instead of rulers of nations.
I could give it all up. Everyone already thinks Arnsveld is trying to take over—why not let them? It would be so much easier to let Archer take control. Or one of the nobles, who so clearly covet the power. Anyone else can have this stupid title. I don’t want it.
You have a choice, Archer had told Silas after stealing him away from the palace. The choices he offered were both awful: Silas could abandon everything to try to find a way to cure his illness—to break the curse he’d never known about—or return to the palace and wait for Archer’s army to march on Bellacosta. Silas had made the choice to leave with him and the war had happened anyway.
What are my choices now? I can abdicate, but I won’t necessarily be able to choose my successor. Everything after that will be out of my control. I could stay, but I’ll have to stop telling myself “This isn’t what I want. I wasn’t meant for this.”
I’d have to decide what kind of king I’m going to be.
Would he be like Archer? He did his best to avoid a war, but still efficiently eliminated threats. When Silas’ soldiers had surrounded Adelaide’s cottage, trying to take Silas away—to bring him home—Archer’s men had killed them. The only reason he hadn’t killed Darian, the sergeant in charge, had been because Silas begged him not to. That was the kind of king Griselda admired, the one she loyally served. The kind of king she wanted Silas to become.
I can’t be a king like that. He understood Archer’s reasoning, but Silas didn’t agree with his actions that day. Darian had become a strong ally who had helped Silas before and after his confrontation with Alistair. He’d been the first to kneel before Silas, to prove his loyalty in front of the other soldiers. If Archer had killed him, what would have changed?
Part of Silas’ struggle through his reign so far was not having enough guidance. The council had mostly ignored him, only seeing him as a figurehead. His mother had expected Gessa to inherit, and after she died … the queen had been too shrouded in mourning her daughter to plan for her son’s future. She’d only been forty-eight when she’d passed, she’d assumed she’d have years to prepare Silas for the throne. He’d joined her in a few council meetings, but she’d never faced the kind of issues Silas did now. No one openly challenged her or committed treason during her reign. There had been criminals she’d passed judgment on—thieves and murderers—but never anything like Silas was up against.
What would Gessa do if she had been queen? She hadn’t lived to take the crown, but she’d talked so brightly about her future, everything she’d wanted to do for their kingdom. If she’d been here, would she have made the same decisions as Silas? He knew one thing: if Griselda had challenged her in the same way, Gessa would have stood toe-to-toe with the general and continued to argue until they understood each other’s points. Not stormed off to have an emotional breakdown in her bedroom.
You have a choice. Silas had chosen, over and over again, to do what was best for his kingdom. To be what was best for his kingdom.
It was time to prove to everyone—himself included—that he’d made the right choice.
He reached for a shirt and paused as his hand brushed against the fabric—buttery soft, but not quite right. Too fine and delicate for his destination. Though he understood the value of dressing to impress, he didn’t really think the maids would appreciate it if he fouled his finery. Instead, he dressed in the simplest clothes he had, leaving off the jacket and cravat entirely.
Then he went down to the Council Chambers, where he was almost an hour late for the committee meeting. No Archer or Griselda, he thought as he scanned the hallway. The committee members waited awkwardly outside the door to be allowed in.
Lord Pryce’s hard eyes locked on Silas. “Do you plan to keep us waiting for so long every day, Your Majesty? Some of us do have other things to do.”
“Something more important came up,” Silas said, then pointed to Felicity, Quentin, and Tomlin. “You’re all dismissed.”
Quentin ran off before the other two registered his statement. Felicity’s eyes widened and she asked, “Are you sure, Your Majesty?”
“You’re likely needed elsewhere,” he replied.
She accepted this with a murmured thanks as she left.
Tomlin watched Silas for a long moment, then said, “Until tomorrow, Your Majesty.”
When only Mirinda, Darian, and Pryce remained, Silas waved for them to follow him. “Come with me.” He turned on his heel and walked back down the way he’d come, not waiting to see if they followed.
“Your Majesty?” Mirinda asked from a few steps behind him. “Where are we going?”
“The stables, by the looks of those clothes,” Pryce muttered, just loud enough to be heard.
Silas looked over his shoulder and bared his teeth in a smile that would have made Griselda proud. “We’re going somewhere much worse.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Penn and Valerian stopped for a midday break to eat and let Hex rest. Along with the other provisions they’d bought from the general store, Merrick had given them meat pies with thick, flaky crusts. The conversation hadn’t recovered since their last argument and Penn was starting to get sick of the silence. One of the joys of traveling with other people was talking through the long hours. Something about being far away from home usually made people open up more.
Trying to think of a topic, he cycled through a variety of possibilities, everything from mundane ‘what’s your favorite weather?’ To the more volatile ‘why are you hiding a body full of scars?’ He doubted Valerian would answer that question anyway and asking would reveal that Penn had seen them while Valerian was unconscious.
I should ask him about the ice. He shuddered at the memory of waking up to a frozen room. Valerian seemed unconcerned—like he didn’t even know it had happened. Penn wanted to have Adelaide as backup before he brought it up.
In the end, Penn hadn’t decided on anything by the time they packed up and returned to the road.
“We’ll have one more night on the road before we reach Causley Estate,” Valerian said.
Penn wondered if the silence was also getting to him. Of course he chose one of the most neutral topics. “Are there inns along the way, or is it better to camp?” Are there any other little towns you remember because one woman had pretty eyes?
“Baskerville is less than a half day’s ride away. This close to the border, there’s less likely to be any thriving inns, but we can check. If nothing else, there’s probably a shop like Merrick’s that will house us.”
“If not, camping is fine. I usually camp when I’m traveling.”
“I’ve camped enough times in my life, thank you,” Valerian said dryly. “I’ve come to learn the value of a bed.”
They lapsed into silence again and Penn watched the passing countryside. Everything was so open in Bellacosta. In Arnsveld, the top of the mountains provided a spectacular view, but anything lower along the ridge was crowded with trees. Here, Penn could see for miles across the farmlands, watching people work the autumn harvest.
“I never finished my story,” Valerian said, startling Penn out of a stupor.
“What?”
Valerian kept his gaze on the road, even though it was a straight path with no visible obstacles or other traffic. “I assume you want to hear about more than my temporary-medic’s pretty eyes. But if I’m wrong—”
“Tell me,” Penn said, sitting up straighter.
The corner of Valerian’s lips twitched at his enthusiastic response, but the mirth quickly drained away. “You could as easily ask Griselda about the mission—it was one we worked together. We often crossed paths in those days. Her unique ability to scent magic and poison earned her a higher price as a mercenary. It also meant she often took on the more dangerous jobs.”
“Since you teamed up so often, that must mean you also worked those dangerous jobs.”
“Yes, well, not many mages become mercenaries. Too bloody and too much practical application of their own magic—not enough time to study and craft something new.”
Penn made a mental note to ask Valerian why he had become a mercenary later. He was afraid if he asked now, they’d somehow end up so far away from the original story, they’d never find their way back.
“By this mission, we’d worked together three or four times already. Typically, her job was to find or confirm the magic, and mine was to neutralize it. Other people usually joined us, and this time we had a tracker and an archer. The tracker was new to the game—he’d mostly hunted deer and smaller predators before, nothing like what we were after.”
“What were you after?” Penn asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“A mage who had delved too far into experimentation. Like me, she specialized in transformation, but I preferred smaller changes”—he glanced at Penn from the corner of his eye—“like glamours. Whereas she wanted to transcend the human experience.”
“Did you know her?”
“Do you think all mages know each other?”
“You knew Adelaide,” Penn pointed out, “and Alistair.”
“Knowing someone and knowing of them are two different things. Both Adelaide and Alistair have far-reaching reputations. But yes, I did know Kellina quite well. We shared a teacher for a few years, though we lost touch once our studies diverged.”
“What did she do that required four mercenaries to hunt her down?”
Valerian was quiet for a while and Penn wasn’t sure he would continue the story. He almost regretted asking—he hadn’t realized how personal the connection would be. Finally, the words sounding dragged out of him, Valerian explained, “She found herself a new mentor, one who shared her interest in animal transformations. What she didn’t know at the time was that he was not looking for a partner, he was looking for a test subject.”
Valerian let the story drop for a while, focusing more than necessary on a turn in the road. Next to him, Penn sat quietly, his face pale with dawning horror. Regretting your questions already, darling?
“What happened to her?” Penn asked.
“Her mentor used her own research to transform her into a wild cat.” No one knew why, or how many experiments they had tried before he leapt straight to a dangerous predator. Some people from the nearby towns had gone missing—one or two each, all within a day’s ride—but they only guessed Kellina or her mentor were behind the disappearances. They might have been completely unrelated. Mages tended to earn terrifying reputations even when they weren’t dabbling in magic best left alone. “I don’t know if she lost her mind immediately, or if it took time for her humanity to fade, but in all ways, she became a beast.”
And her mentor had paid for his transgressions. Limbs scattered through the room. Blood soaked into the wood. The death had occurred days before Valerian arrived, but no one had wanted to brave the building to clean it up, so a thick rotten scent filled the air.
“Overnight, a forest sprouted where farmland had been. She hunted the owners and farmhands first.”
She had carried the bodies up into the trees. More than one corpse had fallen into their path. The tracker had almost run away the first time it happened, abandoning them to navigate the wilderness on their own. The price they’d been offered to bring Kellina back—fully human—had been enough to convince him to stay.
“How did you and Gris become involved?” Penn asked. “Did the townspeople hire you?”
“Kellina’s father did,” Valerian corrected. “The lord of some manor or other, he offered four thousand notes to bring Kellina back alive and reverse the enchantment. If she died or remained a cat, we would receive nothing.”
Penn’s eyebrows rose in shock. At today’s rates, that translated into almost twenty thousand gold, but it was half that when Valerian had taken the job. It still tempted even the wariest mercenary. “Did you succeed?”
