A Promise of Iron Brandon McCoy (howl and other poems TXT) 📖

like the cracking of a whip. I saw the man’s face turn to the side.

“But I’m no one’s whore,” Lira spat, her guilty palm poised for another strike. She turned to me. “Faerin, take me home.”

Chapter Nine

Summer 1272, Cyllian Imperial Count

All was quiet on Heart Street, apart from the sound of wind whipping against wooden shutters. The chill night air greeted us as clouds covered the crescent moon; we walked in the comfort of curfew lamps. Lira held to my arm, partly from the cold, though I hoped for something more. I put my arm around her. It was nice to feel her close.

Crylwin shuffled noisily behind. “Ya shoulda just let me fight ‘em, I wouldn’t ‘ave killed him, just make him bleed a little,”

“You’re drunk, Crylwin.” Lira sighed. She made no further argument.

We walked in silence down the street, occasionally looking behind to see if we were being followed. I caught a hint of her perfume as the breeze rushed through us. It was reminiscent of lavender. I breathed it in deeply, welcoming it like an old friend.

I looked back at Crylwin. He had sheathed his sword, but his hand was grasped firmly around the pommel. He made the gesture look easy, casual as if he was just resting his hand. In his other hand, he frequented the contents of a wineskin, though I was reasonably certain wine was not the contents.

“Gods dammit,” he cursed, stumbling over a loose stone.

Lira looked over her shoulder. “You alright back there?”

Crylwin grumbled something unintelligible. As much as a walk alone with Lira would have been preferred, I was grateful he was with us. It was late, and while it wasn’t illegal to be on the street during curfew, his company would discourage any questioning patrols—assuming we kept him upright.

Silence seeped in, soaking through to the bone like the evening chill. It became difficult to break that silence; none of us eager to discuss the events that ended our evening. Forhd was silent; we were silent; it seemed in poor taste to end that. So we walked, every footstep taking us closer to the end of the road.

Lira seemed exceptionally quiet. I’m sure being called a whore was enough to sour a mood. I sensed there was more there, hidden in that place women keep their secrets. I knew better than to probe—we all have secrets to keep.

The last quarter mile to her home was not silent.

“Second-day son, second-day fiddle…” Crylwin brayed. He hummed the next bars. “Something… something… diddle? Ah fuck, what did that kid say… Faerin, what did that red-headed kid… gods, he was…”

“Wasn’t there, pal. You did all your singing before I got there.”

“He ‘ad one of the funniest…” he trailed off, nursing his wineskin again.

As we rounded the final bend, the houses began to change. No longer were they the drab wood-paneled structures typical of Forhd, nor were they the plain square buildings of liquid stone that Cyllian’s built with alacrity; these were larger buildings of white wood and quarried stone. They were spaced considerably farther apart from each other as well, which afforded most with a modest garden or manicured plot of grass.

Lira’s house was at the center of the street; her home was the most impressive. A low stone wall ran around its perimeter, which was double the size of the next largest house. The wall was less a palisade and more a physical examination of the purist messages that flowed from within. We approached the front entrance, which was kept with a garden gate made entirely of pressed metal. It may have been lead or tin, but I couldn’t really tell in the dim. I turned the handle and pushed the gate inward.

Lira gave me a respectful curtsey and walked inside. Crylwin moved to follow, but I raised my hand to him, hoping he had enough sense to let me walk her to the door alone. Despite his state, a few candles remained lit upstairs. He waved me off as he took a step back towards the outer part of the wall.

I placed my hand to the small of her back and gestured her forward. The brick-laid path we walked led directly from the garden gate to the grand doorway. White, stone pillars lined it, interspersed with tall oil lamps bearing the Cyllian six-star. The symbol glowed brightly in the dark, casting shadows in every direction.

I approached the steps that led to the doorway and slowed my walk. She matched my pace and turned to face me. I tried to think of something clever to say, something perfect.

I fidgeted with my hands nervously. “Not exactly the night I expected.”

“But certainly one to remember,” she offered, shifting slightly from one foot to the other. The movement caught my attention.

“My feet hurt,” she said with a frown, answering my unasked question. “It’s been a long night.”

I nodded, then grimaced. Should I have hired a carriage to take her home? Oh, but I was a fool, of course, I should have. She worked all day then walked alone to Turns. She must have walked three miles.

She placed a gentle hand on the front of my chest and watched me with calming eyes. “But I enjoyed our walk.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I watched as lamp light caressed her face and marveled how she could possibly be any more beautiful. She held my gaze. I couldn’t tell if she was blushing. She took another step towards me, her body only inches from my own, and reached up to the stars on my collar.

“You look good in these,” she complimented. “Most men don’t deserve to wear them.”

She moved them between her fingers, her eyes growing contemplative again. “These stars are meant to protect, not oppress.”

I nodded.

Lamplight shown off her eyes like molten copper, like heath embers, friendly and warm, promising a place of refuge from the cold night. They were probing too, piercing as if searching for answers. It was a different look,