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Chapter Eleven

Aedre

Last eve, we agreed to meet at the same time, in the same place. I felt restless today, however, and I left before the shadows indicated it was time. No matter. This place, close to the village but distant enough to see few visitors, is one I’ve come to since childhood.

Amma and I sat on this very rock. This is where she told me of the natural powers of the stones that can be found along the shoreline. How healing could be conferred to the body by their power alone. And then, at night, looking up to the stars, she explained how their arrangement in the sky determined which plants to pick at various times.

With the arrival of a physician who came from Midenear, an island north of Murwood, Amma and I were free to practice the traditional healing arts of the Garra, focusing on ailments affecting the heart. From difficulty conceiving a child to stimulating lust for sexual intercourse.

I watch the water crash against the Cliffs of Murh to my left, remembering when Amma deemed me of age to treat such problems. Very much against my father’s wishes, she’d long ago explained sexual intercourse, its importance unequivocal for the furthering of our people.

My smile deepens as I remember their argument, Father explaining he understood the merits of the Garra’s duty, having married one. He just did not believe his daughter should be learning such things.

“You are quite beautiful when you smile.”

Startled, I sit up straighter and offer Vanni a frown.

“How did you arrive here so quietly?”

This is the first time I’ve seen him without armor. Not even a padded gambeson. He wears just breeches and a loose cream shirt, wide open at the neck. Although his sword, ever present, is still at his side.

If I’m more beautiful with a smile, his has a similar effect. He looked less royal, less threatening. Dressed casually, hair damp from washing or a swim, Vanni d’Abella appears more like a Voyager than a Southerner today.

“I’ve many skills, my lady. Stealth is just one of them.”

He sits in the same place as before, after unsheathing his sword and placing it next to him. The vulnerability he’s showing me does not go unnoticed. He’s far enough away that we are not touching, but close enough for me to smell his scent. A pleasant one, though pleasant is not the word I would use for him, precisely.

Striking.

Intent.

Very handsome.

Lord d’Abella must be quite popular with the ladies at court.

“You wished me to instruct you on our ways,” I say. “But it seems my counsel is not necessary. Already I hear your name whispered throughout the village.”

“Whispered by your intended?”

Since all spoke of Vanni’s victories, including his match against Agnar, who is considered our finest swordsman, save Kipp, I have no need to ask where he got that information.

“Agnar wishes it were so,” I say, annoyed. “He should not have said that to you.” I’d told myself he’d moved on, but clearly we were due another conversation.

“So ’tis not true?”

I do not mistake his tone this time. Nor the firm eye contact he’s making, which I’m unwilling to break.

Oh, this man is dangerous to me.

I knew it from the very start, yet here I am anyway. A moth to a flame.

“Nay, not at all. Agnar is a friend, nothing more.”

I could not presume to guess his thoughts on what passes between us then, an unspoken awareness that my body refuses to refute.

But his question prompts one of my own, for I’ve treated many whose only affliction is a willingness to warm marital beds other than their own.

“What of you? Are you not promised?”