Nights of Villjamur

SEVEN

Brynd waited patiently alongside Eir in the corridor outside the Council Atrium, the chamber where all the plans and schemes for Villjamur and the Empire were debated. They had been sitting there for hours. Brynd understood then that, as a servant to the Empire, his life was spent arriving, departing, or waiting.

The two of them sat in a miserable silence, and he pitied Eir for having to witness her father’s death when she was still so young. He tried to convince her that it was not her fault, that it was an accident. She hadn’t wept openly, but when Brynd had gone to fetch her earlier that day, he could hear her sobbing behind the closed doors of her chamber.

However, she stepped out to greet him as elegantly composed as could be expected.

After her sibling Rika had left, all those years ago, the younger girl had become more quiet, rather withdrawn. She shouldn’t have had to cope with Johynn in his deteriorating state, not at her youthful age. Brynd wondered if she’d eventually come to see her father’s departure as a release from his powerful emotional grasp over her.

Eventually, the large Quercus wood doors of the Atrium were opened and they were both summoned inside.

The Atrium itself was a high-domed white chamber about fifty paces wide. The twenty-five councillors, each representing a sector of the city as stated by the old maps, sat in a circle of benches, ranged above them.

The Council had already been locked away for most of a day, anxiously deliberating the consequences of Jamur Johynn’s death. They had ordered that the Emperor’s mortal remains be cleaned up rapidly. As yet no one in the general population of Villjamur realized that their Emperor had killed himself. Palace servants had been threatened with torture and execution if any rumours were traced back to Balmacara.

Brynd and Eir took their seats silently on a wooden podium at one end of the chamber for esteemed guests, although Brynd felt more like a prisoner. On it was carved the emblem of the Jamur Empire: a seven-pointed star.

A low-level muttering rippled through the Council.

Eir was dressed soberly in a dark red shawl covering a black gown of mourning. Brynd took the opportunity to rid himself of the scars and dirt and memories of military ambush, and wore a freshly cleaned all-black uniform.

Though Brynd had earned the Emperor’s trust over the years, he was never quite sure how this parliament reacted to his being albino. Brynd had his own suspicions about these councillors because of what had recently happened at Dalúk Point. If he scrutinized them carefully, perhaps one of them would betray guilt in his or her eyes.

Silence fell as Chancellor Urtica stood up.

Brynd glanced at him with secret disdain. You couldn’t really trust a man who, it was rumoured, had spent a year of his youth mixing poisons as an apprentice to a senior torturer for the Inquisition. Urtica was a swarthy handsome man in his forties, his greying black hair cropped close to his ears. The Council uniform of green tunic and grey cloak fitted his slim body well.

‘Jamur Eir. Commander Lathraea, welcome to the Atrium,’ he began in his smooth and deep voice. ‘As you will understand we’ve been debating our current predicament, and I’ll get straight on to the details of what we’ve concluded. It may come as no surprise to you that we wish to bring the late Emperor’s eldest daughter, Jamur Rika, back to the city. It is, of course, law and tradition that the closest senior relative should inherit the throne, ensuring there is an unbroken chain of command, as decreed by our divine father, Bohr himself. Jamur Rika is to become Empress of Villjamur, being the most appropriate choice, we feel, in these uncertain times.’

Brynd had anticipated such a move.

‘Commander, we’re now charging you to escort Lady Rika back from the Southfjords immediately. It should take you several days, and on your return there shall be a festival combining both mourning and celebration. It is essential that we look upon this as a positive move and not a crisis. As a senior member of this Council, I’ll advise the new Empress at every stage. We will be happy to welcome her as the new ruler.’

I bet you will, Brynd thought. You’ll use the poor girl’s innocence and ignorance to drive through every selfish policy you’ve ever dreamed of.

‘Commander,’ Urtica continued, ‘we’ve set things in motion for your imminent departure, with a longship moored at the port of Gish ready for you to join it. Take as many of the Night Guard as you feel necessary.’

‘Yes, thank you,’ Brynd said. ‘Talking of the Night Guard, I take it you’ve heard what happened to us at Dalúk Point?’

‘Yes, indeed. One of your men – a certain Captain Apium Hol, I believe – made it his business to inform all of the customers in several bars last night, as well as the entire main dining hall in Balmacara. I was myself told about it by a member of the kitchen staff. A most upsetting way to learn such news, for a man of my-’

‘My point,’ Brynd interrupted, ‘was to discover how we came to be ambushed. Our mission was supposedly known only to high-level members of this Council.’ Brynd was staring directly at Chancellor Urtica. The man shifted slightly, but kept an expression of concern.

‘This is indeed a tragedy, but such things do happen in military operations, commander. If there was a way-’

‘I’m just trying to find out why my men died unnecessarily, chancellor.’

‘We will set up an investigation into this matter for you, but meanwhile your assignment is to escort back Jamur Rika.’

‘What if she doesn’t want to return?’ Brynd said. ‘It’s no enigma that she despised the Emperor for his treatment of her late mother.’

‘The Emperor is no longer with us, and it is your job to persuade her. We here need her. Villjamur needs her.’

Brynd did not quite understand the urgency – it was the Council that dictated Imperial strategy, and Johynn had only really ever been required for his signature. ‘I’ll leave tomorrow morning then,’ he agreed.

At that point, Councillor Boll interrupted, a slender, short man who would have looked like a child except for his withered skin and grey hair.

‘Commander, there have also been a number of sightings recently,’ he began, ‘of phenomena we are not entirely certain of. We’re getting reports of a series of murders on Tineag’l,’ Boll explained. ‘And people disappearing in large numbers. Admittedly these are only word of mouth from impressionable locals, and we’ve yet to hear anything from more reputable sources.’

‘You wish me to investigate? Report back on what I see?’ This wasn’t exactly the sort of mission Brynd was used to.

‘More or less,’ Urtica concurred. ‘Nothing to concern yourself with particularly at this moment – at least not until you return. But you can understand our concern that something may be on the loose out there, picking at what’s left of our Empire. Killing valuable subordinates.’

‘What’s left of them if the ice doesn’t get them first,’ Brynd said sharply.

‘Indeed,’ Urtica said, then turned to Eir. ‘Jamur Eir, in this most unfortunate time for you, I ask that in the interim you take stewardship of the city on your sister’s behalf.’

‘Of course, Chancellor Urtica,’ Eir replied flatly. ‘I shall do everything that is necessary.’

‘We will make a public announcement shortly,’ Urtica concluded. ‘Thank you both for your time.’

A rather abrupt dismissal, but at least they were out of there. As he followed Eir from the Atrium, Brynd had to stifle a laugh. No sooner had he returned to Villjamur than he had to leave it again.

Brynd was invited to take dinner with Eir, the temporary Stewardess of Villjamur. He had often eaten with the late Emperor, when their conversation would inevitably turn to his most recent mission, or battle tactic, but he had always felt uncomfortable when she was present, because he felt he should not be talking war at the dining table. Tonight, while she picked at the lobster, she was sitting bolt upright, still wearing that black gown which, in this light, made her pale skin glow as white as his own.

‘How’re you feeling?’ he asked eventually.

A distance in her eyes, a disconnection. ‘I’m fine,’ she snapped. She looked down at her plate again.

The hides of various animals covered the walls and floors. As a fire spat loudly nearby, the poor lighting made the place look as if there were reanimated carcasses all around him.

‘Are you looking forward to your sister’s return?’

‘Yes, very much so.’ Eir looked up, her eyes suddenly brighter. ‘It’s been so long since she… since she left us.’

‘Do you think that she’ll ever forgive him?’

‘I hope so. It’s possible. She’s become a rather different woman since she embraced the Jorsalir Church.’

Brynd considered the point. ‘Perhaps the Empire will benefit from someone with such strong beliefs. Do you forgive him, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘I hated him.’ Eir pushed her plate away, slumping back in her chair. ‘You don’t have to stay here just on my behalf, commander.’

Brynd replied, ‘I know that. But you’re better company than most in this damn place.’

She said, ‘I hardly think I’m good company for anyone at the moment.’ She was clearly struggling to control her emotions.

Brynd did nothing to fill the silence.

Eventually she spoke again. ‘Well, now that he’s gone… This sounds awful of me to say…’

‘No, go on, say it.’

‘It’s like a burden has been lifted from my shoulders.’

Brynd said, ‘Yes, I think I understand. Talk.’

‘I had to keep an eye on him all the time. That means I’ve not had much of a life here.’

‘Eir, you’ve had as good a childhood as you could expect in your position. Your mother would be proud if she could see you.’

She continued, ‘But now he’s gone, I don’t have to do that any more. I don’t have to watch out when he starts drinking too much, or apologizing to servants when he soils his bedsheets. I don’t have to stand the other side of a locked door when he’s ranting because of his paranoia. Yet every time I don’t have to do something, these free moments, it reminds me he’s dead.’

‘Which means you’ve got a life of your own back now.’

‘Really?’ She smiled bitterly. ‘This isn’t much of a way to go about things. Because of my blood I get treated a little better than most women in Villjamur, certainly. But there’s a list of men waiting to marry me within the year, and I’ve never even met half of them. Think of how valuable their prize is now. I understand Imperial policies, commander. I understand my life will be little more to this government than supporting income flows.’

‘Sometimes, in this world, we don’t have the option to find love,’ Brynd muttered, and realized he was addressing both of them. ‘Matters of the heart are not always for us to decide. Situations don’t always allow it.’

‘Love.’ She almost sneered at the word. ‘You’re a man; you wouldn’t understand.’

Brynd motioned for the servant to take away their plates. As the boy left the room, he continued, ‘It’s OK to be upset, Eir. It’s natural to mourn.’

‘I’m not upset.’ Her tone had changed from before, and he could tell she was closing herself up, protecting her mind with walls.

Conversation had slowed, an awkward silence taking its place. Eir stared at nothing, occasionally closing her eyes completely as if to shut out the world.

After a moment he stood up.

‘Are you going?’ she asked, but she still wasn’t looking at him.

‘There’s a good chance someone with my personality might make you even more miserable,’ he said, and a half-smile seemed to suggest she liked that comment. ‘The Dawnir wants to see me. Since I’m off soon, I’d better go and visit him now. Get some sleep if you can.’

He left her alone in the room with the sound of his boots leaving and the spitting fire.

Brynd set off along the winding stone passages until he finally reached the Dawnir’s chamber, a secluded vault built some way into the cliff face, far away from the rich adornments of Balmacara. This was an ancient remnant of an older structure, the stonework of its walls worn smooth over hundreds of years.

Brynd banged his fist on the iron door of the Dawnir’s vault. It looked rather like the entrance to a gaol.

Slow footsteps sounded on the other side. The door opened. A shaft of lantern light fell upon his face. ‘Sele of Jamur, it’s Commander Brynd of the House of Lathraea.’

A gruff voice said, ‘Please, enter.’

Immediately behind the door, the Dawnir stood, stooping slightly.

‘Sele of Jamur,’ Brynd replied, and shuffled forwards.

‘I am very glad you could come and visit me, Commander Brynd Lathraea,’ the Dawnir said. ‘The times are interesting.’

‘As always,’ Brynd agreed, watching the Dawnir close the door behind him. Standing one armspan taller than Brynd, and covered in a bush of brown hair, his host wore a simple loin cloth.

He always seemed to be hunching, probably because there was no one else of his height to talk to. His eyes were like large black balls set deep in a narrow, goat-shaped head, while his gums exposed a pair of tusks the length of a forearm.

‘And how are you, Jurro?’ Brynd asked. ‘I received word you wished to see me.’

The Dawnir waved an impossibly large hand towards a chair. Three walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling, and more were piled up around the simple wooden furniture. There were beautiful bindings, and some had degraded significantly.

A sheep carcass was draped upon a table across the room, quietly stinking the place out.

‘Could do with some incense in here,’ Brynd muttered.

After a moment of intense frowning, Jurro spoke. ‘Ah, a joke. Very good, Brynd Lathraea, very good. Irony, you call it, yes?’

Brynd reclined further in the chair, and picked up a book, but found it was in a language he didn’t know. The fonts suggested it might be something from Boll or Tineag’l, or some other Empire outpost.

‘That one is a history of dance on Folke,’ Jurro explained.

‘Doesn’t look like Folken,’ Brynd replied.

‘Indeed not, Brynd Lathraea. It was written over a thousand years ago, and language changes.’

Brynd pursed his lips, placed the book to one side.

‘I was looking at it because of the Snow Ball that the highborn humans and the rumel have organized. I do hope I will be able to attend it.’

‘Don’t see why not,’ Brynd said. ‘You’re no prisoner.’

‘Indeed not, but I do feel like one at times. I don’t get many true visitors either, just those hoping I can help solve their petty problems. Yet I am not an oracle. I know no magic. And, besides, as if I would know…’ the Dawnir trailed off to replace the book on one of the shelves.

‘So how does the study go?’

‘Nothing new. No revelations. These histories of the Boreal Archipelago are fascinating, though. There are many inconsistencies in the texts, which leads me to believe the history is deeper than is publicly known, and known less than is publicly history. And I have some… some considerable time on my hands. I’m in no hurry, therefore. The books I’ve read on the previous ice ages are indeed interesting. They seem to have been the bringer of death to many a good civilization, so I can see why our Council are anxious.’ Jurro pushed forward a large chair constructed from iron, with heavy padding. The Dawnir sighed thunderously as he reclined. He held up one large text, a leather-bound tome the size of a small tabletop. ‘This is called The Book of the Wonders of Earth and Sky, and it details eras so far ago that they are assumed legend. I read today our forests were once lost entirely. We now call trees by the names in which their seeds had been stored below the Earth. I read once again that the sun was once much more yellow than our own. If this is true, then our sun is losing strength, and it is dying slowly. There is, perhaps predictably, nothing within the pages to suggest my own origins. I remain full of pathos.’

Brynd had heard many philosophical meanderings from Jurro. This creature had reportedly been within the city over a thousand years, nearly as long as this pile of stones had been called Villjamur. That’s what Jurro himself claimed anyway. He had been originally discovered wandering the icy coastline of north Jokull, with no memory. Having survived this long, he was now assumed to be immortal, though Brynd wondered morosely what it would be like to live for so long without even knowing your roots. He himself shared something with the Dawnir in this respect. Brynd had been adopted as a child by wealthy parents, and therefore had no real concept of his own origins. Who would ever want to know where an albino came from anyway?

‘So how about your health? Do you feel well?’ Brynd said.

‘No, I need more exercise. I envy you, endlessly on your little missions here and there.’

Somehow, Jurro had just managed to belittle Brynd’s entire career with a single sentence.

‘You must take me along with you some time, because I would like to see more of the Archipelago. It could jog my memory; I might recognize something of my own past. It might even be fun.’

‘Why not, if it helps at all? But, you obviously won’t have heard about our latest mission.’

Then Brynd gave the Dawnir the details of his last few days.

‘Indeed, a complex situation,’ Jurro said. ‘I will put my ear, as you say, to the ground for you.’

‘Thanks,’ Brynd said. ‘You heard about our Emperor?’

‘Yes. Again, curious. But his mind was never quite there, was it?’

‘I’ll be fetching his elder daughter to be our new Empress.’

‘Jamur Rika? Of course. Is she not a child still?’

‘No, she’s twenty now.’

‘How quickly you grow, you humans!’ The Dawnir seemed utterly delighted at this observation.

They talked a while longer about news from the city, the refugees camping outside the gates. And then Jurro began to ramble about the wild flowers of Dockull and Maour. Brynd could only listen to Jurro’s expositions for so long, and gently interrupted him.

‘Jurro, I don’t suppose you know anything of the killings reported on Tineag’l, do you?’

‘Killings?’ Jurro made a contemplative steeple of his massive hands.

‘I don’t think it’s tribal revenge. Perhaps a new creature, or something?’

‘I know nothing about this – although, yes, I would like to know more. According to what I have read, there has not been any creature capable of large-scale killings for several dozen millennia. Fossils of such beasts exist, of course, on Y’iren. I will begin some research.’

‘Thanks,’ Brynd said. ‘I’d better be going now. I’ll be back to see you when I return.’

‘Farewell, Brynd Lathraea,’ the Dawnir said, hardly paying attention.

‘You know what your problem is?’ Apium said to Brynd. They were leaning over the bar counter in the Cross and Sickle. Close to midnight and the place was nearly empty. A veteran of the Ninth Dragoons slumped asleep in the corner still clutching his tankard, wearing the uniform he’d never need again. Two elderly rumel sat nearby in companionable silence. A fire crackled cosily, and you could hear the clink clink clink of empty glasses that a serving girl was carrying into the kitchen. The tavern was one of those places that made an effort with its decor: engraved mirrors, imported dark woods, lanterns bright enough to make women feel comfortable drinking here.

‘Go on then,’ Brynd said. This wasn’t the first time Apium had explained to Brynd what his problems were. Certainly it wouldn’t be the last.

Brynd took another sip of lager.

‘You’re a pushover,’ Apium continued. ‘That’s what you are, a pushover. You’ll take anything up the arse and not complain about it. You’re just a bitch to these councillors.’

‘Really?’ Brynd said. ‘Thanks for your support.’

‘Just stand up for yourself once in a while – that’s what you should do. I would’ve given them hell!’

‘You’re not really one for diplomacy, are you?’

‘Diplomacy’s never won us soldiers a war.’

Brynd pondered the inherent truth in Apium’s statement.

‘Perhaps you’re right.’ As he spoke he realized that Apium’s attention was drawn to the barmaid who was busy cleaning tables. ‘You with me?’

‘I was with her in spirit,’ Apium stated. ‘I have been since we walked in here.’

Brynd stared at him. ‘Stop leering. Haven’t you got a sense of decency?’

‘No, I’m not armed with a sense of decency,’ Apium said. ‘That way, my other senses are as sharp as they can possibly be.’

Brynd laughed, shook his head, then glanced over the bar, silent in thought.

Because they were carousing at the top level of the city, they didn’t have far to walk to reach the military quarters of Balmacara. Brynd considered such privileged accommodation a wasted luxury, because they were so frequently away from the city on military service. This housing could so easily be used for refugee families. Instead, the chambers they occupied were set into the cliff face just to the north of the late Emperor’s private quarters, and usually a minimum two members of the Night Guard remained in residence at all times, in case the Emperor should need to call on them in an emergency. Not that there had ever been one in Brynd’s memory, but it was a sensible precaution.

As he was commander, Brynd’s own chamber was by far the most extravagant, set slightly apart from the others. He liked the decor inside, a mixture of polished marble and slate, with purple drapes hanging on every wall. Hidden behind them were maps of the Empire’s far-flung territories, should he need to examine them quickly. It often helped during sleepless nights, to study these lands that he was charged to protect. It affirmed his sense of duty. Military medallions hung from the mirror on his dressing table.

Then he noticed the letter left for him on a side table. He lit a lantern before opening it to reveal precise details, provided by Chancellor Urtica, of where Jamur Rika was living near the settlement of Hayk, on the Southfjords. The letter also confirmed that Chancellor Urtica would like an interview with Brynd before he left, in order to discover further details of the disastrous ambush at Dalúk Point.

Brynd was disturbed by the thought of now finding time to come to terms with the deaths in his regiment, and discovering who was responsible for their ambush. Such quieter moments were difficult for soldiers, as the killings they witnessed worked over and over again in the mind. He would have to organize letters of sympathy to be sent to the families of the deceased soldiers – there was still so much to be done, and he must be ready to leave early the next morning. Brynd settled down at his desk for a couple of hours’ paperwork.

Brynd paused to look up at the clock. Not even an hour had passed, and he wasn’t feeling particularly tired, but he decided the letters could wait. He needed some fresh air, he needed some relaxation. Perhaps Apium was right, and Brynd took life too seriously. The pressure was starting to get to him.

He changed out of his uniform into a featureless brown tunic, threw on a hooded cloak, then walked quickly out into the chill of the night.

Brynd knocked on the door. The darkness felt suffocating, one of those nights when you felt like someone was watching your every move.

Brynd’s secret would then be out.

And he would be executed on the city walls.

He was standing outside an inconspicuous doorway near Gulya Gata, not far from where painters from the gallery customarily loitered in the company of poets inside bistros by Cartanu Gata and the Gata Sentimental. Nearby, past the bad hotel in the exposed street, there was always the sound of activity: erratic laughter, retreating footsteps, the clink of glass or the scrape of metal. Depending on the mood of the city, it could also mean drunkenness, lovemaking, even a murder. Such sounds were interpreted according to your own degree of paranoia – Villjamur was constructed by a state of mind.

The door opened, and a slim young man stood there wearing only a flimsy robe. High cheekbones, thin lips, a wicked grin that Brynd could never stay away from too long. The young man brushed his sleek black hair back with his fingers. ‘Well, if it isn’t my big war hero. Haven’t seen you for a while.’

‘I’ve had a hell of a week,’ Brynd breathed, his gaze flickering from Kym’s face to the ground. In a way it was a refusal to see himself reflected in Kym’s eyes.

‘You look like you have, too,’ Kym said. ‘You look bloody terrible. And you haven’t even come in uniform. Well, you’re a right scruff, but I can live with that.’

‘If someone catches us together while I’m uniform we’ll both be hanged. And think of how my unit would react if they discover the truth about me. My fellow soldiers are suspicious enough of me already.’ Having no wife might arouse suspicion normally, but at least being an albino gave him an excuse to hide behind.

Kym said, ‘You’re just paranoid because of the colour of your skin, honey. So stop being so self-conscious. People give less of a shit about you than you believe.’

‘I didn’t come here to argue,’ Brynd said.

‘Well, in that case, you may as well come in.’

Still hesitant now. ‘Are you… alone? No one else here?’

‘Of course I am, otherwise I’d say so.’

Brynd followed him inside, looking around carefully before he closed the door. Kym was always so casual, and there was something deeply attractive about his carefree attitude. Or was it more carelessness? His lack of care was seen as a sign of strength by many. Women in particular were attracted to the deep confidence from which he drew his plenitude of sarcasm and humour and surreal wisdom. They felt the urge to be noticed by him, but he always came back to Brynd in the end.

‘That a cut on your face?’ Brynd had noted a thin line under Kym’s eye, in this clearer light.

‘Experienced some rough treatment, you know how it is. Well, you don’t quite, I suppose, being all military and precise. This was just a little bit more than name-calling, though, a threat to inform the Inquisition. Just so happens the guy I was seeing at the time was tough, tall and muscled. Gave the guy who did this a broken jaw, poor bastard. Can’t eat his meals without help now.’ Kym gave the gentlest of smiles.

‘Indeed.’ Brynd was not sure whether to feel jealous or angry. He had no right to be either. ‘So how’ve you been? I see you’ve decorated the place again.’

Brynd indicated the metal-frame chairs, the elaborate new murals, the stylish new lanterns that cast shades of green and blue all around them. He found it impressive, Kym’s ability over the years to always find something new to do with the place.

The first time they’d met was when Brynd was just a captain in the Second Dragoons. He didn’t have such a high reputation to protect, so they were good days, relatively stress-free, when he could spend his evenings in lovemaking and easy companionship. The two of them would visit the galleries, even stroll on the bridges through the warmer evenings, just to get closer to the stars. But always in the darkness of the executioner’s shadow because of a few lines in an ancient Jorsalir text. Back then, the Freeze was not something people even thought about, and he didn’t have a crucial role to play in the Empire’s development or safety, so he was less bothered about his reputation.

In those more directionless younger days, he went about the city screwing man after man. There were always places to find it, discreet clubs dark enough so married men could be hypocrites. He’d felt a discreet thrill at the fact that he could be killed simply for being what he was. It always made sucking a cock so much more exciting. Brynd had now settled on just one man – in personality a strange opposite that he needed more than chose, for reasons he never wanted to investigate. Perhaps it was the distinct lack of machismo in Kym, a quality that was so evidently postured during his time in the army.

‘I sold a painting and got decent money for it…’ Kym paused as he followed Brynd’s gaze around the room. ‘It wasn’t even very good, but taste is a matter of taste.’ He laughed at his own joke – something Brynd also found endearing. ‘So, I thought I’d give the place a new look. You could do with one, too.’

Kym walked towards Brynd and the two men held each other for a moment while their expressions relaxed into something more raw. Brynd inhaled and exhaled deeply, waiting for the moment, waiting for the sign in Kym’s eyes, and then they thrust their faces together, lips touching with a soft aggression, time falling apart.

Eventually Brynd withdrew with a sigh.

‘I hate you, just invading my evening like this.’ Kym ran his hands along Brynd’s arm, testing the ridges in his triceps. ‘I hate you, and love you. How long can you stay?’

‘Only for the night, and I’ve got to be up early. Then it’s not long until I leave the city again.’

‘I don’t want to know.’ Kym placed a finger to Brynd’s lips, and for a moment Brynd closed his eyes and tasted it.

Brynd parted Kym’s robe, reached out, without really thinking, to feel the warmth of his body, more of a familiar reaction than an intention. He moved his palms very slowly down his lover’s torso.

Kym shuddered. ‘Astrid, your hands are freezing.’

Brynd smiled. ‘Sorry.’ He continued until Kym became hard, then kissed his stomach. ‘I’ve got something a little warmer.’

Brynd fell to his knees, then took Kym in his mouth.

Heading upstairs was something Brynd always enjoyed, as it prolonged the moment and the anticipation. Brynd taking solace in one of these rare moments when he could unbuckle the stresses of his complex, dangerous existence. It would be another one of those special nights in which he engaged solely with Kym.

A soldier, a battle hero, and this was the most dangerous thing Brynd ever did.