“We’ve extended your post with the Easthaven Valiants Corps indefinitely,” Captain Hawke said as he stamped Niamh’s evaluation papers with the official seal. He handed her the sheaf of parchment with a respectful bow.
Only two weeks had passed since she had received Jeron’s and, really, all Tanahr’s gift to her. The mechanized truesteel leg was an invention so wondrous that Jeron had already garnered attention from the Mageguild Academy’s most noted inventors, artificers, and healers. Practical, clean, sleek… there was no doubt the invention was remarkable.
He hadn’t delivered it himself. Just a parcel sent via city post with a note on plain paper telling her what to do if adjustments needed to be made. A simple “Wishing you all good things, Niamh,” was the only personal sentiment included in the sheets of instructions on maintenance and care of her amazing new prosthesis.
It hurt. But her pain nested in a larger, more complicated mass of guilt. Guilt about how she had acted. After all, she had been the one to dash off, overwhelmed and taken aback by his kindness.
Niamh realized Captain Hawke was looking at her, waiting to speak further.
“The Order and I are both grateful for your agreeing to stay. I believe you can do some real good for all of us. Your return has some rules, including a way out if you want it. But you officially are still a Valiant in the pay of the Tanahr militia as long as you need,” Hawke said, more serious than before.
“Thank you,” was all Niamh could offer in reply.
She looked down at the parchment. Her name looped over the top of the document in a scribe’s ostentatious hand, and Hawke’s own signature shone still wet next to a blot of royal blue wax bearing his insignia.
“Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “I hear Eren-Ras has some particularly wicked drills planned for you now that you’re moving with more ease. You should get going so you’re not late.”
“Yes, sir,” Niamh replied, and thudded her hand to her chest in salute.
Every day had been roughly the same these last two weeks. Exercise her body, learn the ways of her new limb, and how it functioned as part of her whole being. Jeron reported now and again to the training grounds at Eren-Ras’s arranging and watched for a time, making any adjustments he thought necessary.
There weren’t many changes to make, and they did not speak at any length after these sessions. Both were busy, and Niamh was now wary—afraid of how quickly she had become attached to Jeron, embarrassed by how she had acted, and still overwhelmed by the sacrifice she knew he’d made for her.
Afraid to say anything to make it better for fear of things becoming worse.
Instead, Niamh focused on healing and regaining her strength. Eren-Ras was an able, if sometimes harsh, trainer. Xereth warriors were not known for their clemency, and Eren-Ras was the best out there–-a deadly sharpshooter, brawler, and swordsman. He did not hesitate to put Niamh through her paces. He was not cruel, but he tested Niamh as far as he safely could.
Every day, Niamh arrived at the training grounds at least a quarter hour early and Eren-Ras waited for her, eyes narrowed in challenge, sharp teeth bared in a dangerous smile. He was confident he would beat her every time. Naturally, Niamh set out to prove him wrong.
On the days Jeron reported for adjustments, he sometimes stayed to watch them spar. He would observe, expression distant, then throw a hesitant wave and smile Niamh’s way before wandering off to do whatever Loremaster Olangah needed from him to prepare for the upcoming mission.
Jeron was friendly enough, though even busier than before, and Niamh stubbornly avoided too much contact. Today, he had not even shown up for her practice drills. Niamh’s chest ached at the thought. Everything felt offright now—her legs too heavy, her movements too slow, her mind addled.
It didn’t help that she was having nightmares again, either. Kraah magic, the color of sickness and rot. Rampaging Mechanae. Pain, death.
That strange voice, humming sweetly out of tune.
“Eyes front and center, princess!” Eren-Ras barked.
A smart rap on her arm snapped Niamh’s attention back to drills. Eren-Ras loomed tall and broad in front of her, his long white hair tied back, bright against purple-gray skin.
“Shall I send an invitation to the dance, Valiant Starsong, or are you going to hit back?” he growled.
“Save your invitation, Enra,” Niamh taunted, using his informal name with her best sneer.
She lunged, launching from her prosthetic foot. With a muffled curse, she drove her practice weapon into Eren-Ras’s side, throwing the man off balance with a brutal hit.
“Never call me princess again.”
“Stop, now,” Eren-Ras huffed through gritted fangs, falling into a guard stance. “If you were Xereth, you’d have bested me. Or if you were taller. Cleared for duty, indeed.”
Niamh backed away, shocked by the violence of her sparring. She neverwent that far when fighting a comrade. Eren-Ras shrugged and wandered over to sit on the nearest hay-bale target.
“I’m sorry.” Niamh followed him, lowering herself onto the bale next to him. “That was too much.”
“No sorries needed. I was out of line. That’s not the issue. What’s reallybothering you?” Eren-Ras cast a sidelong glance at her, silver eyes curious, and handed her a canteen.
Niamh took the water and drank half of it so fast she coughed.
“Rotten mood. No good excuse.”
“Ah.” Eren-Ras snatched the canteen back from Niamh. “I see.” He loosened the neck of his padded hauberk and sat quietly for a moment.
Niamh stretched her legs out in front of her—one flesh and bone with a leather-booted foot, and one made of leymage-forged steel. Both were strong in their own way; both were equally a part of her. She kicked absently at a pebble in the dirt, the rock pinging against her metal toe. Everyone else had gone for the day. The empty practice yard was dusty and bright, and Niamh’s head hurt.
When Eren-Ras looked at Niamh again, his expression was unreadable.
“Your big-and-tall mage friend didn’t show up today, I noticed,” Eren-Ras said, voice neutral.
Niamh leveled a glare at the other soldier but did not reply.
“Struck a nerve, did I?” Eren-Ras persisted, ignoring Niamh’s scowls. “Why are you and he at odds when you are meant to dance under the moon together?”
“Dance under the moon?” Niamh gaped at Eren-Ras, face burning. “We—we’re not—” She could not finish the thought.
Eren-Ras took the bait. “It’s a Xereth saying for those who belong together. I have no plans to argue with you since I value my life. But you and he are so different from those first days.”
“Thank you for your commentary, but absolutely none of this is your concern,” Niamh said stiffly and looked away.
“Your lack of control made it my concern. You’ve been erratic for a couple of sessions now. Figure out how to resolve whatever is going on, Starsong, or your fighting focus will suffer.”
Niamh slumped. “Ugh. I really am sorry, mostly, about trying to beat you up. And, it’s not that easy.”
A low growl rumbled in Eren-Ras’s chest. “It’s always that easy. Let go of whatever you’ve been angry about. Apologize, work towards a way to stop whatever happened from happening again.”
Niamh flashed Eren-Ras a knowing gaze. “And how does that work out for you?”
Eren-Ras huffed out what might have been a chuckle. “It’s objectively good advice.”
Niamh smiled despite herself.
“Do not push away a good friend if you don’t have to, Niamh,” he said, using her first name, his tone serious. “Life is hard enough without distancing yourself from the people who care about you.”
“You’re right,” Niamh finally managed. “Thanks, Enra. That’s good advice, even if I didn’t ask for it.” Niamh shoved him lightly.
“I’ll be sure not to let your compliment go to my head. And speaking of your friend, better late than never,” Eren-Ras said and nodded toward the far side of the practice yard.
Niamh looked up to see Jeron silhouetted against the late afternoon sun, waiting.
“Good luck, bruiser.” Eren-Ras stood and patted Niamh on the shoulder, then strolled off, nodding to Jeron as he left.
—
Jeron felt the weight of Niamh’s gaze as he walked toward her with an outward show of confidence he did not feel.
“Niamh,” he said, bowing his head.
“Jeron.” She echoed his formal bow, her movements stiff.
“Finished for the day already?” Jeron asked, carefully polite.
“We ran late, actually. Third day in a row that’s happened. But yes.”
Jeron did not reply. He watched Niamh reach to swipe a hand over her brow, drawing it away when she realized she still wore hardened leather bracers.
He passed her a clean handkerchief, careful not to touch her fingers. He did not trust how he would react to her warm skin, to the reality of her so close but out of his reach.
“Loremaster Olangah kept me late as well. We’re winding down on preparations. It won’t be long now until the new expedition launches. I’ve been running like a madman, helping complete the prototype armored mage-carts.”
“Yes, Captain Hawke told me about that.” Niamh clenched and unclenched her fists. “Jeron, I’m sorry that I—” Her voice broke. “I’m sorry.”
“What happened, Niamh? I’m here. I want to talk this through, but only if you are ready,” Jeron prompted gently. Niamh’s recent coldness had wounded him, but he needed to understand. Niamh looked away from him, staring down at the glinting, curved truesteel of her prosthetic, its foot-tip buried in sand.
He had been so proud of his invention. So proud of Niamh—she was almost as fast and deadly as before. Maybe more so now that she could drive both a sword and a foot of molded steel into anyone who got too close in combat.
“Come now, Valiant,” he chided softly. “Get out of that dark place in your head and talk to me.”
Niamh’s face went blank, and then she sagged, everything too heavy to bear. “I miss you. I know we’ve not even known each other for long.”
She stopped herself, dabbing her eyes with his handkerchief.
“It all overwhelmed me. I was afraid my attachment to you was forbidden at first. Then worried I’d moved too fast, and that getting attached would be silly when, well. There are things I can’t say, can’t tell you, but I knew we might never see each other again. The biggest reason…” Niamh paused, gazing at him with an intensity that sent chills up and down his spine.
“You healed me, Jeron. I was near death, and you brought me back. I know what that means, even if I didn’t see it at first.”
“I understand that it’s a lot,” he said, his heart wrenching itself from its proper place in his chest to lodge in his throat.
“Why didn’t you tell me, really?” This time, she did not reach up to swipe away the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes.
“I didn’t know how. Seriously. I was afraid of how it would make you feel, afraid you’d carry guilt when it was my choice to make. Besides, you have secrets too. When I healed you, I felt it. We all have secrets.”
“I would never have asked you to do what you did for me,” Niamh shot back, voice sparking for a moment with anger.
“I know. Like all Mageguild sages, I trained to be a healer, and there is a code we must uphold. A duty to protect Tanahr, especially those who serve as guardians at risk of their lives. I would have done it for anyone, but I didn’t even have to think twice for you.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Niamh’s voice was softer than before.
“You don’t have to say anything. I stress again, healing you was my choice, and I do not for a moment regret it, even if you never speak to me again after today,” Jeron said.
“Jeron, I understand. If I were you, I’d have done the same too. I don’t think I could have let you die.”
Jeron couldn’t speak. He stared at her, not bothering to do anything about the tear sliding down his cheek.
“I’m so sorry.” Niamh hiccupped a little sob. “I miss you. I miss you more than seems possible.”
“I miss you, too. Terribly,” he managed, voice wavering.
“What do we do now?” Niamh asked.
“Let’s just be honest. Like we’re doing now. I know you have things you can’t talk about,” Jeron said quietly.
“How do you know? And how could you stand me not telling you about everything in my life?” Niamh asked.
“Because I have eyes and ears, and because we all have things in our lives that we have to bear alone. Do you trust me, Niamh?”
“I–” Niamh started, then nodded firmly. “I have trusted you from the start.”
“Then trust that I’ll always look out for myself and those I love, and I’ll always do the right thing for the safety of Ahra. Even if that thing is healing you at a little cost to me,” Jeron said, holding her gaze.
“And you trust me too?”
“With my life, and the lives of all you protect,” Jeron said and closed the remaining distance between them. “Perhaps let’s not miss each other anymore?” He circled her with his arms. Heat and joy and relief collided as Niamh pressed into him, nuzzling her head against his chest. He tightened his hold, brushing his lips over the top of her head.
“Mmph,” she huffed into his shirt.
“What was that?” Jeron loosened his grip.
“You almost suffocated me,” Niamh said with a breathless chuckle. “You clearly don’t know your own strength, bear wrestler.”
Jeron dropped his arms, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
Niamh cut off any other words he was about to say as she tilted her face up to him, feathering her lips over his in an achingly sweet kiss. He shivered, hot and cold at once, every part of him aware of her nearness, then embraced her, less rib-crackingly tight than before. For long moments, there was nothing but their shared warmth, their beating hearts. The lightly floral scent of her hair, her hands wandering over his back.
When she drew away, Niamh looked him in the eye and smiled widely. Jeron’s face heated, and he grinned like a child in a candy shop.
“Well. Ah, I think we both deserve a break. The Duskcat Inn has the most magical honey-wine and vanilla-frosted cakes. If you are interested, I mean. And it’s great for dancing, if you like that sort of thing.”
Niamh feigned a dramatically pondering expression. “Hmm. Hmmm, let me consider. Captain Hawke told us to fit any leisure in where we can before we slog off to the Northgate again. It would only be following orders. And we all know honey-wine, frosted cakes, and dancing with handsome mages will heal the soul, which is a wise thing before a mission.”
“So that’s a yes?” Jeron tried not to look overly eager. “Wait, you think I’m handsome?”
“It’s a ‘yes’ as long as you don’t mind having that dance with a battle-rumpled Valiant in a sandy tunic,” Niamh laughed. “And stop fishing, you know you’re handsome.”
“You always look ravishing. In fact, your practice-armor is far more fetching than any noblewoman’s silks. And don’t even get me started on you in full militia regalia.”
Niamh snorted. “Now you’re patronizing me.”
“You know that’s not true. I’m allowed to be happy to see you smile, and yes, looking like the Source’s own warrior of light in said practice gear, aren’t I?”
“Maybe.” Niamh grinned. “Now, you can’t mention cakes to a lady then keep her waiting.”
Four hours later, they sat side by side on a cushy divan in the Duskcat Inn as the shadows lengthened, talking and laughing. Jeron abruptly cut off his own story about an unfortunate experiment that had ended in an explosion that scorched both his and Rexi’s eyebrows by sitting up straight, fidgeting awkwardly.
“Niamh, may I give you a gift?”
She nodded shyly.
“It’s a tiny little thing. I made it myself. I already had the components. And it’s not just ornamental.”
Jeron dug in his pocket to retrieve something, then moved close to her and slipped his hand underneath her hair. Niamh went still, breath warm against his neck as he fixed a chain into place, his gift glinting at the base of her throat.
“There. Look now.”
She opened her eyes and gazed down at the simple copper chain, from which hung a perfect miniature compass. She touched it gingerly, its dial swinging beneath a tiny circlet of glass.
“It works!” She gazed up at Jeron, amazed.
“Of course it works. That’s the point, especially with new orders coming up. Plus, I made it.” Jeron laughed, and then fell quiet for a moment. “I promise you, Niamh Starsong, I’m your friend, and as dependable as true north. Please never forget it.”
She glanced up at him, lip quivering.
“I don’t know what to say. Again, apparently.”
“‘Thank you’ works,” he teased. “Now, are you up to walking to my place to do some final calibrations on that new leg of yours?”
“You are a gentleman to ask before calibrating,” Niamh chuckled. “Lead the way!”
Lizzie Sinclaire 