22 Nights Read Free Page B

draw arms.
    “What do you want?” It was the fair-haired Clyn who moved closest to Merin. The elder Haythorne son was extraordinarily large. Clyn was probably Merin’s age, or thereabouts. He was a full head taller and was wide in the shoulders. A long, blond braid fell over one of those shoulders. His chest and arms were unusually muscled, but those muscles did not impede him in swordplay, as they might with some men. Clyn was an intense and gifted swordsman. In any fight, Merin definitely wanted Clyn on his side.
    The big man did not look like an ally at the moment.
    “As I said, I have a message . . .”
    Tyman, the more hotheaded brother, rode forward and almost ran into Merin’s horse. The animals danced on graceful hooves. Tyman’s loose, long hair—reddish brown and wavy like Bela’s—danced around his angry face and rigid shoulders. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you here and now.”
    Judging by the expressions before him, Bela had talked. What had she told her brothers? The truth or her twisted version of the truth? Anything was possible. “One reason? ” Merin looked Tyman in the eye. “Kill me, and an entire army will come down on your head. The Turi have many fierce warriors, I will give you that, but Emperor Jahn has you in numbers. Kill me, and they will crush you all.”
    It was true, and surely they knew that; yet Tyman still gripped the handle of his undrawn sword.
    “And if you are killed by a woman?” an unexpectedly soft voice asked.
    Merin’s head snapped around. He had been so intent on Clyn and Tyman he had not seen or heard the seventh rider arrive. She moved into the light of their torches, the gold circlet across her brow glinting in the firelight, her wild chestnut hair shimmering. Her dress had been hiked up to allow her to ride astride, and so her long, strong legs were exposed to the night air. She simply did not have the reservations that others of her age and gender possessed.
    “Lady Belavalari,” he said.
    She drew her sword, and something on the handle of her weapon caught the light in a strange way. He didn’t have time to study the weapon’s grip; he was more focused on the blade and the woman who wielded it. She could kill him, and at the moment she looked as if she had killing on her mind.
    “General Merin,” she responded, “I did not think ever to see you again. I did not think you would be so foolish as to come anywhere near the Turis.”
    Bela was older, leaner of face, more confident than he remembered. The shape of her body was a bit different: softer, a bit rounder, but maybe it was the unexpected dress. No matter what she wore, she was more strength than gentleness.
    “I have a . . .”
    “Message,” she interrupted sharply. “I heard. Are you still a general, or have you been demoted to courier?”
    “I am still a general,” he said calmly.
    “What foolish mission would lead you here, where your life is all but worthless? I would think a general would be smarter, though in my experience you’re not known for your vast intelligence.”
    A couple of the men laughed, but not Bela’s brothers.
    “I need to speak to your father,” Merin said, ignoring her gibes. Was she trying to provoke a fight so she’d have an excuse to cut him down? That was certainly possible.
    “First you have to get past me,” she said.
    He had heard tales of female warriors who’d lived in the past, and he imagined they might’ve looked very much like this. Bela Haythorne was stubborn, strong, willful, skilled, and fearless. She was in many ways everything Merin had ever wanted in a soldier.
    Unfortunately, she was also deceptive, manipulative, and determined to have her own way in every situation, no matter what the cost.
    She was very close to him now, and she held her sword steady and thrust it forward so that the tip of the blade came near his heart. Not threateningly close, not yet. Again the exposed portion of the grip caught the light from a torch and