I watch from my hiding place as Gesine emerges from the house a few minutes later and strolls across the grounds toward the tributaries. She turns the heads of warriors on her way past. They don’t seem as openly hostile toward the caster as they were yesterday, a few tipping their heads in a subtle greeting when their eyes meet. I suppose taking away agonizing pain can forge relationships.
Jarek has joined Horik by the tributaries. Judging by his stern expression, he’s saying something to the newly arrived keeper that the immortal does not appear to like.
I ease open the window.
“… are you calling us savages?” Jarek’s tone is casual, amused, but his hand is resting on his dagger handle, as if primed to draw and drive it into the other male at any moment.
The keeper swallows but then pulls his shoulders back. “We have honored the king’s request for the use of our tributaries as a matter of need for his soldiers, but we will not have our property defiled by their wants.” His nasally voice grates.
He’s agreed to let the Legion feed, but he’s drawing the line at fucking. Fair enough. And good for him for standing up for them. Maybe the keepers aren’t all scum like Danthrin.
Jarek takes a step forward. Even his stance, his feet squared off with his shoulders, is menacing. “The Legion is bound by honor and duty to the king, and it does not take things that are not offered.”
The keeper’s hands go up in a sign of surrender, a tight smile pulling at his lips. “Then we will have no issues because my mortals will not be offering anything beyond their vein. Where is the king, by the way?” He peers around, searching. “I should very much like to meet him.”
“He doesn’t care to meet with commoners.” Jarek’s smile drips with challenge and stinks of arrogance. He’s trying to provoke a fight.
The keeper’s eyes flare.
“If I may …” Gesine slips in between the two males, forcing both to step back. It’s a distraction from the growing tension, and, if I’m beginning to understand Gesine at all, her way of defusing an explosive situation. Maybe she has armed herself with an invisible shield.
Or maybe either of them could kill her in an instant.
Without any explanation, she reaches out for the closest tributary, a blond who can’t be much over eighteen.
The young woman presents her hand tentatively, and Gesine collects it, bowing her head a moment. “She is ready.”
Jarek juts his chin at Horik. “Feed now. You’re on watch next.” He beckons others over with a snap of his fingers.
The woman’s eyes grow wide as she takes in the giant, and I hold my breath, half expecting the enormous warrior to collect her by the scruff and drag her away.
But Horik only takes a step back to give her space.
Gesine shifts to the next tributary, following the same process.
The keeper scowls. “Who are you and what are you doing?”
It dawns on me that the people of Freywich may not know about the poison working its way through Islor.
Gesine’s smile is soft as she guides the tributary to another waiting warrior. “I am the king’s caster, and I’m granting them the fates’ blessings so they may give the warriors strength.”
Damn, she lies so smoothly. I would be wise to remember that.
The keeper grunts as if weighing that answer, but he’s distracted as Horik and the other warrior lead the tributaries into the stables. “Where are they going? I did not give permission to take them anywhere. No, they will feed right here where I can see them.”
“The Legion will feed where they want, when they want”—Jarek steps in closer, his looming size making the other male look fragile and small, though he is neither—“and how they want.”
Three tense seconds pass and then the keeper moves several steps back, shrinking from Jarek. He notices his last tributary stalled, and wrenching her arm, he shoves her forward. “Go.” He glowers as she leaves with Zorya.
He’s not a kind keeper. He doesn’t care about their well-being, or the warriors taking things too far. He just doesn’t like sharing his toys, and he’ll probably unleash his irritation on them later.
My anger flares, the need to lash out overpowering my senses. This prick needs a good slap.
I can’t help myself. Adrenaline floods my veins, the gold around my finger heating. I focus on the trough and watch with satisfaction as the water comes alive at my will, twirling into the air, taking the shape of a woman’s hand—delicate, long fingers—to smack the keeper from behind.
Only the blow is harder than I intended. My stomach drops as the keeper sails across the space and lands in a mound of dirt.
Time stands still as everyone watches, some with gaping mouths, others with smirks.