At the city’s mention, Delysia let out a long sigh.
“It’ll be good to be home,” she said, voice wistful.
“Miss your brother already?” Haern asked, gently pushing his elbow into her side.
“No more than you do. I see the look in your eye. You dream of his pointy yellow hat, don’t you? Is that what kept you going in the Stronghold’s cells?”
She’d said it with a smile, but the comment struck a nerve that he found difficult to shake off.
“No,” he said. “No, Del … that was you.”
Her own smile faltered, and she fell silent as she pressed her head once more against his side. She was so close, her arms wrapped around his, her red hair brushing the side of his cheek. Ever since his escape from the Stronghold, he’d felt painfully aware of her presence, of how long her eyes lingered on him, of how bright her smile had been at his presence.
“You scared me, you know,” she whispered. “I’ve always trusted you to return, but that place was awful, those men … Their hearts are so black, so terrible.”
She was reliving the final combat with the dark paladins, he knew. It seemed so strange to him. Here was a woman with incredible power, yet she had no desire to use it, felt no joy in its embrace. In so many ways, it seemed she was everything he was not. Daily, he had to remind himself to remain humble. Daily, he had to pretend that the familiar thrill of battle, of taking the life of a foe, was something he did not enjoy.
“I was scared, too,” he finally admitted as the fire crackled. “The idea of spending years in there, never seeing you again…”
He couldn’t continue the line of thought, but he saw the recognition in her, the awkward way she closed her eyes and shifted her face to the side. What was she thinking? He didn’t know. But damn it, he was the Watcher of Veldaren. To be this cowardly … to be this unsure …
“Delysia,” he whispered, and when she turned, he pressed his lips to hers. Her eyes flared open, and for the briefest moment, she remained still as stone. As he held her close, he felt her relax, felt her lips open the slightest bit to kiss back. Haern tried to be gentle, kissing slowly, banishing her fears and memories in the only way he knew how. His heart hammered in his chest as her fingertips gently pressed the side of his neck, a tentative touch with a trembling hand. Haern had imagined such a moment a thousand times before, but still he felt clumsy, reckless. He held her tighter against him, wishing to banish his own memories, his own confusing, torturous journey with his father.
His right hand was curled about her back, clutching the fabric of her priestly robes. Slowly, he brought it around, across her side, to cup her breast in his palm.
Immediately, he felt her body stiffen in his arms. He kissed again, but there was no response this time, no give to her lips. It was as if her fire had suddenly gone cold. He felt her hand grab his wrist, and she sucked in a gasp of air as she gently pushed him away.
“In time,” she whispered, and he could tell she was still short of breath, her heart aflutter. “I’m sorry, Haern. Just … in time.”
Haern’s mind was a racing mixture of anger, embarrassment, and shame. He kissed her one more time, trying to pretend nothing had happened, that nothing was wrong. Hand free of her grasp, he pulled her close, this time into a hug that she could not object to. As she pressed against him, he felt her grip him tightly, clutching him as she might a piece of driftwood in a storm.
“It’s all right,” he told her. “And I’m sorry.”
She pulled back, kissed him once more on the lips, and then lay down on her bedroll, back to him. Haern stared at her, at her beauty in the red glow of the firelight, and then shook his head in a futile attempt to clear it. Dejected, he lay down in his own bedroll, wondering if she were mad at him. That was quickly answered by her turning to him, arm draping over his chest, face pressed into the side of his neck. She said nothing, but she didn’t need to. Haern slid his arm beneath her, holding her against him, and did his best to relax.
The night wore on, and it took her awhile, but at last she slipped into a deep sleep. Sky clear, cicadas singing, Haern did his best to drift off as well. The grass was a soft blanket, the stars above his ceiling. He stared at them as Delysia began to softly snore beside him.
She’s worse than Brug, Haern thought, and the remembrance of home made him smile. It’d be good to return to Veldaren, he decided. The streets were a burden, but at least he had family there, a clear purpose. As always, it seemed venturing outside those walls only reminded him how little he knew, how little he could change. Come their return home, tonight would just be something to forget, a mistake to pretend never happened. Closing his eyes, he let his mind begin its drift into sleep, only to be halted by something hard and small striking his cheek. Haern’s eyes snapped open, and his heart leaped. There was only one person it could be, and as a second stone bounced against his chest, he looked to see his father standing at the edge of the dying fire’s light. He said nothing, only met his gaze before turning and walking away.
Damn it, thought Haern. Just when the night seemed it could get no worse …
Careful not to wake Delysia, he slipped out from his bedroll, buckled his swords to his waist, and then followed.
Several hundred yards to their east was a slender hill, which Haern had positioned between them and the road in hopes of hiding the light of their fire. At the top of it, wind blowing through his hair, stood Thren. His swords remained sheathed, his eyes locked upon the pale moon.
“So, why did you betray me?” Haern asked, stopping at the foot of the hill.
“I had no choice but to go alone,” Thren said, not turning to face him. “A man with your abilities, I trusted you to endure whatever might be below. Despite your temporary imprisonment, I was not wrong.”
“If you needed to go alone, you might have just asked.”
“And what would have been your answer?” Thren asked, cold blue eyes suddenly glaring at him. “Do not pretend you’d have let me visit with Luther without you. I am no fool.”
Haern quietly accepted the rebuke. His father was right, of course. Under no circumstances would he have allowed Thren to go alone into the Stronghold. Together, they’d come to visit with Luther, to learn the man’s secrets. And now they were solely in Thren’s hands, and he would receive only what his father offered.
“What did he tell you?” Haern asked, hoping he might at least glean something. “Did he say why he did what he did?”
Thren’s gaze returned to the moon.
“Religious nonsense,” he said. “Fate and prophecy and other such things. He thought he was on the side of righteousness, of course. Men like him always do.”
There was more his father was hiding; that much was obvious. Haern shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to think of a way to drag it out of him. The night, which had been pleasant as he lay down beside Delysia, now carried an icy bite upon the steadily growing wind.
“I’ve traveled with you this far,” he argued. “And it was at your suggestion, Thren. Don’t betray me like this, not after all your pompous speeches about how I could trust you. What did Luther want? Why send the Sun Guild after us in Veldaren?”
Thren scratched at his face, thinking.
“The Sun Guild was smuggling something into Veldaren for him,” he said.
“Smuggling what?”
His father chuckled.
“Remember that wagon full of tiles marked with the symbol of the Sun? Those.”
It was the last thing Haern expected. It made no sense. For what reason would a priest desire the heavy stone slabs distributed throughout the city? Was there a trick to them? A trap, perhaps, or a spell he wished to perform in Karak’s name?
“So, what he did,” Haern said, trying to scrape the slightest bit more of information out of him, for he felt certain his father was still keeping secrets, “he did for Karak?”