Salome at Sunrise (7 page)

Why had she touched him? Touch was soothing and humans craved contact, but the draw of his skin held more than comfort. The stirring in her soul was not a magical response but a human one. Salome understood animals, understood the powers of nature. Those were simple, basic and uncomplicated. What she felt when she was near Bryton was the opposite but far more thrilling. She’d chosen to be his peacemaker but one moment in his presence, one glimpse into his crystal eyes, and her serenity shattered, replaced with a vibrating longing for more.

More what? Each touch only fueled the fire, each spoken word fanned the flames, each absence spurned a blaze. What was this feeling charging through her? For one flitting second, she considered abandoning her vow and returning to a place that was rapidly fading from memory. One thought speared through her essence with a slicing bite. She could not leave him. He needed her, though he fought it, and she needed him. Bryton held more in his grasp than a sword. He held her destiny. But what was that destiny?

So many questions and too few answers had finally numbed her and she turned back, streaming toward his slumbering camp. Dawn was still golden in the sky, the day’s blue not yet realized, when her wind took shape and form. Her falcon had lit on a thickly leafed limb and peered through foliage.

Bryton stood shirtless, his wet hair tied back severely, and scrubbed a thick layer of white along his face. Something between two tree branches caught and reflected the rising sun. He peered into the sparkling surface and scraped a metal blade down his cheek. The white peeled away and took the whiskers with it. Her feathers quivered. He was shaving…and arguing with his horse.

“I didn’t. I did not kiss her, no.” The horse chewed on some grasses, oblivious to his master’s discussion.

“Okay, maybe I thought about it…for a second…or four.” More white and whiskers dropped to the bowl of water. He swished the blade and brought it back to his throat. Before he stroked, he whipped the blade to point at the animal. “But I didn’t. I just…Damn, are all the magic spirits in the world beautiful women? Why couldn’t Myla send me a huge ugly man with warts and bad breath? Hell, I’d take a crone, an old hag with a cackle and crooked nose. No, she sends me a…”

A frustrated sound ripped from his mouth and he spun back to his bowl. More of the white fell away. Salome clamped her beak tight. The long line of his back shifted with his every move. Her gaze traced down his spine, to the small of his back. Her tiny heart fluttered in her feathered breast. Did his skin feel as smooth as it looked?

“I mean, I could, right? It’s just lust, right? And the whole ‘not real’ thing didn’t bother Taric.”

Jester raised his head, shaking his ears, and snorted.

Bryton nodded. “And it’s not like I’m a monk. Even after…I’ve had women since then…four…no, five…or was it four?” Long fingers extended as he counted. “Four…no, the tavern maid in Follyswit…or did I pass out first? Shit, I can’t remember. Those moons are a drunken blur.”

Jester twitched his ears. More white whisked away and Bryton dipped the blade in the bowl before shaking the water off with a fast snap. “No, I need to focus on finding Karok and the rest of his rabid dogs. I don’t have time to fool around with a magic spell.”

Tipping his chin up, he drew the shaver down his throat until there was no more white. “She chatters. It’s so damn annoying…And she’s an innocent. I hate virgins, I really do.”

He worked in short, fast movements above his upper lip. “The point is, I did not kiss her. Those women didn’t count and neither does Salome. Kat counted.”

He dried the razor, wrapped it with the small reflective square in a leather pouch and tucked that into his saddlebag. He stared at the horse. “She’s short and her breasts are too small.”

Salome dropped her beak and puffed her chest. Too small for what?

“And her eyes are gray. Not blue, not brown, gray…like night before the stars appear.”

Water struck the leaves as he pitched the bowl contents into the bush. A pale cloth dragged across his face and he sighed. So much pain bled on that noise that Salome fought a tear that couldn’t form in her feathered body. “She does smell like honey.”

He tossed the cloth over his shoulder, rubbed the horse’s ears. “Why can’t I get the taste of her off my lips?”

The long nose nuzzled into his shoulder and Bryton firmed his mouth. He raised the horse’s head until he stared into the solemn eyes. “But I did not kiss her.”

The morning sun warmed the sky. Bryton pulled a tunic from his pack, stepping away from the horse. The black mark on his upper chest widened Salome’s eyes. He’d mentioned he had battle scars. Those few white lines along his torso and arms she noticed casually but that mark, the mysterious dagger blade, did not look like an injury. The edges were too clean, too precise, to have been an accidental wound. Muscles bunched and stretched as he pulled the hip-length tunic over his head. Along his biceps were triangles, darkened marks in orderly lines. Those were not accidental, either.

Salome cocked her head right then left. Intentional symbols.

His belt wrapped around his trim waist and the back scabbard slid over his head with the ease of long practice. In minutes, he was nudging Jester southward. Salome remained, perched high above until she could gather her thoughts.

Bryton’s hand had engulfed hers and her serenity had imploded. Each ridge and scrape of his palm around hers sent shivery, unknown longings zinging through her. Perhaps it was that his eyes borrowed a hue from the sky but she felt swept away on a too-strong breeze, her body tossed about like a leaf. Perhaps it was the plumpness of his bottom lip, so strangely soft on a face so rugged, that made something inside her go liquid and flush. Perhaps it was something magical she did not understand that whispered in her mind to touch him, stroke him, garner a response.

The air caught her leap and she soared high above the rushing ground, finding her charge in fewer than a dozen wing beats. His brisk, steady pace and tensed back kept her from gliding beside him, his words to his horse kept her mind in a whirl. The terrain changed to thicker trees and less grain field, more farmland and less open plain, more cottages and villages and less barren road. Clusters of men pointed upward at her flight. Salome’s falcon was too noticeable. When Bryton craned his neck to follow their pointed fingers’ path and his mouth firmed, she pushed against air and climbed toward the sun. Once away from strange human eyes, her feathers melted to wind.

Bryton’s hair fought the leather tie as she swirled around him. He closed his eyes and she tripped invisible fingertips over his face, whispering in the melody of her pure essence.

“Wingless wind carries my voice but others may not hear. I am for you and you alone.”

“I can feel your fingers in the wind. Why are you always touching me?”

“Touch brings comfort, soothes the body. I crave your touch.”

“Yeah, well…stop playing with my hair. I don’t like it.”

She tugged harder at the tie, delighting when it loosened.
“Untruths do not linger well on your tongue. I feel your pleasure as well as your pain.”

“No, I like a woman’s fingers in my hair, not some magic spell’s, so stop it.”

Unease twanged her spirit and Bryton’s gaze flared to glowing. Her wind tightened around him. The bustling village roadway was lined with shops, a tavern and people. None noticed the man on horseback with a purple whirlwind surrounding him.

“Evil.”

“I feel it.” Leather rubbed on wool as he shifted, bringing his dagger more comfortably in his reach. “Salome, maybe you should go hang out in a tree or something. Your dress is too different not to draw attention and I’d rather not have to fight off the people I want to talk to.”

“I shall not let you die alone. Your path is my path.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to die here. The evil’s gone. Can’t you sense that?”

Salome marveled. How easily he gave his calm reassurance. Deeper understanding formed within her. Her charge was far more than a soldier with a death wish, far more than a King’s Law. The depths of his compassion twined tight with his honor and formed an unbreakable weave of goodness.

“I do not possess foreshadowing, only soothing and instinct. Fear and horror taint this place.”

“Yeah, but not danger. Whatever it was, it’s gone.”

Her wind slowed as she tasted the truth of his words. Still, the thought of leaving him chilled her. A small leather pouch hung on his belt and she streamed toward it, tightening and narrowing until she burrowed under the loose flap. She nestled there in darkness until he jerked the cover open.

“Well, shit. Now I have a pocket full of feathers.” His words were tinged with amusement overlaid with irony. Salome opened her wren’s beak and squeaked at him. “Even without words, you chatter. Hush up, now.”

The flap closed and the soft press of his hand molded the supple material. Heat from his body traveled through the pouch and seeped beneath her feathers. Rounded coins, a bit of flint and one soft pale curl tied tight with a pink ribbon shifted as he dismounted, and Salome fought not to have her tiny feet pinched. The rhythm of his walk allowed her to settle more comfortably as she strained to hear. There were greetings and polite words, welcomes and inquiries. The pungent odor of a blacksmith’s fire choked her and she coughed, hiding her beak beneath her wing. What was he doing that put him in the line of such fumes? Whatever he said was drowned out by the wheeze of the bellows and the hiss of hot iron hitting cool water.

Laughter, loud and riotous, suddenly bombarded her. The smoke drifted away and the stale stench of bodies pressed tight replaced it. Bryton’s hand stayed cupped on his pouch, protecting her from the crush of people that jostled him.

He ordered ale and lamplight flooded her nesting spot as he dug for a coin. One long finger stroked her back in a slow, gentle caress before leaving. The motion comforted her. He kept the flap open as he settled into a crude chair next to the back wall. Salome raised her head slowly.

“Careful, birdie,” he murmured with his tankard hiding his lips. “I thought you might need air but this crowd is likely to step on you.”

“No weapons allowed in here.”

The loud screech effectively silenced most of the talking and Salome swiveled her tiny head, searching for the crow who’d spoken. A thin woman with the deep grooves and lines of hard life glared at Bryton from an upper level. When all eyes swung to them, Salome dipped her body deeper into the pouch.

Bryton set the tankard on the table with no sound. “I’ve no weapons.”

The woman snorted and crossed her arms. “Oh, and what’s across your back then, good sir? A broom? Are you here to sweep my floors?”

“It’s a back-scratcher. I have a terrible itch. Drives a man crazy, you know, not to scratch when needed.”

“There’s whores aplenty to scratch your itch, sir. I’ll have no fighting in my tavern.”

Bryton’s grin sparkled with mischief. “All I came for was a pint of ale and rest for my saddle-worn ass. I have no intention of fighting this day and won’t cause you a moment’s worry. But, my good lady, if you wish to come scratch my back, I’ll hand my scratcher to you and no other.”

Snickers and guffaws peppered the air and the woman’s eyes narrowed. Bryton held his smile as she descended the stairs and marched to stand before him. Her bony hand shot out, asking for his sword, and a weed-thin brow arched.

Bryton sipped his ale. “Are you going to scratch my back?”

“I’ll have my men thump your ass if you don’t hand over the sword. It’ll be returned when your bill is settled and you take your leave.”

“I pay as I go and will place my sword here, between us, if you would join me, my fair lady.” He winked at her. Salome’s breast grew hot as a bolt of jealous heat shot through her. This woman was a crow in pale skin, with drab hair and a stick’s curves. Surely he did not find her attractive, did he?

A wry smile twisted the woman’s bloodless lips. “Sir, are you daft? I can think of no other reason for you to flirt with someone older than your mother and as tired as your ass claims to be.”

Bryton chuckled. “No, my lady, I simply know a good woman when I see her. And my father flirts with my mother still. She likes it.”

“I’m not your mother. Your sword, sir?”

Bryton rose from the table, untied his harness strap and handed her the scabbard with a bow. He did not release it when she grasped it but pulled out a chair. “Your seat, my lady?”

Her wrinkled neck quivered as she shook her head at him. Fisting her skirt and lowering herself into the chair, she tucked the scabbard between them with a knowing look. Bryton grasped her hand, brought it to his lips and placed a sweet kiss on the spotted skin before resuming his seat. Several large men relaxed their vigil, turning back to their mugs, and only then did Salome realize the tavern mistress had heavy protection.

“You, sir, are a devil. I’m Penna, owner and final word within these walls. What name should I pray for your rascal soul in?”

“Javon. And in times such as these, I hope you understand that a smart man is never far from his blade. Some say you’ve had trouble here lately, so this you know.”

Penna sighed. “True. You’re a stranger but those around know my policies. Last week when the Skullman came, he too wore a sword. My guard is high now.”

“There are no painted bones on my skin and, as you can see, my eyes are not gold. I’m no Skullman,” Bryton spat with heat in his voice. His body vibrated with unease although his tone remained respectful.

“I can see, but caution is best. Skullmen aren’t the only troublemakers about. The long summers of war have left too many with grudges. Those types my tavern can do without.”

The old woman motioned with her hand and a serving girl slid before them a plate of steaming warm bread, sliced thick and spread with rich white butter. The girl looked boldly at Bryton and licked her painted lips. He dipped his head with a small smile. Salome jabbed his side with her sharp little beak.

“Ouch!” Startled, Bryton glared at his pouch.

“What do you have there?” Penna frowned. Salome squirmed from the leather and hopped onto the scarred table. His hand shot out and grabbed her. Though his grip was firm, it cradled her gently, one large hand cupped over the other. “Is that a bird?”

“It’s nothing,” he grumbled. Between his fingers, she peeked out and pulled her head back to jab him again. He tightened his hold. “Just a…pet.”

“May I see?”

Bryton’s brow slanted low but his voice was open and friendly. “She’s a little temperamental.”

He removed his covering hand and Penna gasped. When she smiled, her eyes softened to a shade like maple and her wrinkles deepened. “A wren! I don’t think I’ve ever seen one so tame. May I hold her?”

Lines of tension corded his neck and his lips smiled stiffly. “As I said, she’s a fickle thing.” He glowered at Salome. “Birdie, be nice and let the lady hold you.”

Salome shimmied her tail in his palm and he opened his fingers. Penna reached and Salome made a short graceful hop from one palm to another. A gnarled finger stroked softly down her head and back. Her breathy utterance of delight barely reached Salome’s feathers. “She’s lovely.”

Scrutinizing blue eyes darted from her to the matron holding her. He casually bit into a slice of bread but didn’t drop his gaze. “You’ve a gentle touch for a woman who rules her business with such a strong grip.”

Penna slid him a challenging look but did not stop her finger’s path down tiny brown feathers. “Says the man with a sword, at least one dagger in his boot and a bird in his pocket.”

His low laugh barely carried over the din of drinkers, talkers and gamblers. “You’re observant. My sword is by your knee, my dagger stays in my boot and my pet is in your hand. You have me at your mercy, Lady Penna.”

“Something tells me that is not quite true. But as this delightful creature makes me remember happier times in the garden of my father’s home, I’m choosing to believe your lies. Entertain me, Javon. I’d like to hear your story.”

“No story, madam. I’m just a man on a hunting trip.”

“What do you hunt?”

“Skullmen. The one who caused trouble here, where did he go?”

“To hell.” Penna smirked. “My men may be simple farmers, but no man is invincible against five angry men. They strung him up. His body hangs on the east side for the buzzards to gorge on.”

“Vigilante villagers? The king has ordered any Skullmen captured were to be turned over to the Royal Guard.”

“The Royal Guard was not here and my men were. It was justice. Men like that…The butcher’s hatred still stains Eldwyn and will until the last of those demons are rotting in the sun. He killed one of my girls. When they tracked him down, he…Killing him was too kind.” Her eyes hardened and her mouth pinched. “Whores know their lot but they never expect their legs to be spread after their throats are slit.”

The bread lay forgotten on the platter. Bryton’s knuckles tightened rhythmically and hostility rippled from his frame. Salome flew from Penna’s hand, landing on his shoulder, nuzzling at his neck with a comforting trill. His pulse tripped wildly under her caress.

“Was he alone?”

Penna shrugged. “Only one came here and no more were seen. He was the first we’d seen since last summer and hopefully the last. Now that the northlands have thawed, the Royal Guards will act. I’ll give the young king credit, he’s had his guards on the Skullmen like cream on a milk pail.”

Bryton held out his palm and Salome leaped into his hand. “That he has. My thanks for the bread, Lady Penna, but I must be on my way.”

“Happy hunting, Javon.”

With Salome held tight to his chest, he bowed and retrieved his sword. His boots stomped on the wooden floor and the hand cradling her trembled with suppressed anger. Salome wrapped her wings tighter, allowing him to tuck her small body back into the pouch. He didn’t speak to anyone and the scent of the blacksmith’s forge grew noxious again. She rocked to the side as he mounted and Jester pranced for a few paces before settling into a steady rhythm. Hatred and anger boiled inside Bryton, humming through her spirit in nauseating waves of empathy. Salome poked at the pouch flap as he drew the horse to a stop and climbed down.

Flies buzzed, huge black dots that swarmed around the naked, hanging, rotting body. The blackened face was gruesomely misshapen—some from decay, some from a vicious beating. Skin around vacant eye sockets was shredded and peeled away. Dark skin had tightened and split over his bulging stomach. The white painted outlines of bones along his arms and back blazed bright, as if the skeleton beneath were floating to the surface.