he felt.
The night air raised gooseflesh for no reason, except that she was still attuned to him in mind as much as body, with the very essence of what she was. And he had said not
I saw him
, but
he saw me
. Her skin prickled with a different awareness, the way it did sometimes near clear water, near those dangerous places where other worlds could break through.
"What do you mean? Where were you?"
"In Mercia, trying to disentangle myself from the panicked remnants of the late King Osred's personal guards. They were fleeing down the coast road after witnessing Osred's murder. They thought I might want to stop them. I did not."
"No." It was a statement of belief. She did not know whether he would accept it. But she took the next step anyway.
"And your brother?" Such a small question. Yet it was not. The air in the cramped chamber thrummed. She did not know whether he would answer. She thought the great shadow of his head, with its rough tangle of hair, was still turned away from her.
"In Wessex. Somewhere. There was a clearing among trees and a great sheet of water, very still. The water was freezing."
The tension in him was palpable, even across the darkness that separated them.
"Water," she said with infinite care, "is very powerful."
She let that opening to the possibility of further speech hang between them. She did not ask directly how he had felt the coldness of this particular sheet of water when he had been many miles from it. She simply held her breath.
The bonds between Brand and his kin were unbreakable. Unlike the bond he had once had with her, a stranger. She bore the silence and waited.
"If he had not seen me, it is quite likely the axe that splintered my shield and hit my arm would have killed me."
She stared at the blackness of the steeply-pitched roof. The terror of near death blinded her mind, and with it came the urge to touch him through the dark. To know his wholeness, to forge a connection she could never have.
All she could do for him was speak, try to make him say what was in his thoughts. She shaped the next question.
"How did you find your brother?"
"I kept moving south. Once I knew he was alive I— The woman who now owned my brother had sent a man to seek me. I caught up with her messenger on the Icknield Way. That is how. Quite simple."
The silence was complete this time, not the slightest rustle of movement in the bated darkness. Not so much as the sound of her breath.
Quite simple.
Why had he told her so much?
The fierce, dazzling creature she had loved had been a warrior, first, last and always. Action had been the compass of his life, not dreams, not the unexplainable, nothing that could not be dealt with in practical terms.
Or so she had thought.
Yet even warriors had hearts, minds. They dreamed. Or they could not be human. They just.. they did not admit it.
Why had he done so? Now? All he had needed to tell her was about the messenger sent to seek him, not what had gone before.
The tension in the strong, dark bulk of his body was finely wound, lethal. The forbidden urge to touch him, to take some of that tension from him and into herself, was more than she could bear.
If she could not touch him, she must find the words. But words were so clumsy to express what she felt: such helpless longing for the bond of understanding that had once sparked between them.
"It happened because your brother means so much to you. Love can make people—"
"What? What can love make people do?"
She heard the rustle of his movement, sensed the speed, and then she was looking into the white blur of his face, the feral eyes.
"Tell me, Alina, what love can make people do."
It can make people do that which they hate most.
"I cannot."
"Nay, I do not believe that you can."
If only she could not see his eyes. If only she could stop feeling. If only her own need for him had not been enough to make her believe that he could want any comfort from her.
What he had said concerned his brother. He
The night air raised gooseflesh for no reason, except that she was still attuned to him in mind as much as body, with the very essence of what she was. And he had said not
I saw him
, but
he saw me
. Her skin prickled with a different awareness, the way it did sometimes near clear water, near those dangerous places where other worlds could break through.
"What do you mean? Where were you?"
"In Mercia, trying to disentangle myself from the panicked remnants of the late King Osred's personal guards. They were fleeing down the coast road after witnessing Osred's murder. They thought I might want to stop them. I did not."
"No." It was a statement of belief. She did not know whether he would accept it. But she took the next step anyway.
"And your brother?" Such a small question. Yet it was not. The air in the cramped chamber thrummed. She did not know whether he would answer. She thought the great shadow of his head, with its rough tangle of hair, was still turned away from her.
"In Wessex. Somewhere. There was a clearing among trees and a great sheet of water, very still. The water was freezing."
The tension in him was palpable, even across the darkness that separated them.
"Water," she said with infinite care, "is very powerful."
She let that opening to the possibility of further speech hang between them. She did not ask directly how he had felt the coldness of this particular sheet of water when he had been many miles from it. She simply held her breath.
The bonds between Brand and his kin were unbreakable. Unlike the bond he had once had with her, a stranger. She bore the silence and waited.
"If he had not seen me, it is quite likely the axe that splintered my shield and hit my arm would have killed me."
She stared at the blackness of the steeply-pitched roof. The terror of near death blinded her mind, and with it came the urge to touch him through the dark. To know his wholeness, to forge a connection she could never have.
All she could do for him was speak, try to make him say what was in his thoughts. She shaped the next question.
"How did you find your brother?"
"I kept moving south. Once I knew he was alive I— The woman who now owned my brother had sent a man to seek me. I caught up with her messenger on the Icknield Way. That is how. Quite simple."
The silence was complete this time, not the slightest rustle of movement in the bated darkness. Not so much as the sound of her breath.
Quite simple.
Why had he told her so much?
The fierce, dazzling creature she had loved had been a warrior, first, last and always. Action had been the compass of his life, not dreams, not the unexplainable, nothing that could not be dealt with in practical terms.
Or so she had thought.
Yet even warriors had hearts, minds. They dreamed. Or they could not be human. They just.. they did not admit it.
Why had he done so? Now? All he had needed to tell her was about the messenger sent to seek him, not what had gone before.
The tension in the strong, dark bulk of his body was finely wound, lethal. The forbidden urge to touch him, to take some of that tension from him and into herself, was more than she could bear.
If she could not touch him, she must find the words. But words were so clumsy to express what she felt: such helpless longing for the bond of understanding that had once sparked between them.
"It happened because your brother means so much to you. Love can make people—"
"What? What can love make people do?"
She heard the rustle of his movement, sensed the speed, and then she was looking into the white blur of his face, the feral eyes.
"Tell me, Alina, what love can make people do."
It can make people do that which they hate most.
"I cannot."
"Nay, I do not believe that you can."
If only she could not see his eyes. If only she could stop feeling. If only her own need for him had not been enough to make her believe that he could want any comfort from her.
What he had said concerned his brother. He
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