Stormcaster (Shattered Realms #3)(110)

Graves nodded, glancing at Samara, and then at his comrades. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Farrow cleared his throat. “Ma’am. Captain. It would help to know what our mission will be. That will help us better focus our training.”

The Waterwalker was missing an eye, and one side of his face had been badly burned. That made it hard to look at him straight on, but Lyss did. “The empress has not shared her plans with me, but I imagine that we will be deployed back to the Realms. No doubt that is why the empress has recruited officers who have experience fighting in that environment. Most of her forces are accustomed to naval battles and coastal raids.”

“So.” Graves again. “So we may be sent to fight against the Highlanders? The clans?”

“We will go wherever the empress sends us, which is the role of a soldier, after all,” Lyss said, conscious of Samara’s gaze. “It is not the job of soldiers to get into questions of policy. It is evidence of the empress’s mercy and confidence in us that we remain free men and women. The best guarantee of our future is to succeed in our mission, whatever it is.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Graves said, exchanging unhappy glances with the others.

“I never said that it would be easy,” Lyss said softly. She glanced at Samara, who was watching through narrowed eyes, and thought, There’s no way I can pull this off—outsmart Celestine under so many pairs of hostile eyes. She had never felt more alone.

I have to. I have got to find a way to survive, and get home. The line does not die here.

Every night after dinner, Lyss had taken to running up the slope from the waterside, both to keep her body in fighting condition and to wear off the anger and tension and dread that built up during the day. Beyond the area of the harbor, the land sloped steeply upward, evidence of the island’s volcanic origin. She would run and run and run, straight up the mountain, often with a full pack on her back, until her lungs were exploding and her knees trembled, threatening to give way.

She leapt over steaming fissures, granite boulders, and lava pools. She kept running until she was clear of the fuming sulfur scent that seemed to permeate everything at sea level, and she could breathe the clean cold air that reminded her of home.

Even at this height, the weather barrier that surrounded the island persisted, but she could see the stars overhead, and somehow that was enough. She’d lie on her back, her body steaming in the cold, looking for the Crown and Sword, the Wolf Pack, the Tears of the Queens, and the other constellations she’d known since childhood. Somehow, it made her feel closer to home.

She would pull out the rose locket her father had given her and study the tiny portraits of her mother, her brother, her sister. This is what you’re fighting for. This.

She often thought of Halston Matelon, wondering if he still lived. She hoped he did, and was looking up at the same stars. She wished she had a keepsake of some kind—something of his to wear against her skin. Soldiers always carried keepsakes—not so much as a promise from one person to another, but more as a promise to themselves that they would survive, and that there would be a future worth living in.

All that time she’d spent with the flatlander, and she couldn’t help thinking she should have looked harder, and closer, and memorized every tiny detail. Some, she could recall vividly—those eyes the color of the gray-green ferns on the north side of the mountain. The stick-straight black hair that flopped down over his forehead when he’d been in the field too long. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, a muscled ass that made even uniform breeches look good.

But his nose—what did that look like? She had totally neglected his nose. Did he have any tattoos? She’d never had a thorough look.

She loved the way he moved. He was at home in his body, and it showed. He covered ground like somebody who knew where he was going and would find a way to get there without leaving anyone behind. His lovemaking (what she’d known of it) was much the same.

It never took her long to move from those fine physical assets to who he was. The way he took care of his men in the field, leading by example, playing the hand he was given without complaint. Fierce, determined, there.

He had much to learn about northern women. Still, even when they disagreed, he was teachable, weighing her arguments before he countered.

That was what took this beyond a wartime crush. She might be building a house around a single brick, but this brick was all she had.

It was evidence of how deeply into daydreaming she was that the first she knew she had company was when somebody said, “So this is where you go every night,” practically in her ear.

She scrambled to her feet, her sword in her hand, her body acting before her mind returned to earth.

It was Bosley, dressed in his desert warrior garb, his curved blade at his side, an arrogant smile on his face. It didn’t look good on him.

Dreams to nightmares.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“You first,” Bosley said.

“I came up here to be alone,” Lyss said, returning her sword to its scabbard. “Obviously, you didn’t, if you followed me up here.”

“I was actually asking a . . . broader question,” Bosley said. “Why is the heir to the Gray Wolf throne serving the empress in the east?”

“I’m here for the same reason you are,” Lyss said, ignoring the title, doing her best to control her temper. “I am a prisoner of war who has been ganged into the Carthian army. Given the alternative, I agreed.”