Maraud looks at me, a single brow raised. “What was that?”

“What?”

“That noise you just made.”

I place my hand on my chest and look offended. “You are mistaken. I made no noise.” I hiccup, for good measure, and the others laugh.

It is surprisingly easy to simply be with these people. It is as natural to me as breathing. Surely that is why I giggled and exchanged a quick smile with Maraud. Before I can make a further fool of myself, Rollo—?the round jester who seems to be in charge of the entire operation—?appears. “Places, everyone.” He claps his hands and rubs them together. “The fire has been lit, the people gathered. It is almost time to begin.” As he speaks, his face is transformed, and his eyes take on a purposeful gleam. For the first time, I wonder if he is perhaps a true follower of Salonius.

As we prepare for the performance, the jug of wine is passed around again. I take a swig because doing so draws less attention than refusing, then hand it to Maraud. I secure the sword at my hip and lower my helmet, careful to ensure my hair spills out beneath it so the audience will know I am Brigantia taming the wolves of war.

Once Maraud places the snarling wolf’s head over his own, I step closer, holding out the chain. Our eyes meet and something both warm and dark passes between us. Unsettled by the nature of it, I secure the chain around his neck with more force than is strictly necessary, as if binding him will somehow control my own wayward feelings.

We are two people in costume using each other to escape our circumstances. There is nothing more to us than that.

Chapter 60

s I step out into the night, my vision is momentarily dazzled by the huge bonfire and scores of torches. For a moment, I feel I have gone back in time and am reminded of just how old this tradition is.

The mummers have been tasked with telling the stories of the gods since long before there were written words to record such things. They told of their exploits, their victories, and their defeats. When the new Church crowded out the Nine, it fell unto the mummers to keep the memories of the old gods alive in the minds of the people.

A drumbeat sounds, a deep pulsing that feels as if it comes up from the bowels of the earth itself. A trumpet blares, cymbals clash, and a flute begins its haunting melody, and like a single serpent made up of many parts, we all move to take our places.

Perhaps we all move as one because we float on a surfeit of wine, or perhaps it is the gods themselves who command our movements as we honor their existence. Whatever the reason, I feel more my own self than I have in years.

Within moments, the music is pulsing deep within me, the rhythm of the other performers a perfect accent to my own. Step, step, face Maraud. He raises his arms and bares his teeth. I raise my sword. He ducks. I swing to the left. He ducks again.

The music builds.

He lifts his face to the sky and snarls, raising both hands overhead as if coming in for the final attack. I raise my sword, thrusting it to deliver a mortal blow.

As the sword finds its target, the frantic drumbeat stops. In silence, the crowd watches Maraud the wolf flail in the agonies of his death throes, a flute picking up the final notes of his dying.

A moment later, the music begins again, cheerful and upbeat, fools come tumbling by, and Maraud and I advance a quarter circle around the bonfire to begin our performance once more. Our bodies are in perfect accord with the music, the crowd in perfect accord with us. There is little thought, no room for remorse or guilt or worry. Simply the dance and the surrounding night. The dance grows—?encompassing musicians, performers, and crowd alike—?holding us in its arms, carrying us away from our own smallness.

Again, step, step, stop. Face Maraud. As he rears up snarling, his eyes find mine, the impact of them as potent as a slug of the strongest wine. Our eyes locked, I raise my sword. He ducks, his dark gaze fixed upon me, never wavering, reading my body for the next move. I swing to the left, willing him to look away, loath to be the first to do so for if I do, it feels like I will have lost some silent challenge he has issued.

And so we continue, thrice more around the bonfire, each time our bodies and movement more in tune until it feels as intimate as a pair of lovers. On the final build of the drum, I thrust my sword in the space between his arm and his ribs. When he writhes, clutching the sword, I finally look away. As my eyes scan the rapt faces of the crowd, I find I am no longer certain as to precisely what struggle Maraud and I are performing for them.

* * *

In silence, we return to our small corner of the hall. Even though he says nothing, I can feel his presence behind me, as unrelenting as the night. When we reach our things, I turn away from him to remove my helmet, desperate to break free of the spell that has settled over us.

I am so tired that my limbs feel as useless as wet straw, but my skin, my senses, are wildly, painfully awake.

Behind me there is a grunt of frustration. Before I can stop myself, I glance over my shoulder. Maraud’s head is tilted up, his fingers plucking in increasing agitation against the leather ties at his neck. “It is in knots,” he says in disgust.

Part of me, the wise part, thinks, Good. Let him choke on his costume all night if need be. But another part, the wild, painfully awake part, takes a step toward him. “Here. Let me do it,” I say, hoping the note of impatience hides the breathlessness I feel.

He comes closer, exposing the thick muscled column of his throat. Such trust! And so poorly placed. Just a quick stab with a small knife, a stray nail, or even a needle, could end his life.

The most disturbing part is that what I actually want to do is to run my tongue along that vulnerable length of skin, taste the salt of him, nibble my way up to his lips, and lick them. Once. Twice. Then slowly ease them apart with my own. Would he savor such pleasure? Or would he take over, forcing his way in with his tongue before we had fully explored each other’s lips?

Such thoughts only make me more clumsy. No matter how quickly I try to untangle the leather ties, they do not budge. As I continue to struggle, Maraud’s eyes rest on me. Heat rises in my cheeks, and my fingers become nearly useless. “Perhaps we should just cut the things,” I mutter.

“But then I would be unable to wear it.”

I glance up at him to make a withering remark, the words drying up when I see his eyes watching my mouth. I resist the urge to lick my lips and instead allow my gaze to rest on his. They are parted slightly, and finely shaped.

His head begins to move closer to my own. In surprise, I glance up. He stops, meets my eyes. I wonder if the wine we drank will taste the same on him as it does on me.

“You’re drunk,” I finally tell him, a last effort to put some distance between us.

He raises his eyebrows. “Of course I’m drunk. Not on wine, but on freedom. Don’t tell me you don’t feel it too.”

He is right. The effects of the wine have passed. Somehow, instead of repelling me, his honesty draws me closer. “I feel it.” Almost as if aided by some wise god, my fumbling fingers finally find purchase and, like magic, the snarled ties untangle. Reason returns and I step back so quickly I nearly stumble. “We’ve an early start in the morning.”

Without looking at him further, I lower myself onto the floor and busy myself with taking off my boots and folding my tabard into a pillow before stretching out.

Beside me, I can hear Maraud do the same. I turn my back to the room and settle onto the floor as best I can, then pull my cloak over my shoulders and try to sleep. But I cannot.

The victory of this newfound freedom fizzes through my veins, like water tossed on hot coals. I shift positions, trying to get comfortable. I hear a rustle off to my left and know that Maraud, too, is restless.

I peer over my shoulder to see if he is pretending to be asleep. He is looking at me, eyes unreadable in the dark.

“We are free,” he whispers.

“We are,” I whisper back.

“I never thought to be so again.”

>

“Nor I.” Surely that is why my heart is so full and my skin feels too tight on my bones.

He rolls up onto his side and props his head on his elbow. “We should celebrate.” His voice is naught but a whisper.

I turn around to face him, propping my own head on my hand. “I am fairly certain all the wine is gone.”

“There are other ways to celebrate.” He does not move a muscle. He simply waits.

There is a tug deep inside me, like being pulled by some invisible chain. This desire I feel is not because of Maraud, I tell myself, but because I am free. My body and my heart are once again my own. I roll to my hands and knees and crawl across the space between us, slowly, like a predator might stalk his prey. “Are there.” But it is not a question, and he knows it. He simply continues to wait. When I am close enough to touch him, I stop. What sort of lover will he be? Will his soldiering side take over? All quick thrusts and parrying and speed? Will his wit and sharp humor make an appearance? Or the coaxing seduction of that first voice in the dark?

I toss my hair over my shoulder and slowly lean down, my eyes never leaving his. As I draw closer, he shifts his elbow so he is flat on his back, and I am hovering over him. It is meant to be a gesture of submission, and yet it is not that at all. Merely an agreement that strength and power will remain in check.

The force of my desire causes my belly to tighten.

I want this.

Slowly, with our gazes locked, I slide one leg over and across his stomach so that I am straddling him. My hair spills forward, brushing against his chest.

His jaw tightens.

Tags: Robin LaFevers His Fair Assassin Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net