The reunion between brother and sister was a joyous one. The little boy and girl spoke too quickly in their broken tongue for Sam to follow their conversation, but she could pick out their fervently whispered I-love-you’s. The girl repeatedly called the boy something that sounded like, “Ee-jut”, but she said it with such affection that Sam couldn’t be sure of its meaning.
Tristan insisted on buying the children two of the fancy cakes that had nearly spelled Charlie’s demise. Charlie ate his pastry in two large bites, his cheeks bulging as he chewed and swallowed. “Took you all of thirty seconds to eat that thing,” said Tristan. “What a waste of your gold coin that would’ve been.”
The little boy licked his frosting coated fingers. “I’da bought it for me sister. Wouldna been a waste.”
His sister, at least, knew how to savor a rare treat. She split her cake into two, and nibbled daintily on one half. Shyly, she offered the other half to Braeden.
Tristan clutched at his heart. “You wound me, my lady,” he said with mock hurt. “I rescue your brother, yet you offer your cake to Braeden? What does a man have to do to earn himself a sliver?”
“Buy one for yourself,” the girl said tartly, blushing a little.
Sam grabbed Tristan’s elbow and pulled him aside. “Stop it, you’re embarrassing her. Braeden is likely her first infatuation.”
“What do you know of a little girl’s infatuation?”
Sam had firsthand experience, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. “Enough to know she fancies herself in love with Braeden. She’s been mooning over him ever since you made him hold her hand.”
Tristan chuckled. “Would never have thought of Braeden as a heartbreaker.”
Sam glared at him. “So women should only fall in love with a pretty face like yours, then.”
Tristan grinned, his teeth flashing white against his tanned skin. “Don’t worry, you and Braeden can have my leftovers.”
Sam punched him in the shoulder. “I was only jesting!” Tristan squawked.
After the cakes were eaten, Tristan, Sam and Braeden bid the children their adieu.
“Thankee, Milord. We won’t forget you, not never,” Charlie promised, his back straight and proud.
“Take care of your sister, Charlie,” said Tristan, mounting his horse. “And if the Paladins try to give either of you trouble again, remind them of my name.”
“What is your name, milord?” asked the little girl.
Tristan inclined his head. “Paladin Tristan Lyons, First of the sword.”
****
They didn’t stay in Westergo much longer, though Tristan had originally planned for them to spend the night. “I don’t want to stay in this gods damned city one more second than I have to,” he said. Sam couldn’t agree more.
After they stopped by the mercer’s shop to collect the High Commander’s silk – which, according to Tristan, had no significance beyond the fact that Westergoans made really nice silk – they continued on down the main throughway, passed the opulent palace and the slums, then out of Westergo through its westernmost gates.
“Where to next, Tristan?” Sam shouted above the sound of hoofbeats.
Tristan slowed down so that the necks of their horses were aligned. “Pirama will be our next stop. I’ll need to send a report back to the High Commander.”
“Pirama? Didn’t the innkeeper in Gwent say something about Uriel sympathies?”
“Aye, I’ll need to confirm the truth of his words. At this point, his information is over a month old, too, so it’s very possible it’s outdated. We’ll need to be on our guards.”
“Did you truly know nothing about the Uriel before we left the Center?” Sam was hard-pressed to believe that Tristan was completely ignorant of the existence of the rebel force. He was in the High Commander’s innermost circle, or at least so it seemed to her. Why would the High Commander withhold information?
Tristan’s lips flattened into a grim line. “The Uriel are as new to me as they are to you. I’m still not convinced they’re a real threat.”
“And if they are?”
“I don’t concern myself with hypotheticals. I’ll follow the directive of the High Commander when and if the time comes, as I always do.” He urged his horse ahead once more, signaling that the conversation was over.
They only managed a couple of hours of solid riding before a thunderstorm forced them to seek shelter off road. The sky was an inky purple, topped by billowing clouds so dark they were nearly black. Crisscrossed branches of lightning streaked down from the heavens with a sharp crack, and it was all Sam could do to keep her frightened horse from bolting.
By the time they set up camp and secured the horses, it was too wet to start a fire. Sam’s clothes were soaked through and she was chilled to the bone. “We sh-should have s-stayed in Westergo,” she managed to get out, her teeth chattering.
Tristan rummaged through their bags in search of a dry shirt, and he swore, finding none. “You two didn’t want to be there any more than I did. That place makes me sick.”
He was right, Sam conceded. Until she had left home, she had wanted for nothing and even now, on the road, she never went hungry. The poverty-stricken people of Westergo, with their quiet desperation and hopeless stares, made her uncomfortable. “I’m f-f-freezing,” she said, shivering.
“We all are, but there’s nothing we can do about it until the storm breaks. I suspect we’ll have to hunker down here for the night,” said Tristan. He pulled off his leather boots and turned them upside down, dumping out a small puddle of water. His tunic and breeches quickly followed suit, until he stood in nothing but his smallclothes.
“What are you doing?” Sam squeaked.
Tristan gave her a hard look. “My clothes are sopping wet. I suggest you do the same unless you want to catch your death of cold.”
Braeden, too, removed his outer garments, his black robes sloshing to his feet. Sam stared. The two men stood under the fractured cover of the trees, rainwater sluicing down their well-honed chests. Where Tristan was big and brawny, Braeden was lean and powerful, ferally handsome in the dark of the storm.
“Well?” asked Tristan.
Sam put her hands up defensively. “I’m f-fine. M-my c-clothes aren’t that wet.” She pointedly ignored the ghost of a smile that flitted across Braeden’s lips.
“Suit yourself,” said Tristan, and crawled into the tent.
A lazy grin stretched across Braeden’s face. He sauntered toward her and reached out to touch the sodden fabric of her tunic. “Stay warm, Lady Sam,” he said. Braeden entered into the tent after Tristan. Sam stuck her tongue out at his back before following him inside.
It was one of the most excruciating nights of Sam’s life. As Tristan predicted, the rain did not let up, battering against the leather roof of their shelter. They lay close together – for body heat, Tristan had said. Because Sam was the smallest, she had to lie in the middle, wedged between Braeden and Tristan. Braeden looked slightly scandalized, but true to form, he said nothing and turned his back to her.
Tristan soon drifted off to sleep, his chest rising up and down in even breaths. Sam closed her eyes, but she was unbearably cold. She shuddered as chills raked her from head to toe, her arms pimpled with goosebumps.
“Can’t sleep?” Braeden asked softly.
She shook her head, locking her jaw to keep it from rattling.
Braeden touched her hand. “Gods, your skin is like ice.”
Sam flipped onto her side, facing him. “I w-wasn’t aware,” she snapped. Another shudder rocked her.
Hesitantly, Braeden wrapped his arms around her torso, hugging her to him. “Just for a little while,” he said.
Sam was too cold to think beyond snuggling into his warm chest. The heat of his body was like a furnace against hers, soothing away her shivers. She fell asleep to the steady beat of his heart.