Salome at Sunrise by Inez Kelley

deep enough. There was no mercy for him in this life.
    Duty could be glorious and purposeful or it could choke like the noose around the Skullman’s neck. Never, not even when his own death was a hairsbreadth away, had Bryton ever felt the strangled clutch of his vow. Now he could barely breathe for the pinch of invisible fingers. He knew what his destiny was supposed to entail. But Kat had died before they had a second child, a daughter to one day serve as queen and mate for the prince named as his godson.
    Unlike his best friend, he had no mystic line above his heart, was not bound by the magic of heartmates. In theory, he could give a child to any woman. He’d learned at a tender age to use thin sheaths with each encounter unless he wanted copper-haired bastards roaming the countryside. His marriage had erased that worry and put a joyous slant on pregnancy. After Katina’s death, he’d taken risks with the barmaids, deliberately not using sheaths and shamefully wishing for conception. But whores protected themselves with herbs and powders. No child had been created to fulfill his cruel fate.
    Destiny was a bitch. A snort ripped from him. He couldn’t father a queen without a woman and there was none in his life. He wanted no one but Katina. His gaze drifted to Salome. She was the first female since his wife who had stirred his desires but she wasn’t really a woman. Salome wasn’t real, or at least not of this world. Taric’s struggle had been in making Myla real to carry his heir. A king had had to die for that to happen. Salome couldn’t carry. Even if he did bed his peacemaker, there was no chance for a child.
    Failure once more descended with a firestorm. Batu would be the last Segur king. Bryton tried to soothe himself with the idea that at least his enemies would be fewer and his life filled with peace. It was more than Bryton had ever had. It was the only gift of his blood he could give to his godson, poor as it might be. The final nail in his future coffin was knowing he’d condemned a child to a life of loneliness. Self-effacing irony swamped his gut in waves of nausea. It took talent to destroy a hundred generations of royalty.
    Bits of charcoal clung to the knife blade and he wiped them away on his pants. He flipped the dagger, end over end, catching the hilt without looking. Twice. Three times. A fourth.
    He counted twenty-seven tosses before Salome spoke. “Where are your pipes?”
    “In the pack, why? Do you play?”
    “No, but you do. It might fill the time and give you something to do with your hands besides flip that blade.”
    “Sorry, habit. And I don’t feel like playing right now.” He tucked the dagger back into his loose belt and folded it beside him. Tensions from the events of the day heaped on stresses of the past summer and his patience grew thin. His teeth ground and his jaw shifted. A labored sigh blew out. He grabbed his pack, tossing it at the end of his pallet. “Look, I’m going to grab some sleep. It’s early but…I didn’t sleep well.”
    A wide smile erupted like the sun bursting from behind a cloud. “Let me sing you to sleep.”
    “Salome, I’m not a child who needs a lullaby.”
    “No, but you are in need of peace.”
    “Whatever,” he grumped, flopping down on top of his blanket. “Make yourself happy but don’t bitch if I snore.”
    Lying as still as a wooden plank, he crossed his arms and closed his eyelids. They cracked open at a soft rustle. Salome lifted the tent flap, gazing into the violet-smudged sky, letting the blown drops cool on her face.
    In the rain-drenched moonglow, her cheeks shone like alabaster. The deep green of her skirt surrounded her like a meadow and she was the single bloom on the field, a pristine lily. The brisk wind stirred her hair, blowing it back, opening her face. One long lock fluttered then settled along her shoulder and curved provocatively under her left breast. The too-thin whore’s blouse hid little and his gaze