The words filled her with purpose. “It will be done, Majesty.”
“Then go, child, and know you are not alone.” White light glimmering in her aura, the goddess released her. Able to move again, Cosmina breathed a sigh of relief and watched spellbound as the deity faded before her eyes. “I will be with you. Oh, and Cosmina . . .”
The all-powerful voice drifted on a whisper, wavering in thin air. A moment later, the Goddess of All Things disappeared in a ripple of sparkling light.
“Read the note, child,” the goddess breathed from beyond the earthly realm. “Read his note.”
Wonder made her heart skip a beat. As it resumed pounding, Cosmina heeded the call and, stepping up to the table edge, reached for the note. Fear almost made her stop, trying to convince her that—despite the goddess’ insistence—Henrik’s message wasn’t worth reading. That she didn’t need to know. That ’twas the height of foolishness to hope. But her hand refused to listen, picking up the parchment, unfolding the creases, opening the note for her eyes to see . . . and her heart to read.
Cosmina,
I am sorry. Please forgive me.
I love you.
H
Three sentences. Simple, no nonsense . . . direct and to the point, devastating as the message sank in and the truth struck home. He loved her. The impact of it made her knees wobble. Wonder bubbled up, splashed through her, spilling over the edge of reason, obliterating doubt as it scored a direct hit to her heart. Tears filled her eyes. Oh nay . . . oh blast . . . damn Henrik to hell and back. Of all the things to say, or rather, write and—
Goddess help her.
She was going to lose control. Become messy. Cry like a weak-willed ninny—or whatever a girl did when dealing with a man who touched her heart. One hand cupped over her mouth, Cosmina shook her head and retreated a step. And then another. The table edge bumped her bottom. Gaze still riveted to the missive, she reached out and searched for a stool. Smooth wood met her palm. She sank into the seat, shock making it hard to draw a full breath. Filling her lungs, she forced her chest to expand and stared at the messy scrawl. Moments ticked past, falling into more as she struggled to process the message and find fault. But she couldn’t. It wasn’t possible. The flaw didn’t exist. And fury? ’Twas naught but ancient history now.
The gods bless and keep her. She’d never imagined . . . hadn’t thought . . .
Cradling the note with both hands, she read the words again.
I love you.
She lost the battle. Tears fell, tumbling over her bottom lashes.
“Oh, Henrik.” Another tear escaped, rolling down her cheek. “I love you too.”
Foolish to admit, never mind say out loud.
Cosmina knew it the moment the words left her mouth. Giving them a voice only granted love more power. The kind that often hurt, and she could never take back. Not that it mattered. Love didn’t negotiate. Or allow its victims time to dodge. It aimed true, hit hard, and never backed down. So . . . no help for it. ’Twas done, her heart given and her mind set on the man who’d kept her safe and taught her pleasure. On a warrior with a restless spirit, good heart, and gentle soul. No sense trying to fight it. She would forever be fixed on Henrik. Regardless of the manner of their parting.
Or the fact he’d been the one to walk away.
Ironic in a way. Symbolic to be sure. Especially since she planned to do the same.
This very day.
Shifting on the stool, Cosmina glanced around her cottage. It wasn’t much to look at it. Naught more than a bunch of sticks and stones, a collection of lopsided furniture scavenged from unwanted piles. More of a temporary way station than a real home. And yet, she’d found solace inside these walls. At least for a time. But that was behind her now. The goddess’ visit along with her decree couldn’t be ignored.
She must do her duty. Was a member the Blessed and belonged at White Temple. But as Cosmina pushed to her feet, pulled Henrik’s knife from the wall, and went about gathering her things, she longed for something more. Something better. Something richer than love words scrawled on parchment. She wanted the man who had written them returned to her.
Solid and strong in her arms. Less than a heartbeat away.
No doubt a foolish dream. And yet, it didn’t stop her. The goddess had given her hope. So aye, mayhap if she wished hard enough. If she proved strong enough. If she prayed often enough . . .
Fate would heed the call and bring Henrik back to her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Golden rays broke through thick mist, warming the tops of Cristobal’s shoulders as the sun rose, welcoming him into the light of a new day. His mouth curved. A rare reprieve. The gift of heat after hours spent crouched behind rock and amid shadow. Not that he suffered any discomfort. The north winds and the brisk cold didn’t bother him. The cramped conditions didn’t either, nor that he’d taken three watches in a row. Nearly six hours spent atop the cliff edge . . .
Watching. Waiting. Searching for the enemy and movement on the trail below.
He didn’t mind the long stretch of time. Or the fact his comrades slept while he remained awake. Xavian and the others needed rest. By some quirk of fate, he didn’t. Couldn’t close his eyes, never mind relax enough to fall asleep. How many days he’d gone without, he didn’t know. Eight . . . or was it nine now? Hard to tell. He’d lost track after the fifth sleepless night. Balanced on the balls of his feet, Cristobal shifted position. Shuffling along the plateau three hundred feet above the valley floor, he stayed low, hidden behind jagged rock, improving his vantage point, concern rising along with the winter wind. His inability to sleep made little sense. He should be exhausted, but for some reason, didn’t feel the least bit fatigued.
Scanning the rolling foothills opposite him, Cristobal clenched his teeth. For some reason. Right. Try again. He knew what plagued him: the stupid chant. The words spilled through his mind, pushing annoyance to new heights and making rest impossible. It wouldn’t leave him alone—always poking, forever prodding, the thrum of urgency unending. Now he throbbed with it, his heart keeping time to the command banging around inside his skull.
Find her, find her. She needs you . . . find her.
Damned frustrating. Particularly since he still didn’t know who the hell she was. No image to go by. Not a single clue to guide him. Just the words, the awful incessant stream of words. Oh and, aye, the twin tattoos. He couldn’t forget about those. The markings—along with the pain burning across his forearms—were as much a part of him now as breathing. An all-day, every night sort of thing, although . . .
For the first time in days, the sting was gone.
Cristobal frowned, then flexed both hands. Odd, but . . . nay, no discomfort whatsoever.
With a flick, he undid the bladed arm cuffs and drew both off. Cold air washed over his skin. Sensation followed, slithering up his arms and over his shoulders before changing course, dragging icy fingers down his back. Cristobal shook off the shiver. The ghosting swirl settled, looping into a circle, spinning like a top, chasing its tail against the nape of his neck. Round and round. Back and forth. He frowned, tracking the pinpricks across his skin. It didn’t hurt. Not exactly. In truth, ’twas almost pleasant.
Soothing even, a gentle touch delivered by unseen hands.
Brow drawn tight, Cristobal unfurled his fists. Open. Close. Flex and release. Taut muscle moved, making the tattoo dance across his skin. He stared at the pattern, examining the fine lines and all the detail. All done, naught left to complete . . . the last line drawn in black ink. And as the invisible hand fell away, taking the magical quill with it, his gaze bounced from one tattoo to the next. Rahat, would you look at that? He could see the hellhounds now—coarse fur, sawtooth spikes rising like jagged fins along each spine, sharp fangs bared beneath slanted eyes. Mesmerized by the design, he traced the thickest line, stroking a fingertip over the bridge of the beast’s nose, then behind its blunt ear.