Kursak blew a stream of smoke past the pipestem clamped between his teeth before passing the pipe to Malachus. “I thought you planned to travel west.”
“I do, but I’m not looking forward to a solitary ride through days of a downpour without any shelter. And I can use more time with teaching Halani to read.” And bask in her company. And wrap my hands in her hair. And kiss her until neither of us can remember what it is to breathe separate from each other.
“Have you said anything to her about staying longer?”
Malachus shook his head. “No. I wanted to speak with you first. You’re the wagon master.” He tucked the pipestem in the corner of his mouth, letting the pipe smoke swirl across his tongue as he breathed.
An amused chuff greeted his statement. Kursak accepted the pipe back. “Don’t let that title fool you. Halani has almost as much say over what happens in this caravan as Hamod. I know you’re teaching her to read so she can teach the rest of us who want to learn. Bring in supper from a few hunts, pay a little rent, and I’ll consider it a fair exchange.”
Kursak’s easy agreement surprised him. Malachus had expected more reluctance and been prepared to present an even better offer.
When he told Halani his change of plans, her wide smile rounded her cheeks so hard, she squinted.
“I’m glad you decided to stay longer. I’d have worried for you traveling alone in this weather.”
Later that evening, with the rain still falling and people huddled in their wagons to have their suppers, she invited him to hers. “Have supper with me.”
“Do you have enough to share?” He’d happily watch her eat as his stomach growled in protest just for the chance to spend time alone with her.
She waved away his concerns. “There’s plenty. Maybe we can read afterward?”
He dashed from his wagon to hers, wedging himself into the shallow overhang of the arched weatherboard above her door. Halani handed him a large towel to dry off and tucked his muddy boots and one of his satchels into a corner close to the door where she stored her own mud-caked footwear. Barefoot and mostly dry, he joined her in the main part of the wagon, where the carpets underfoot were warm and the spicy scent of hot tea and hot food cooking on her brazier filled his nostrils. There were palaces in wealthy kingdoms that would never feel so grand or welcoming as this small free trader wagon.
“Leave the door open, please,” she said. “So the smoke has a way out and it doesn’t get too warm in here.”
Malachus did as she requested, pausing to stare into the rain-washed night and listen to the roll of thunder. “I think it’s coming down even harder now.” He joined her where she sat on the floor tending the brazier and her pots.
She poured tea, adding a dollop of honey to each of the cups before passing one cup to him. “Hopefully it won’t last long and we don’t get any lightning strikes. The last big storm we had, we lost two ewes to a bolt.”
“The roads will be hard to roll a wagon over if it gets too muddy.” Free trader wagons were homes on wheels, built high off the ground and heavier than the standard transport. Malachus blew on his tea to cool it before he drank. “Has Kursak said anything about waiting until the rains move through?”
Halani sipped from her teacup before setting it aside to serve up plates of boiled grains topped with bits of mutton and gravy. Malachus’s mouth watered. She might not have Marata’s skill, but what she served him made his stomach snarl in anticipation, and both he and Halani laughed at the sound.
She handed him a spoon. “Enjoy.” She answered his question while she served her own plate. “The main road back to the Empire territories is decent for travel even in a hard rain, but this much over several days will turn it muddy. With enough travelers on it, it’ll become a quagmire in no time. Kursak will want to avoid that and be one of the first groups to leave.”
While they shared supper and tea and discussed topics involving the camp and the weather, an awkwardness grew between them. Malachus knew the source from which it stemmed. The memory of the kiss hovered like a ghost in the confines of her wagon, burning hotter than the brazier. She’d invited him into her home, but for a meal, not a swiving. As much as he might wish for a repeat of the kiss they had shared, he wouldn’t assume anything. She’d asked him to supper. He was here for nothing more.
Except to give a gift.
He rose and padded to the spot where he’d laid the damp satchel next to his boots. His riding satchels were oil-tanned and easily sloughed off the rain. Inside, the book was dry, as were the quills and ink bottle. He presented them to her, first the ink and quills and then the wrapped book. “For you, so you may continue practicing and teaching others when I leave.”
Halani rose to her knees, cupping the ink bottle so she could hold it up to a lamp and peer at the purplish liquid inside as if it were a magical elixir. She then ran the quill over her knuckles and pressed her finger against the sharpened tip. Finally, she unwrapped the book, her gasp loud when she folded the last bit of cloth aside to reveal the journal she’d coveted at the bookseller’s stall. Her gaze flickered back and forth between him and the journal as if she couldn’t quite believe either was real. “Why?” she asked, the one word swelled with a hundred questions.
Because it pleases you, he wanted to say. Instead, he said, “To help with your lessons. On days like these, when you can’t draw your letters in the dirt, you can still practice them. And I’ll teach you how to make more ink if you don’t already know. If you can brew an elixir, you can make ink. It’s easy.”
Eyes shining with delight, Halani hugged the book to her breasts. “Thank you, Malachus.” She knee-walked to him and set the book aside to embrace him.
He gathered her close, nestling his face into her pinned hair, wishing it was loose so he could wrap the thick mass of ringlets around him. “It’s a small thing,” he whispered near her ear. “Certainly compared to what you’ve done for me.”
She leaned away from him with a frown. “Not a small thing at all. The value isn’t in the leather or the parchment but in the sentiment behind the gift. You haven’t known me long, and yet I think you know me best.”
Her words echoed Seydom’s prophetic ones, trapping Malachus between elation and regret. He teetered on the edge of temptation, almost succumbing to the allure of Halani’s mouth as she settled into his arms and once more turned her face up to his. The memory of fire dancing over his hand and the draga awakening was the only thing that stopped him.
He cupped her face in his hands, offering a truth he hoped wouldn’t offend her and might serve as an explanation for his refusal of her advances. “There’s a danger to both of us here, Halani, some of it for reasons over which I have no control. Were it otherwise, I’d kiss you again, and I wouldn’t stop with just your mouth.” He shuddered, pushing away the evocative images his own words created in his mind. “I think it’s time I bid you good night.”
Halani stared at him without speaking for the longest time, and Malachus thought he might barter his soul to her if she revealed just one of the thoughts hiding behind those rain-cloud eyes of hers. She turned her head a fraction to nestle her cheek hard into his palm, never breaking her stare. “I trust you,” she said, and with those words nearly shattered every restraint he’d clamped onto his lust.
He closed his eyes for a moment and prayed for fortitude. He rose and helped her stand as well. “I enjoyed supper. I’d extend the same invitation but I’m not much of a cook, nor do I have a brazier.” And soon I will lose my reason if I don’t leave.
“You’re welcome to eat supper with me each night,” she said. “We can read afterward if you wish.”
“I’d like that.”
Before he left, he allowed himself the pleasure of kissing her hand. “Tomorrow, then,” he said. “We’ll read after supper.” Maybe then he’d have better control of his desires.
“Thank you again for the book.” She cradled the journal in her arms as if it were a beloved infant. “It’s a gift beyond price.”
Back in his dreary wagon, with the dismal flicker of a single lamp to light the interior, Malachus recalled her farewell. “One day, Halani,” he told the silence, “a very fortunate man will say the same about you.” Whoever that man was, Malachus would loathe him to the end of his days.
The following day was even more miserable. Kursak ordered the wagons hitched and ready. The temporary corrals and pens were taken down, the sheep herded into a tight group by darting dogs. Oxen lowed in their traces and were joined by the mules, who brayed their objections to the weather.
Malachus tied Batraza to the back of the last wagon and joined the free traders who walked beside the slow-trundling vehicles. As Halani had feared, the rain hadn’t slowed and the trade road had become a mud pit. Several times, a driver whistled for aid, and a team of six or more put their backs and shoulders into lifting a back wheel out of the sucking mud.
By the time they made it to a stretch of firmer ground, exhaustion had claimed most of them. Malachus stared down at himself, slathered in mud so thick, even the pouring rain didn’t wash all of it off. His wounds ached, especially the one in his side. No doubt Halani would demand a look at them later and probably snarl at him for not being more careful.
He stood next to Kursak and Seydom, who leaned against one of the wagon’s sides to rest. “Maybe we should check the road farther up to see what’s waiting for us.”
Kursak grunted, too tired to even turn his head. “Good idea. Find a rider.”
Happy to be on horseback instead of sprayed with mud from a stuck wagon wheel, Malachus volunteered. “I can ride ahead and let you know.”
He didn’t bother with a saddle or bridle and rode Batraza bareback parallel to the caravan line, using his knees and heels to guide her. He nodded to Halani, seated on the driver’s perch of her wagon next to the caravan’s farrier.