He couldn’t be wetter, either. The rain was to thank for that, and for the basin of wash water. As a brewer whose inn was favored by Barin’s soldiers, Selaq had freer access to the city’s wells than most citizens did, yet even she didn’t waste a drop. The downpour of the past few days offered a few luxuries, however.
Four basins would be needed just to clean his blood-encrusted hair and beard, so he took care of the matted strands with a few sweeps of his blade. Stripping down to skin, he lathered up and rinsed, careful to catch the runoff in an empty bucket. His brocs and tunic went into the rinse water to soak before their scrubbing. Furs, boots, and breastplate wiped clean with a damp rag.
His belt and furs went back around his hips, leaving his torso and legs bare. He hung the linens to drip from the ceiling beams near the ovens and was cleaning his saddle leathers when Selaq finally joined him.
He kept his gaze on his saddle and tried not to sound like an eager boy. “Is the Krimathean woman staying here? The one who wears the questing cloak.”
“Yes,” Selaq said, but the response seemed hollow. When he glanced over, her normally bright eyes were shadowed in the firelight. “And I pray you will forgive me.”
Kavik frowned. “Forgive you?”
“I should have turned her away.” Arms crossed beneath her breasts, she averted her gaze from his. “But you know I could not.”
All public houses had to follow the law of the road. Long ago, Selaq’s own parents had taken in Kavik and his father for the same reason. No innkeeper could turn away someone in need of a bed and with money to pay, even if it meant putting them in the stables.
Yet why would she have turned Mala away? Even if the other woman hadn’t helped protect the caravan, Mala was Vela’s Chosen—and there were few in Blackmoor more devoted to the goddess than Selaq. As a girl, she’d wanted to be a Narae warrior. Later, she’d hoped to become a priestess and rebuild the city’s temples. But when Barin had forbidden any temples but Enam’s, establishing an inn and adhering to Vela’s rules of hospitality was as close as she’d come . . . until Mala had arrived. If someone had told him Selaq had paid Mala to take a room here, simply to ask the other woman about her journeys, he’d have believed it.
Now Selaq wanted to refuse her lodging? “Did she not tell you that Telani sent her here?”
Confusion filled her voice. “Telani did?”
So Mala hadn’t said anything of it. He gestured to the raw wounds on his arms and thighs. “We were set upon by revenants. The Krimathean saved your sister’s boy.” And many others. “Then she gave her a healer’s potion to spare them the fever.”
Selaq’s face paled and she whispered, “She didn’t tell me.”
“She shouldn’t have had to.” And none of this made sense. Frowning, he slowly rose. “What are you not saying?”
Swallowing hard, she turned her face away. “Do you know who she is?”
Of course he did. In dreams, he’d seen the palace where she’d eaten and slept. He’d watched her don a hauberk of glittering green dragon scales, and stand in front of a cheering crowd before bowing her head beneath her mother’s sword. “She is the High Daughter—and second to her sister.”
“Second to her cousin,” Selaq corrected softly, and still she wouldn’t look at him. “And she is here to form an alliance with Barin.”
Ice filled his gut. “No.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve seen her cloak,” he said. “She’s on a quest.”
Now she met his gaze, and at the sight of the moisture pooling in her eyes, the ice began to spread into his chest, cold and heavy. “And did she tell you what it was?”
“To slay the demon tusk—”
“No. Oh, Kavik. No.” She shook her head, drew a shuddering breath. “She’s here to tame the beast of Blackmoor.”
There was nothing inside him. Nothing for a long, endless beat. Then a single word, and though it screamed within him, it emerged so quietly. “No.”
“It is truth.” With arms folded around her middle, Selaq seemed to squeeze herself tight. “Osof was in the citadel’s great hall when she arrived. Barin gave to her a collar and leash. She is to bring you back to him.”
Osof. The warlord’s marshal, who’d once served under Kavik’s father. He was one of the few good men remaining in the citadel, and one of the few men whose word could be trusted. Anyone else might have twisted the story and spread a lie. But not Osof.
And so Kavik was to be tamed.
Tamed.
Pain ripped through his heart—the goddess, twisting her dagger. As forceful as a dream, sudden memories crowded his mind. The choking collar on his neck. The soldiers behind. His bleeding knees. Barin’s laughter and his father’s unseeing stare.
And Vela would put him there again? Mala would?
Temra’s fist, he could not bear it.
Selaq made a small distressed sound. She stared at him, with eyes wide and fingers twisting. “Kavik?”
Afraid. Of him. As if she could see his rage and agony and knew he was at the edge of warrior’s madness, though no revenant or blade had bitten into his skin.
But he would control this. If not the anger, then at least his flesh. “Go,” he said roughly. “I’ll be out.”
She edged to the door. “Are you staying?”
“I’ll buy a supper.”
“I can give—”
“Don’t.”
She fled. Jaw clenched, Kavik stared after her, wishing that Delan would come back for a piss now. He’d pound the man into a bloodied pulp. And the soldiers who would ride him? His blade would taste their flesh, and he would roast their tongues before they ever joked of whips and collars again.
But, no. That wasn’t who he wished to see. He wanted Mala. Vela’s Chosen. He would hear it from her own mouth. He would see the truth confirmed by her eyes.
She thought to tame him? Better to die first.
And he would never be on his knees again.
CHAPTER 4
By the hushed anticipation that fell over the soldiers when she entered the Croaking Frog, Mala knew that Kavik must have come. Still, she didn’t immediately see him, until her gaze searched the darkened corner of the common room. He sat at the end of a long table, apart from the other patrons and facing the door where she stood. His black hair only touched his shoulders now and his beard was shortened and cleaned. If not for the healing gashes on his arms and the width of his shoulders, she might not have recognized him.
Focused on his plate, he didn’t glance up as she crossed the room. He ripped away a piece of bread with stiff fingers. Oh, Vela. She hadn’t expected that this would be easy. She’d expected his anger. But what she saw in him now was different—the cold, sharp edge of rage. Her own blood and temper were hot, but she knew that ice well. He didn’t ignore her out of petulance or bad humor. He ignored her because looking at her might snap his control.
And this was the man who needed to be tamed? He had himself well in hand.
With a sigh, she pushed back the hood of her cloak and slipped onto the bench opposite him. His body tensed only for a moment before he resumed eating, his gaze cast firmly on his roasted meat. He’d bathed. And though she couldn’t be certain without glancing under the table, she thought he only wore his belt and furs, along with a leather baldric that crossed over his chest and sheathed the sword at his back.