Hearts in Zenith (Four Husbands and a Lover)

71. Remember Me

The sights and the smells of the war camp greeted Nirav and me. His gaze darted from the horses to the sentries brandishing their weapons in greeting. It lingered on the shining steel and the glow of the cooking fires. His nostrils quivered when I called out passwords. He but smirked when one of the veterans commented 'Ismar gonna die riding a prick. The old girl loves her trophies!' behind our backs.

Nirav's obvious enjoyment of a soldier's simple life—the life I chose for myself years ago and nearly gave up—fired me up. I hugged his waist as soon as he dismounted.

"The crones say that a bad peace is better than the best war." I kissed his already parted lips.

"They lie, Ismar." He warmed the hollow on my neck with his breath. It seemed to draw his lips like a magnet draws the metal shavings.

I took his hands into mine, leading him inside my tent. He had to bend his head a little to walk in. Once we were through the flap, he straightened and gasped.

I didn't lie when I promised him a wonderful display. I had my full kit out, polished and ready, plus a few extra toys. Axes so sharp they could chop a woman's limb off in one stroke and those that crushed skulls. Half-dozen of throwing axes too. Three different shields. An armor set for battle and a fancy breastplate for parades. Bracers. Ankle guards. Riding boots with spurs. I enjoyed the display with him, for the sight of my collection never failed to please me. He was a great addition.

"You are so precious, Duke," I whispered.

"May I?" He indicated one of the long-handed axes.

"Of course."

As soon as he grabbed it, the blade dove precariously to the floor.

"Butterfingers!" I took it away from him, stepped back and gave it a proper swing. "A weapon has to be balanced for the wielder, sweetheart, and it still takes years of practice to be good with it. Try something less ambitious."

The darling man milled about the tent, while I watched him from the bed. Yes, we didn't have much time, but every time he caressed a weapon, I felt pleasure as acute as if he put his beautiful fingers inside me. I moaned when he reached for the sheathed dagger that I had removed from my belt and put on the bed next to me.

"Careful with this."

He slipped the sheath off half-way and studied the dagger's black facets. "This one looks different."

I had to moisten my lips before responding. "You're holding my misericorde, Duke. It's black steel."

He echoed my moan and knelt by the bed, still holding the dagger, sheath half-off. Despite the value of the black steel, the handle was a simple wrap-around, worn out by use. The sheath was the same. He slipped it off and touched the blade on his thumb and cried out. The dagger dug in, drawing out a thin line of blood.

"This is not a kitchen knife, my Duke," I chidded.

"I see that now." He smiled sheepishly and stuck his thumb into the mouth, but didn't let the blade out of his grasp. Good, because if he did, I'd be bidding him a farewell. Black steel was more precious than anything in the world to a warrior.

"Now you know the bite of the black steel. Never again tease a weapon made of it," I warned him. "For it thirsts for more."

I leaned over the side of the bed to pull a medicine chest from underneath it. A cedar box had pricey sap, the only remedy that could help. I embraced his shoulders, waiting for a single drop of it to coat his cut.

"The wounds inflicted by black steel never close unless treated with this rare medicine. It's a slow killer if you want someone to die slowly. A cut as shallow as yours will torment a victim for days before bleeding to death. It can also kill faster than anything else in the Knowable World."