his vision clouded once more. An odd shiver crept along his spine, and his legs turned to water. He’d seen men go white and bloodless, but he never thought to actually feel the color draining from his face. He was sure it was happening though—just as sure as the blackness around the edges of his vision encroached, until he could see nothing more.
His knees buckled, and he fell.
Chapter 2
Calista had never seen swords drawn so quickly. One moment, she’d been trading jibes with an utter rogue, and the next five deadly blades pointed at her heart. The other Blackbriar guards all stood, unarmed and facing steel. Across the dais, a black-haired man had pinioned her father from behind. Torchlight glinted along the shining edge of the dagger that now dug into his throat.
Her hands shook as she raised them, weaponless. “Please,” she whispered.
How she wished her voice carried to the back of the hall. Her mother had raised her to be a proper lady with the expectation of making a suitable match. She’d never been trained to bear arms or shoot crossbows, any more than she was meant to stand at sword point and boldly hold her chin high in defiance.
“You would ask mercy?” said the man who held the knife on her father. His blue eyes glittered like cold sapphires. “Then see to your lord.”
She glanced at the body of the brigand who had taken the keep. A youth, no doubt someone who passed for the man’s squire, knelt at his side, patting his cheek. Blood seeped from a bandage that covered the place where she’d shot him.
A handbreadth inward, and the bolt might have been fatal. If she’d so much as nicked the large artery that ran down the inner thigh, he’d have bled to death. But this was merely a flesh wound. He might yet sicken from it, should infection set in, but there was no reason it should fell him now.
Unless that bolt had carried a poison…Her heart slammed into her throat. If any of the defenders had treated the points of their quarrels, she’d been unaware. Slowly she raised her gaze to the Brother who held her father and read suspicion in his eyes, his expression, in his very posture.
“What would you have me do?” They had no way of knowing of her healing skills, and she saw no reason to tell them.
“You inflicted the wound. You can treat it.” The man tightened his grip on her father and the dagger dug into his throat. A trickle of blood welled along the blade. “As Torch fares, so does your father.”
Her hands turned to ice, and her knees wavered. If she wasn’t careful, she’d join Torch on the flagstones, in no position to assure his survival. But a thread of relief wove itself through the fear. Based on all the tales noised about, she’d have expected one of the Brotherhood to slice her father’s throat outright and put the entire keep to the sword.
“If you would ensure his healing,” she said through a thick throat, “my lady mother has a great deal more learning.”
“Then ask for her advice, but you will bring him through.” His eyes were hard and determined. This man might be a stranger to her, but she was familiar enough with authority that she knew better than to buck his. And he wasn’t even their leader.
He must be their commander, though, second only to their lord.
And who would have believed brigands such as these—bastards, younger sons, landless knights, mercenaries, if not simple outlaws—would follow such an accepted structure? For they were brigands. They had the look of men hardened to the wild, men who had seen too much destruction, and who lived a desperate existence that might end at any moment.
But it wouldn’t end now, not when they’d just secured themselves a foothold on respectability.
Their lord wants to buy his respectability through a marriage alliance. He wants to legitimize himself through me.
And who was she to stop him, even if he were in her hands now? She might possess the means to ensure he died of his wound, superficial though
His knees buckled, and he fell.
Chapter 2
Calista had never seen swords drawn so quickly. One moment, she’d been trading jibes with an utter rogue, and the next five deadly blades pointed at her heart. The other Blackbriar guards all stood, unarmed and facing steel. Across the dais, a black-haired man had pinioned her father from behind. Torchlight glinted along the shining edge of the dagger that now dug into his throat.
Her hands shook as she raised them, weaponless. “Please,” she whispered.
How she wished her voice carried to the back of the hall. Her mother had raised her to be a proper lady with the expectation of making a suitable match. She’d never been trained to bear arms or shoot crossbows, any more than she was meant to stand at sword point and boldly hold her chin high in defiance.
“You would ask mercy?” said the man who held the knife on her father. His blue eyes glittered like cold sapphires. “Then see to your lord.”
She glanced at the body of the brigand who had taken the keep. A youth, no doubt someone who passed for the man’s squire, knelt at his side, patting his cheek. Blood seeped from a bandage that covered the place where she’d shot him.
A handbreadth inward, and the bolt might have been fatal. If she’d so much as nicked the large artery that ran down the inner thigh, he’d have bled to death. But this was merely a flesh wound. He might yet sicken from it, should infection set in, but there was no reason it should fell him now.
Unless that bolt had carried a poison…Her heart slammed into her throat. If any of the defenders had treated the points of their quarrels, she’d been unaware. Slowly she raised her gaze to the Brother who held her father and read suspicion in his eyes, his expression, in his very posture.
“What would you have me do?” They had no way of knowing of her healing skills, and she saw no reason to tell them.
“You inflicted the wound. You can treat it.” The man tightened his grip on her father and the dagger dug into his throat. A trickle of blood welled along the blade. “As Torch fares, so does your father.”
Her hands turned to ice, and her knees wavered. If she wasn’t careful, she’d join Torch on the flagstones, in no position to assure his survival. But a thread of relief wove itself through the fear. Based on all the tales noised about, she’d have expected one of the Brotherhood to slice her father’s throat outright and put the entire keep to the sword.
“If you would ensure his healing,” she said through a thick throat, “my lady mother has a great deal more learning.”
“Then ask for her advice, but you will bring him through.” His eyes were hard and determined. This man might be a stranger to her, but she was familiar enough with authority that she knew better than to buck his. And he wasn’t even their leader.
He must be their commander, though, second only to their lord.
And who would have believed brigands such as these—bastards, younger sons, landless knights, mercenaries, if not simple outlaws—would follow such an accepted structure? For they were brigands. They had the look of men hardened to the wild, men who had seen too much destruction, and who lived a desperate existence that might end at any moment.
But it wouldn’t end now, not when they’d just secured themselves a foothold on respectability.
Their lord wants to buy his respectability through a marriage alliance. He wants to legitimize himself through me.
And who was she to stop him, even if he were in her hands now? She might possess the means to ensure he died of his wound, superficial though
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