Breena reached to pick up her skirt to rush to their aid, but found she wore pants instead. The outfit of a boy. Strapped to her waist was a sword and scabbard. Her fingers sought the timepiece she wore around her neck. She examined the gift her mother had given her at the age of five. A sword was stamped into the face, such an odd symbol to entrust to a little girl. Breena slid the sword out of its scabbard. It was identical to the image on her timepiece.
She was on the path of her destiny.
The queen. She thrust the sword in its scabbard, and raced across the room, avoiding the pools of blood and the dead that she could not help. She ran until she reached the dais upon which her parents always sat during the formal times at Elden. She found them strapped to their thrones, a mockery of their honor. More blood flowed at their feet. Thickening.
They were dead. A slash at both their throats. The pain of it so great she sobbed.
Something warm and soothing patted her shoulder in her dream. On instinct, Breena drew her sword quickly and with intent. But no one stood behind her. She returned her sword and braced herself to look at her parents one more time. One last time. They’d each managed to work a hand free from their bonds. They’d died with their fingers intertwined.
Tears began streaming down her cheeks. So many. Too many to wipe away. But someone gently dabbed the moisture away, and soothed her with a soft whisper. “Sleep, Breena. No more dreaming.”
She followed the voice out of her dream. Warmth enveloped her, and she crushed herself toward the soothing strength. And she followed the voice’s command and went to sleep without dreaming further.
Breena woke up with her memory restored.
OSBORN WATCHED BREENA sleep until the birds began to sing. Her sob had jerked him awake. She still lay in his arms, but she thrashed about and she began to cry. He’d never seen a woman cry before. He’d never expected it of Breena, who’d proved she could take as much training and work as a young man learning the ways of a warrior.
Her tears did something to him. Made him feel weak. Made him want to fix or kill or change whatever made her cry. Instead, he could only cradle her to his chest, wipe her tears and try to soothe her with his voice. She finally calmed and settled against him. Her breathing eventually turned steady, and he could relax then, but never sleep.
As the sun broke over the horizon, Osborn knew continuing to train her to fight would only prolong her pain. After last night, he couldn’t bear to see her hurt any longer. Today was the last market day of the week in the village. Breena couldn’t continue to stay with three men. Surely there was some sort of position, something completely safe, that would keep her employed.
The blood scout had not returned. Had not brought reinforcements, and Osborn doubted the creature would be back with the change in energy at the lake. Blood scouts were little more than mindless drones, obeying only limited commands. Osborn’s cock grew uncomfortable as he remembered how he and Breena had chased away the trace magic. He shifted his legs to relieve the pressure, and glanced down at the beautiful woman in his arms. She was gently reared. Perhaps she could be a nanny or maybe a companion to an elder in town until he sorted out everything. Found where she belonged.
Why was no one in her family looking for her?
He feared he already knew the answer.
Osborn gently slid his arm from around her waist and, after one last glance, left Breena to her sleep. He quietly walked toward his front door and slipped outside without waking anyone inside. His brothers wouldn’t worry; he often left the cottage early to train, or to run or secure and inspect the perimeter of the sacred lands.
Without the three of them, Osborn stood on the border in no time. The village marketers were just opening their booths when he crested the hill. He quickly made his way down the incline. The first stall he sought sold soaps and perfumes and fancy concoctions used to wash hair.
“For you or for your lady?” the saleswoman asked.
“My lady. I mean a lady.”
The woman laughed, flashing him a hearty smile. “I reckon if you give her something I’ve created, she’ll be your lady. I make the best soaps in three realms.” She popped the lid off a glass container and held it under his nose.
He breathed in soft vanilla with a hint of erotic spice. This was what Breena should smell like. Not manly chestnut. “I’ll take it. And the shampoo,” he told her.
He continued to make his way through the stall, listening to the snippets of conversation, hoping to glean information without having to ask for it. He stopped when he spotted a beautiful green cloak. Breena’s eyes turned that exact shade of sage when he kissed her. Osborn suppressed an inward groan. He had to have that, too. He pointed to the cloak of his choice.
“Excellent. My wife just finished this yesterday.”
A short woman with a toddler on her hip joined them from behind a privacy curtain. She fingered the material and grinned up at Osborn. “I almost didn’t want to give this one up, it’s so beautiful. She’s a lucky lady. But have you seen the matching gown?”
Osborn shook his head, quickly realizing he was over his head. Sword—yes. Bow and arrow—no problem. Dresses…
“It will leave her arms bare, but with these gold bands, she can cinch the cloak to the dress and pull it around her shoulders if she gets chilled.”
And when the woman laid the gown before him, he knew Breena must have it, too. The old pants and shirt didn’t do her beauty justice. And although he didn’t mind seeing the material stretch across the rounded curves of her ass, this gown suited her far more. In a few moments, the couple had the garments wrapped and Osborn continued on his way.
A gold armband in a stall a few paces down the aisle caught his attention. He didn’t know if Breena wore such jewelry in her old life. The odd timepiece around her neck the only adornment that made it with her to safety. But the armband fit what he knew of her now, and he purchased it, too.
Three packages in hand, Osborn had done nothing he’d set out to do. Obtain information. He backtracked to the first stall where he’d bought the scents. “Have you heard any word of battles?” he asked.
Osborn ground his back teeth. He’d meant to ask about positions for a young woman. Not warfare.
The woman’s face grew alarmed. “Here?”
Osborn shrugged. “Anywhere in the area.”
“You’ll want to be hiring out your sword, I reckon, by the looks of you. You’re a brawny one,” she told him with an inspection up and down.
Osborn shook his head. “No, I’m only checking on…a friend.”
“I haven’t heard of anything, but go to Hagan, the second to the last booth on the left. He sells spices from all over the realms. If a battle is brewing, he’ll know about it.”
Armed with a true purpose and destination, Osborn weaved through the growing crowd toward the spice man. After he questioned Hagan, he’d go about securing safe employment for Breena, and this time he would not be distracted.
“How is the basil?” he asked the salesman after his other customer left.
“The most aromatic you will find. Here,” he said, opening the spice bag.
“Has the price gone up?” Osborn asked, after taking in the pungent, earthen scent of the herb. “I’ve heard there’s been fighting in that realm and the trade routes are blocked.”
The spice man shook his head. “Not with basil. Where you need to be concerned about rising costs is with the olive oil. Elden is under siege, and the oldest trees can be found only in that area. I’d buy all the olive oil you can at the moment, you may not be able to find it later.”