Lion's Bride - Iris Johansen [22]
He was being watched.
He froze in the act of fastening the basket, every muscle rigid.
Vaden.
He always knew when it was Vaden. The bond between them had never been broken; it had only become twisted. God, how ironic to die like this. Not in battle, but gathering leaves for a bunch of silkworms.
He leaned his head on the saddle, waiting. Jesus, he was weary of it all. It seemed as if he had been waiting a lifetime for this final moment. He suddenly felt a wild, reckless desire for it to be over.
He whirled on his heel, tore off his helmet, and gazed up at the rocky hillside. “Here I am, Vaden,” he shouted. “A clear shot. Aim for the eye. It’s surer than trying to find an opening in the armor.”
But he had seen one of Vaden’s arrows find such an opening. He possessed strength, a steady hand, and a deadly eye. Vaden was the finest bowman Ware had ever known.
He stood waiting, head lifted.
No sound. No whir of an arrow in flight.
But Vaden was there. Why didn’t he strike?
He slowly put his helmet back on his head. He waited again before he mounted.
It seemed Vaden was not in the mood for killing this day.
But Vaden was not driven by moods, only by cool reason.
Ware waited once again, giving Vaden another chance, before nudging his horse toward the path leading up the mountain to Dundragon.
He could still loose the arrow.
Vaden kept his vision narrowed on the exact spot in Ware’s back where the armor joined.
He slowly lowered the bow.
If he’d been going to loose that arrow, he would have done so when Ware had been standing staring up at him in despair.
He could have killed him and it would have been over. He could have returned to the Temple, and the secret would have been safe.
The Grand Master would have said not taking that shot was a betrayal of the Temple. With Ware dead and unable to defend Dundragon, he would have given the order for the stronghold to be razed to the ground and all its inhabitants murdered.
Vaden returned the arrow to the quiver on his saddle. He had never been guided by the Grand Master, and he would not be now. He was the chosen executioner, and he would judge for himself who would have to die and who could live. He didn’t know for certain that Ware had revealed to anyone what he had seen in the storehouse. God knew enough blood had been spilled since that night.
He put spurs to his horse and reluctantly veered left to the path leading south. From there he could cut across the valley and be in Acre by tomorrow night. Another message had come from the Grand Master summoning him to a meeting at his encampment outside Acre. He had ignored the first one, but the man’s temper was explosive and erratic, so he had best try to soothe it before irreparable damage was done.
He glanced back at the denuded branches on the ground beneath the tree and frowned in puzzlement.
What the devil had Ware been about?
“He’s here!” Kadar pushed back his chair, the game forgotten. “I hear the drawbridge.” He hurried out of the hall.
Thea stood up and followed him. She found she was experiencing the same relief Kadar was exhibiting. She had been conscious of Kadar’s lack of attention for the past two hours, and his worry had been contagious.
Ware was riding through the gates as she came down the steps to the courtyard to stand beside Kadar. The setting sun was behind him, and he was only a massive dark silhouette against a blazing sky as he walked his horse toward them.
Kadar shaded his eyes with his hand as he looked up at Ware. “He didn’t follow?”
“He followed. He held his hand.” He loosened the basket and dropped it to the courtyard. “Your leaves.”
“Why?” Kadar asked.
“How do I know?” He dismounted and turned to Thea. “Are they the right ones?”
She knelt on the stones and opened the lid. She breathed a sigh of relief as she saw the tooth-shaped leaves. “Yes.”
“Enough?”
She nodded. “They’ll last me at least a month. By that time I should be settled in Damascus and able to find more.”
“Long before that time.