Breia put all thoughts of Terrano aside. That he was under her skin was an unfortunate fact, but she would dwell on it no longer. Carannah’s Tits! Was she not a fine mercenary? Self-made and already wearing the golden kiff? She shortened rein and dug her heels into Ashen’s ribs, sending the gelding into a full gallop. The road was straight and even, and her irritation was soon lost in the exhilaration of speed.
By midday, Breia’s rump numbed once more. “Well, Ashen my friend,” she murmured, rubbing the gelding’s neck beneath the slate-gray mane. “My backside tells me it’s time for a stop.” Deciding to seek a hot tavern meal and perhaps an ale, Breia turned Ashen away from the main route that would bypass the next village.
Before they had reached the village way-stone, the sound of a fast rider made Breia’s spine crawl. Always, after these missions, she feared discovery. Hunching into her mantle, she drew up the hood. Ashen plodded on, his head bobbing in a steady cadence with each step. Breia stared straight ahead, her pulse loud in her ears. Within the mantle, her hand crept to the hilt of her shortsword. Ashen rolled an eye at the newcomer and whickered in greeting. Breia glanced sideways. The red-speckled muzzle of Terrano’s roan set her fears to rest.
“Good hunting, Princess?” Terrano’s familiar grin seemed a little strained, and fatigue shadowed his lake-blue eyes.
“Of course,” she said airily, then frowned. “What happened? You look like shit.”
The grin faded. He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll be glad when the list’s done, is all.” He kicked the roan to a trot. “Come on. It’s festival day in these parts. Hare pie and venison steaks, and any pastries you care to name. Hungry?” The grin reappeared, but did not touch his eyes. Heartened at the prospect, Breia followed.
A short time later, they sat outside a busy tavern, claiming a corner of a long table. Breia ate a hearty stew of mutton and vegetables. Terrano dipped coarse bread into the pink juices that ran from a generous portion of roasted deer haunch. “Today is the Eve of the Rising Flesh,” Terrano murmured, and winked at a girl whose coy glances had not escaped Breia’s notice. The maiden dimpled at him, licking her fingers clean of grease.
Breia snorted. “That’s the festival?”
Terrano shrugged. “It’s only a name. Same function as May Day serves in the north.”
“Fertility rites and associated trysting?” Breia raised her brows.
“We should stick around.” Terrano spoke around a mouthful of venison. “There’s no hurry to get back, and festival night’s always entertaining.”
Breia stared. “For who?”
Terrano nudged her gently. “Ah, Bree. I could use a little diversion this night.” He raised his tankard and took a long swallow of ale, his eyes roaming the growing crowd in the village square.
“You want me to leave you here?” She scooped up the last of the stew with a crust of bread. He considered her. She washed the bread down with cool ale. “You’re staring,” she muttered, licking her fingers before wiping them on her breeches. A faint line appeared between his brows. He looked away.
“Go if you want.” His diamond kiff glinted in the wintry sun. His eyes rested on the girl who had caught his attention earlier. Following his gaze, Breia sighed.
“Festival sounds like fun, Tee, but I don’t want to…get in your way.” She drained her tankard and rose from her seat, wanting to kick his licentious backside.
He frowned. “Stay, Bree. Have a little fun.” He waved a hand at the crowd of young people heaving a gaudy pole upright in the square. Blessed Carannah! Breia gawked, then chuckled. The wooden pole, painted and beribboned, was crudely carved at its tip. Still grinning, Breia watched while several young men secured the pole. Maybe she would stay and ingest enough liquor to ensure an untroubled night’s sleep.
A spell-hawker approached, selling charms and potions to the tavern’s patrons. “A philter to ensure your potency tonight,” he proclaimed, thrusting a packet at Terrano. The small man winked at Breia. “Perhaps he won’t need it with a lusty woman like yourself in his bed, eh, my dear? But if he does, it’s only four coppers-three to a beauty such as yourself.”
Irritated by the hawker’s misplaced flattery, Breia pushed away the offered philter. “I have no need of your spells, good fellow, and my friend here can answer for himself.”
Terrano chuckled and declined the packet with a wave of his hand. “As you so rightly pointed out, spell-maker, my lady’s beauty is all the potion I need.” He pushed himself to his feet and tossed the man a few coppers. “Take yourself to the lass over there by the well. The one in green. Give her my regards and your prettiest ribbons.” He turned to Breia, his expression suddenly unreadable. “And my apologies. I won’t be seeing her tonight.” His mouth firmed. The spell-hawker grinned and left them with a sly wink at Breia.
“My lady?” Breia arched her brows at Terrano and folded her arms over her chest. Terrano’s eyes hardened. He grasped her elbow, steered her away from the table and shoved her against the tavern wall.
“You know, Breia, for a moment I forgot who I was talking to.” His voice was low and hard. “I saw a beautiful woman, forgetting that beneath that elegant mantle lies a breastplate of hardened leather and a sword that could take off my head.” His eyes glittered like blue gemstones. “For a moment, I saw a lady, not a killer.”
Breia stiffened. She shook off his hand and stabbed a finger at his chest. “I don’t need your pity, nor your pretty lies.”
He blinked. “I’ve never lied to you.” His brows drew into a frown. “For all your miscreant ways and unusual life path, you are beautiful.” He stepped away from her.
Breia stared at him, daring him to laugh, to admit the jest, the tease. He only tilted his head a little and returned her stare. Beautiful? She threw the mantle back from her shoulders, baring the scarred leather armor, the glint of knives and the comforting presence of her shortsword. “Let’s not fool ourselves, eh?” she whispered.
The shadow returned to Terrano’s eyes. Before he could answer, a collective cheer rose from the burgeoning crowd behind them. It was late afternoon, and much ale had flowed. Several youths hoisted lasses onto their shoulders. The girls shrieked, skirts askew and pale limbs wrapped around their mount’s shoulders. A race ensued. The crowd whooped encouragement while the sturdy lads strove to outdo each other, flushed and panting beneath their giggling burdens.
Breia leaned against the tavern wall and folded her arms. The hardened leather pinched her armpits and flattened her breasts, but it was a familiar discomfort. The breastplate did not accommodate the female form. Beautiful? She had hair and eyes the color of mud and a mouth that grimaced more readily than it smiled. She snorted under her breath and scuffed a booted heel into the packed earth. Either Terrano had questionable judgment, or he was muddle-sighted.
He stood with his back to her, his arms crossed over his chest. His longsword glinted in the late sunlight, its hilt resting between his shoulder blades. Wanting to restore their usual, easy peace, she reached out one foot and poked him in the back of the knee. “Hey.” He didn’t turn. The race ended amid much cheering and applause. The winners were liberally doused with ale, and the girls dismounted from their steeds with as much decorum as they had managed to retain. “Come on, O complimentary one. I’ll buy you a drink. May as well catch up with the rest of them, hm?” Breia elbowed him in the ribs on her way into the tavern.