Page 82 of Daughter of the Dark Sea
“Callan!” Theron snapped. “We are guests here.”
“And as guests—royal ones at that—we should be treated as such.” Callan’s smarmy lisp made her shudder, but she stood her ground. Her fingers itched to reach for one of her razor-sharp daggers. “So . . . come, lassie.Sit on my lap and show me a good time, like the good little escort you are.”
“Stand down!” Theron’s commandeering voice boomed.
Callan merely snickered, reaching for her waist to pull her towards him. Kora recoiled, time seemingly slowing down. She was distantly aware of Blake slowly moving, and Samuel raising his spyglass, as she reached behind for one of her sabre daggers.
She would cut his fingers off if she had to. They’d been ordered to escort Theron safely across Aldara—no one would care if his lackeys were injured—or killed—in the process. Callan’s gloved fingers were inches away from her body and she tensed, her fingers brushing her daggers.
An arrow shot through the air, stopping Callan short, and landing in the sand by his feet with a resoundingthud.
Everyone froze. Theron and Ivar emerged beside Samuel, their weapons raised in a heartbeat. Kora looked to her right. And there was Aryn, chest heaving, his magnificent longbow aimed at Callan. The golden flecks in his almond-shaped eyes glowed with rage, and his grown-out hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.
“You willnottouch my captain,” Aryn spoke each word slowly, with a voice that sounded ancient. Kora’s heart warmed at her protective crew.
“You missed,” Callan sneered glancing down to the arrow in the sand.
“He never misses,” Kora replied smugly.
Callan’s face paled at the warning shot. Aryn stood frozen in time, nocking another arrow, aimed for Callan’s head, no doubt.
Theron tentatively stepped forward, hands raised, his axes sheathed at his waist. “Now . . . let’s all calm down. I apologise for my quartermaster. Hewon’tapproach you again.” Theron glared at Callan. “You are dismissed, Callan. We’ll talk later.”
With a scowl, Callan stomped back to the tent he was sharing with Ivar, head down and muttering curses at Kora and her crew. Theron exhaled, and Ivar hovered silently next to him, his own dark recurve bow trained on Aryn.
“You can stop with the standoff.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling another headache coming on. “You’re not going to kill each other.”
After a few moments of tense silence, both archers ever-so-slowly lowered their weapons, making sure they placed their arrows back in their quivers at the same time.
All in their consistent silence. Utterly baffling.
Surely, they would want to be friends; swapping little notes on their archery activities. How to best shoot, who had the best bow, and so on? The bigger the bow, the bigger they were endowed? Whatever lethally trained archers discussed.
“I must apologise.” Theron placed a hand on his chest. “He is a troubled . . . difficult man.”
“Why are they here?” Kora placed her hands on his hips. “We were only advised ofonesentinel to escort, yet there are three of you.” Weighing down poor Cadence.
“My guards follow me wherever I go. I do not have a say in the matter.”
“Guards?” Blake frowned. “You said he was your quartermaster.”
“Same thing.” Theron’s voice grew quiet and distant. “I am also a captain, Kora Cadell,anda royal sentinel. Callan and Ivarare my royally appointed guards, meaning they must be with meat all times—including when I sail afar.”
Weariness tinged his voice, fatigue edging the sculpted planes of his face. “You know as well as I do that guests do not fare well on long voyages. I appointed them roles to keep them busy. So that theycontributeon ships, and do not waste any of our time or resources.”
This was a male with no freedom. A male always watched, bound by the rules of his land. Kora met his gaze, and understanding channelled between them. She nodded in response, lost for words, and Theron bowed his thanks—captain to captain. Blake muttered some political nonsense as Theron retired to his own tent, Ivar silently in tow.
Even his steps were silent in the sand, barely sinking a centimetre. A walking predator.
“Aryn,” she observed the flush-faced boy. His longbow was strung over his shoulder, its curved brown wood gleaming against the crackling fire. A looping pattern cascaded around the smooth shape. “Thank you. That . . . that meant a lot. To me.”
Aryn’s quick eyes darted to Blake, who’d begun dousing the fire. “Just doing my job, Captain.”
As Aryn turned, briskly heading for his own tent, his head bowed and shoulders tense, Kora frowned at an invading disappointment carving itself into her chest at his response. At the sudden desire for friendship that devoured her.
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Hands stroked up and down her legs.
