The Grey Ones

THE VASAATH

The Vasaath was in a bad mood. A very bad mood. His spies had told him that the engagement between Lady Juniper and the fool was going to be announced that very day. At least, it wasn’t the wedding itself and that was a relief. That meant he still had time to hinder the alliance—and no marriage meant that he would have one less impediment to sway the heart of the fair lady.

There was, however, the problem of the engagement itself. Of course, he could show his intent clearly and meddle by his own accord, but it would be unwise of him not to use the situation to create a rift between the two cities. He was confident that Juniper was too clever to stand such a man, and if he could persuade her to refuse the man—and in that, refuse her father’s wishes—the rift between the cities would be a fact.

He waited for her to arrive that afternoon, but she never came. Kasethen pointed out that she might not have had the chance to get away from the celebrations, and the Vasaath accepted the situation. But she didn’t arrive the day after, either, and that was making him irritated.

“Quite the celebration,” said the Vasaath bitterly to Kasethen as the darkness fell.

“What do your spies say?”

“They haven’t seen her since the announcement.”

“Perhaps she hasn’t been out since then?”

The Vasaath just hummed and fell into deep ponder and he could not deny that in the pit of his stomach, he felt worry. What was keeping her from him? Why would she not come to him? Was the engagement hindering her? If this were to last, he would have to go to Fairgarden himself to get her.

Every day more and more converters came to their doorstep, and more it seemed after the announced engagement—clearly, the Noxboroughers were not that fond of the Westbridge establishment. They were poor and dirty, sick and starving. Soon, they would need to be transported back to Kasarath to be fed and treated, before the encampment became too crowded.

It had been several days since the announcement. The Vasaath was in a foul mood. His spies had said that the Duke’s daughter had not been seen outside the castle, which hurled the Warlord into an even worse mood. The rest of the warriors kept their eyes on the ground and their mouths shut and simply waited out the storm.

When the dark fell on the seventh day of the lady’s absence, the Vasaath had to face the crude reality that she was not returning. The disappointment stung deep inside, but he could not—would not!—let his feeling get the better of him. It was not befitting for the Vasaath to show emotion outside the battlefield. But the girl’s absence didn’t only make him desire her even more; he would also have to interpret it as a declaration of war.

That night, he stood at the battlements overlooking the sea, his hands closed behind his back. He tried to still his anger, but found it difficult. The only thing that would soothe him now was the golden lights from the warship lanterns and crimson sails on the horizon.

But he did not need the aid of his brothers and sisters in defeating the Duke of Noxborough, and judging by the steadfast stream of converters, the populace would not resist submission. The nobles would not be able to hold their ground for long, and taking Fairgarden would be child’s play. If the Duke would not release the girl, the Vasaath would gladly burn the whole city down just to reach her.

“Great Warrior?”

The Vasaath turned to his advisor. “Yes?”

The man looked slightly nervous. “It’s the lady. She’s here.”

He could not describe the feeling that seared through him at that very moment—anger, relief, desperation, rage, all meddled up in one big knot in his chest—and he let it out in the only way he knew how. Growling darkly, he passed Kasethen and crossed the courtyard in long strides.

“Sir, I must beg you, calm yourself!” Kasethen hurried behind him. “Before you lay judgment on the girl, you must—”

“I must nothing,” the Vasaath rumbled. “If Noxborough wants war, I am happy to oblige.”

“Sir, I don’t believe that—”

But the Vasaath had already parted the canvas and stepped into his tent. There, in the flickering light of the fire, stood Juniper. She had returned—she had returned to him. But then, his heart stopped.

It was not the beauty he had longed for, or the sweet scent that she carried; neither was it the bewitching silver eyes, nor the foul thoughts that teased in the back of his mind that made him stop dead in his tracks. It was the shifting colours of blue, green and yellow on her fair face. A rage more intense than anything he had ever felt before rose in his chest and his thoughts blackened. He approached her, quickly and decisively, and the girl gasped and stumbled backwards.

“P-please, sir, forgive me, I-I did not intend to—”

He caught her chin in his hand before she could escape him, and it was not until she had frozen in his grasp that he realised he was standing so close, touching her lovely but bruised face. The want that seeped from the fingers on her skin, down his arms, and to his manhood had to be ignored—the rage was greater still.

He observed the damage done to her thoroughly. The right side of her face was bruised, and he would recognise the agonising mark of a backhand anywhere. The cheekbone had taken the bulk of the beating where the knuckles had struck. The darkest marking revealed an object, most likely a ring.

“Who did this to you?” The darkness in his voice surprised even him as it escaped his depths.

He had not noticed that she was holding her breath before she wheezed out a small wail, but no words escaped her.

Why would she not tell him? Why would she protect a monster who would strike a woman so cruelly? He searched her eyes for a sign, but all he could find was terror and fear. Remembering what Kasethen had told him, about being gentle with the girl, he loosened his grip. He let his fingers slowly trace the shape of her jaw, tenderly and caringly.

“Juniper,” he said softly, “tell me, who did this to you?”

A little softness was all that was needed before the girl melted into his touch and wept.

The Vasaath stood perplexed. The wailing of children, he knew; tears of loss and grief, he knew; tears of hurt and sadness, he knew; but how to console, how to comfort, he had never been taught. He, the Vasaath, had no business comforting cries—but now, he felt compelled to. If only he knew how.

“Hold her, sir.” Kasethen seemed to read the Vasaath like an open book, and for the sake of his pride, the Vasaath was relieved that the girl did not understand their words.

Slowly, he pulled the small female to him and it was a though her warmth fused with his. Carefully, he wrapped his arms around her and held her shaking frame as she sobbed against his chest.

He heard Kasethen leave, and when all alone with the lady, he allowed himself to hold her a little tighter, to savour this small moment of tenderness and intimacy when he could forget his station and his mission and just embrace this woman. He could not deny the strong feelings he held for her, the intense sensation of wanting—no, needing—to shield her and protect her. It then became clear to him that he would do anything for her. In a way, he had never felt more vulnerable in his entire life.

He held her for a long time, long after her tears had dried. She was still shaking and shivering, but she had calmed, and she seemed to enjoy the closeness just as much as he did.

Although he did not wish to, he carefully pulled away and looked at her; redness and swelling from her tears were added to her face, but there was no longer fear in her eyes.

“Sit down and I’ll pour you some wine,” he told her gently.

She wrapped her arms around herself as soon as he left her, and said, “I’m cold.”

“The wine will warm you a bit,” said the Vasaath. “Make yourself comfortable down on the rug. Wrap one of the furs around you.” He handed her the wine and said, with feeling, “You’re safe here. With me.”