Warrior, Opposed: Book One Of The Comhairle Chronicles

Chapter Eight - All Going Mad

“Take a seat, Deòthas.” Tancred indicated towards the one free chair, the one next to Tor.

Newbies weren’t usually allowed at captain’s meetings, but Deòthas guessed Tanc had made an exception, probably due to the family connection. For his part, the rookie was furiously scribbling on the pages of the open notepad in front of him, although he seemed to be staring out of the window rather than down at whatever he was sketching. He didn’t even acknowledge Deòthas as she slid onto the seat beside him, not until her breath caught, surprise choking her.

He was drawing her likeness.

Wait. Why was he drawing her? Especially the way he was?

The sketch which covered the lined pages in front of him stunned her with its detail. He’d captured her mid-battle, her body tilted forward and mid spin, following the downward swing of her great sword. Her long plait whipped around her, and Tor had replicated everything down to the stray strands of hair which always escaped when she fought. He’d perfectly depicted the outfit she’d been wearing when they went to save his family, from the number of bones in her leather jacket to the leather bracer which had protected her left arm. Even the ancient enchantments etched into the surface of the Taghadair blade looked accurate. What really took her breath away, however, was how her rookie had drawn her face.

Did she really look like that when she fought? Were her eyes really so intense, so sure? Were her fangs really that vicious looking as she smiled defiantly at her enemies? Did she really look both so beautiful and so terrifying, an enchanting mesh of slender fey grace and fierce warrior brutality?

Deòthas had never seen herself as particularly beautiful or terrifying, not to a supernatural eye, at least. Humans were easily seduced and easily frightened, but how they saw her mattered very little. Yet to draw her as he had, Tor must see her in a way she couldn’t bring herself to believe. She would admire the woman he’d depicted, and that was almost enough to persuade Deothas that Tor had sketched someone else entirely.

But no. The warrior under his pen shared all of her features and wielded her weapons. Every line of black ink had been placed with care and there was no denying that she, rather than the battle, had been the focus of Tor’s attention, at least while drawing. Sure, he had drawn Marionettes into the background, but they were rough outlines. Almost featureless compared to the emotive detail he’d put into his representation of her.

Had she really made such an impression?

Maybe her startled intake of breath drew his attention. When Tor noticed her, and then what she’d seen, he panicked. Deòthas may have understood embarrassment but the fragrance which suddenly perfumed his scent was fear. A strong, pungent, terror. Did he honestly care so much for her opinion of him that he’d keep his work from her?

Her rookie fumbled to close and hide the notebook, as if it’s disappearance under the meeting room table didn’t highlight the strangeness of what he’d been drawing. The sound of Tor scrambling to hide the sketch seemed loud in the otherwise silent room, and when Deòthas looked around, the captains were all staring determinedly at the table top. Not one of them would meet her eye.

Looking up at Tancred, Deòthas raised a brow. “Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on? Or do I have to spend my time off duty figuring it out for myself?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Tancred’s tone forbade any discussion, but uncertainty flavoured his scent too. “Anyway, you aren’t going to be off duty for long. Goraidh tells me that your wound is healing faster than expected. He thinks the blade which caused it may have been silver coated, or an alloy with a low percentage of iron, due to the speed you’re healing now you’re stitched up and properly fed.”