Warrior, Opposed: Book One Of The Comhairle Chronicles

Chapter Ten - History Is Frightening

Her calm didn’t ease as she made her way through the unfamiliar Comhairle facility, but she had her reasons for never previously visiting the training facility, and not just due to Raghnall. Part of her avoidance came from guilt, because her disregard for rules had been the motive for the creation of separate training compounds. The Council didn’t want anyone else sneaking to the proving grounds without permission, so trainees and guards had been separated off from the main facility to limit the chance of that happening. Her actions had changed the Comhairle.

Idly she wondered if background checks would become stricter now too, now that Tor had ignored the code by taking the trials despite his bloodline. The rookie was more like her than she ever would have guessed. Maybe Tancred had judged them correctly; maybe they would be a good team, provided they could get past whatever had caused Tor’s jitters. And provided she could get over her ridiculous and unattainable desire for her new partner.

One thing at a time.

Tor entered the foyer first, and much to her shame Deòthas found herself hiding behind him. Such a fucking coward. Still, she achieved her goal and Raghnall didn’t notice her, not until he looked for her.

“Torquil! Congratulations!” the head instructor enthused as he came towards them across the marble tiled entrance hall. “Tancred said he was sending you and your partner. Who did our master and commander assign…” his voice trailed off and his warm expression quickly fell to sub-zero. “Deòthas. He put you under Deòthas?”

“And I couldn’t have asked for a better partner,” Tor answered, frowning at his former mentor in something that looked like reproach.  “I’ve been given the chance to learn from one of the Comhairle’s strongest warriors. I’m grateful to Tancred for the opportunity.”

“Clearly you have the patience of a saint,” answered Raghnall, his chilly stare not leaving Deòthas.

Nope, his opinion of her certainly hadn’t improved.

She didn’t meet his gaze. She’d backed down a lot recently. Too much, really. It wasn’t like her, and she felt exposed without her hard shield. She couldn’t face Raghnall’s hate, though, because it reminded her of too much pain. In contrast, her partner stiffened. Tor’s body angled towards the head of training, and if he hadn’t been loaded with bags, Deòthas suspected he may have taken up guard position. He still planted his body more firmly between Raghnall and her.

“I think you should show us to our rooms,” Tor answered, his own tone taking on a distinct frostiness. “Then we’ll go and say hi to the others, if that’s not an issue?”

“No. No, of course not. You’ll be in your old room, Tor, as it hasn’t been given to anyone else yet. If you want to drop off your luggage there, I can show Deòthas to her room.”

An involuntary shudder ran the length of Deòthas’s spine at the thought of being alone with the man. Genuine relief washed through her when Tor shook his head and said, “We’ll go to Deòthas’s first. After all, she is my partner and I’m going to want to be able to find her.”

Raghnall briefly seemed about to argue, perhaps to use his seniority to encourage Tor’s compliance. However, he sighed and nodded, rather than pressing the matter. Maybe he remembered they were Tancred’s representatives in his house. Maybe he also realised that Tor was a first class warrior now, serving among the primaries, and that meant he outranked Ragnall’s second class status and his position amongst the secondary support teams. Whichever truth caused him to hold his silence, Deòthas thanked the gods for small mercies.

Unfortunately, when he led them through the various corridors and up various staircases, she had the distinct impression they weren’t taking the usual route to a guest room. That suspicion grew stronger as Tor’s expression soured further and he glared at the back of Raghnall’s head, his ultramarine eyes bright with anger. In fact, by the time they reached an attic corridor, a low rumble emanated from him; a growl which threatened to build into a full blown snarl. He really was in an atrocious mood.