Looking for You Read online

  Symaia… would he be happy to see Omar? How well would he remember him? Would Omar look a perfect fool for remembering a man so much better than that man remembered him? But no, Symaia had talked about him to Astira, and shown her a painting… but what painting? "You said you knew me from a painting. I never sat for any painting."

  Astira turned her head toward him, and in the distant flames he could just see the outline of her face, making her seem like the fading wisps of a bittersweet dream. "Symaia painted it."

  "He never told me he painted."

  "To my knowledge, he didn't when he lived in Morentia. It's something he started doing after he moved to Cormiana. When I first met him, he didn't even do portraits. But yours was one of the first he did. It hangs in his bedroom." Her voice softened. "He loves to talk about you. I thought for a long time that you were a former lover."

  Omar tried to swallow the rock that was suddenly lodged in his throat. "No, we were good friends, but never… never lovers."

  "I see."

  He was terribly afraid she did. "I-I have no intention of causing trouble, my lady. I wish only to rescue and protect him—protect you both."

  To his astonishment, she leaned in close and pressed a soft kiss to his cheekbone. "I believe you."

  There was something in her voice that scraped along the back of his neck and tingled down his spine to pool in his gut. Something that left him aching and breathless. But before he could find his voice, she had turned over and gone still.

  Letting out a shuddering breath, Omar did the same.

  *~*~*

  It was snowing heavily when they woke. The fire had long gone out, and his horse was making cranky noises despite the fact she was bred for hard weather and perfectly fine in her blanket. Spoiled beast. Omar groaned and sat up. Shaking off his boots, he checked them for intruders, then pulled them on and laced them up. Then he went to deal with the fire.

  By the time he had coffee going, Astira was making discontented noises of her own. "Please tell me it's not snowing."

  Omar chuckled and didn't comment, simply went to tend the horses. When he returned to the fire, Astira handed him a cup of coffee and settled on the ground, sitting on her cloak, to sip at her own. She reminded him of Symaia, who'd never been much of a morning person either. More times than Omar could recall, he'd forgotten that fact and Symaia had yelled at him to stop talking or prepare to die young.

  When he'd finished his first cup of coffee and felt reasonably warm, he set about making breakfast. It wasn't much, as he preferred to pack light and hadn't anticipated company—though in retrospect he really should have. But he made the best he could with the dried meat, dried dates, and cheese he'd brought.

  "Here," Astira said, rifling through one of her own bags. She pulled out a tin, took out a piece of something inside and passed the tin over. She then took the food he held out, poured them more coffee, and set to eating ravenously.

  Omar took a slice of the strange… cake or bread or whatever it was. It was dense, with an odd texture, and seemed to be packed with nuts and fruits. And every part of it seemed to be soaked in brandy or something similar. "What is this?"

  "Fruitcake." Astira beamed. "I made it myself—well, me and several other women. It's a winter tradition in Cormiana for women to get together and bake it. You soak the fruit in brandy months ahead of time, and the whole cake is soaked in brandy immediately after cooking and kept in brandy-soaked linens. It can last for months, even years, though it's always finished before that theory is tested. But it's good in cold weather because it has a lot in it, keeps your strength up." She winked. "A bit of brandy doesn't hurt either."

  "No, it certainly doesn't." Omar smiled and bit into it. "This is delicious. I'm amazed it lasts months, rather than days."

  "We make lots of it," Astira said with a laugh, her cheeks flushing.

  Omar wished he could kiss her, just to express his admiration and thanks. But it would be impertinent, and far too easy to continue kissing her for other reasons, and he was not so despicable a person. Even if she'd kissed his cheek last night, and he swore he could still feel it whenever she smiled.

  He ate his food quickly, then lingered a bit over his slice of the fruitcake. When it was gone, they cleaned up the campsite and headed out. The weather did not improve as they traveled, and more than once they were forced to stop until the snow eased enough they could continue on.

  They had just resigned themselves to sleeping in the saddle when the wind cleared the snow enough he spied a building of some sort. Signaling to Astira, he trudged toward it—and in the rapidly fading light, saw it was a dilapidated stable.

  Forcing himself to hasten the last few steps, he dismounted, kicked open the ragged door, and led the way inside.

  "Thank the Goddess!" Astira burst out, throwing off her hood and quickly setting to work on her horse. "I'll tend the horses if you'll get something ready for us. I could eat this horse if I did not love her so much, I vow."

  Omar chuckled as he handed over his horse, removed the saddlebags and bundle of wood he'd gathered whenever they stopped, and set to work. In short order, the horses were tended, a fire was going, and he had a reasonable approximation of camp soup simmering, made from some of the dried meat and vegetables he carried. And spices. He always carried a small tin of spices to ward off the general blandness of most travel food. They drank spiced tea and nibbled on fruitcake while they waited.

  "Even for me, this has been a miserable day," Astira said. "The snow is not usually so relentless this time of year."

  "Well, it works to our favor, I should think." When she gave him a baffled look, Omar said, "If we are having trouble traveling, then so are the kidnappers. Smart kidnappers do not stay in one place too long. They move around, staying close to where the exchange will take place, but never long enough anyone can find them. But in this weather, that is not possible to safely do. So they will be holed up somewhere rather than risk Symaia escaping or coming to harm. So all we have to do is find them. Easier said than done, but much easier than it would have been otherwise."

  "I hope we find him," Astira whispered.

  Omar reached out and wrapped her free hand in his, smiling faintly at the sticky remains of brandy-soaked cake. "We will, I promise. It is my duty, and more importantly he is my friend."

  She smiled and squeezed his hand. "I really do appreciate you would do so much for someone you have not seen for years, especially after his hysterical betrothed practically attacked you."

  "You were not hysterical, and if that was you attacking me, you are welcome to do so any—" Omar broke off and dropped her hand. "My apologies, that was inappropriate."

  Astira stared at him, blinked slowly. "A bit of harmless, playful flirting is inappropriate? Why? I hardly took offense. I bet you get all sorts of people into your bed, flirting like that, especially with your smiles."

  Omar's chest tightened. The only people he ever enjoyed in bed were those he paid for their time, and it was never his bed they were in. People thought bloodgivers were either old-fashioned and pointless, or were like Ahmla, when Ahmla was one of the lucky few—and much of that luck had to do with being born into nobility.

  Nobody cared, if they knew at all, that the lives of most bloodgivers were lonely. His career thus far had included protecting a man who treated him like expensive furniture purchased to show his status, and a man who might have respected him, but was often lost in his own world and left Omar to his own devices. Neither assignment had left him time for making friends; they had certainly not befriended him. If he did not have time to find and keep friends, he certainly had no time for a lover. Not that anyone was eager to become the lover of a lackluster bloodgiver.

  "That is kind of you to say," he finally managed. "I do not think anyone has ever mentioned my smiles before."

  "Well, that's stupid of them. Symaia's painting captured it perfectly." She reached out with her still-sticky hand and lightly touched her fingertips to his cheek. Her t
ouch was soft against the scruff of his face that he hadn't shaved for several days. Soon, he'd have a proper beard, which Omar hated. "You're even more handsome in person. It really was quite the shock to walk into that yard and see you, almost like you'd stepped right out of his painting."

  Omar frowned. "I doubt I resemble it that much, given all the years that have passed. It's been nearly a decade."

  "You haven't changed that much—only refined with age. And of course, the portrait has a good deal less snow and beard." She winked and finished the last bites of her fruitcake.

  Omar checked on the soup and filled their cups when it proved to be ready.

  He'd started on his second cup when the presence at his side grew significantly heavier. Omar turned his head and saw that Astira had fallen asleep on his shoulder, the remains of her soup not quite spilling out of the cup barely held in her slackened grip. Gently removing it, Omar slowly lowered her to the floor, smiling as she grumbled in her sleep.

  Then he hastily finished his soup and quietly cleaned up. Getting out their bedding, he readied that and shifted her to it, removing her boots and cloak before getting her beneath the blankets. He spread both their cloaks as additional blankets, tended the fire, then readied for bed and slid in next to her.

  She grumbled in her sleep again and shifted closer, draping an arm around his waist and snuggling into his chest. "You're so warm…"

  Omar swallowed, eyes stinging. The hardest part of this journey was not going to be the atrocious weather, the bandits, the kidnappers, or the looming threat of the war they were trying to win. It wasn't even going to be seeing Symaia again, when his heart still ached that Symaia had never, would never, love him back.

  No, the hardest part of this damnable journey was going to be the compelling woman beside him, who seemed completely oblivious to how enthralling she was. It was far too easy to see why Symaia had fallen in love with her, and what a magnificent duchess she would soon be.

  The hardest part of his journey would be not walking right into another broken heart.

  Chapter Three

  "Oh, thank the Goddess, civilization at last. I could cry. I would sell everything I own, and possibly sexual services, for a bath and proper meal." Omar cast her a look, but Astira only laughed. "I think if someone said they'd give you a hearty stew and good beer right now, and a warm, clean bed, you'd gladly give the blowjob they demanded in compensation."

  Omar lifted his eyes to the sky. After two weeks of traveling with her, the crude jokes had ceased to shock. "It's a wonder to me you're a diplomat."

  Astira scoffed. "You have clearly never been to a royal ball. I promise you, I am mild. Prince Davide of Ashtan was so drunk at the end of year ball last year he grabbed my breasts and called me 'you naughty minx' with Symaia not five paces away. That's not even the worst that's happened to me over the years."

  "Did Symaia separate his hands from his wrists?"

  "Very nearly. I only talked him out of it by reminding him it would be hard to marry him if he was in jail or missing his head," Astira replied. "I thought that was simply his turn of phrase, but you've said it too, now."

  "It's the punishment for sexual assault. Usually one hand, but some have lost both. Unless they are guilty of rape, in which case it is the head which is removed. This Prince Davide should count himself lucky he was not in Morentia when he committed such a crime. He is even more fortunate that Symaia did not have a lifesworn at the time, since they would have been well within their rights to punish the crime immediately."

  "That would definitely have added a great deal of tension to Ashtan's relationships with Cormiana and Remnien."

  "I should hope so," Omar replied.

  Astira shook her head, mouth quirked faintly. "Shall we go see if we can achieve our heart's desire through less dramatic means?"

  "If you insist, my lady." Omar swept her as much of a bow as he could manage from atop a horse and followed as she laughed and urged her horse forward.

  Thankfully, it took only an hour's work and a few coins to secure a good quality room, hot meals, and baths. Also a mercy, the baths were not brought to the room; there were proper bathhouses, divided between men, women, neutral/mixed, and family.

  Smaller villages would not have so many options—at most they had two, for adults only and family—but this was a busy town, nearly a city, as it was a popular waypoint for all manner of travelers.

  Omar settled into his bath with a groan, doubly grateful it was presently empty. That wouldn't last, but he'd appreciate it while it did. As much as he enjoyed Astira's company, it was a relief to be away from her for a short time, like finding relief from a blazing sun in cool shadow.

  He ran a hand through his hair and down his finally-smooth face. Tonight, they would rest and recuperate from five hard weeks of travel. Tomorrow his work would finally begin.

  Though he could have stayed in the wonderfully hot water forever, he heaved himself out and toweled off. He didn't have any clothes that didn't smell like five weeks' worth of sweat and grime, but the inn had provided clean clothes that were fairly close in size for very little money and taken his own to clean for even less. Not that money was a concern; the crown had given him a generous purse for this mission and would reimburse for anything that went over it.

  When he returned to the room, Astira was already there, wearing a beautiful and entirely too clingy wool dress, her hair pulled into a simple but elegant knot. Wispy strands were already escaping, brushing her cheeks and nearly glowing in the firelight. She was drinking what smelled like mulled wine, so dark it stained her lips a purplish red. "Do you feel as refreshed as you look?"

  "Yes. Is there enough of that wine for two?"

  She grinned. "Of course. I never indulge in pleasures I'm not willing to share."

  Omar focused on pouring himself some wine, afraid of what he'd give away if he looked at her just then. The wine was delicious, sweetened just the right amount, the spices fragrant and abundant. "You picked a fine inn."

  "I've stopped here several times on one journey or another; they've never disappointed." Refilling both their cups, though Omar had only drunk about a third of his, she said, "So do we start looking for the kidnappers tonight?"

  "I start looking for the kidnappers tomorrow. You are going to stay here where it's safe—and I am not belittling you or underestimating you, my lady. It's only that I am going to be visiting dangerous people, and it will be safer for both of us if the only person I have to watch out for is myself."

  Astira sighed. "I understand. Is there anything I can do to help? I hate to sit here useless while you are putting yourself in danger—and don't say it's your job or duty or whatever. Just because you are paid to endanger yourself does not mean I have to like it. Symaia wouldn't like it either; he always worried about you."

  "That's ridiculous," Omar said, and was thankfully spared saying or hearing anything further by a knock at the door. He called for them to enter, one hand reflexively going for the dagger he'd set on the table, and relaxed as it proved to be only a servant with food.

  It was nothing like the food from home, but it was good. A thick, hearty stew made with venison and loads of vegetables; dark, nutty bread and something Astira called apple butter; and more of the mulled wine. There was also something sort of like the hand pies he bought at the market on occasion, but sweet. They were stuffed with apples, flavored with cinnamon and dark sugar, and served as individual portions in small ceramic pots. He could have eaten fifty of them, easily.

  "So you like apple cobbler, I see," Astira said with a laugh.

  "Is that what it is?" Omar asked as he used the last of the crust to mop up the remaining juice and bits of apple. "It's delicious."

  "My cook makes a version where the apples are soaked in brandy for a bit, and there's a brandy cream sauce that's poured on top at serving."

  Omar laughed and shook his head. "You people have a love of drowning everything in alcohol."

  "It gets us throu
gh the cold season."

  "And the other seasons?"

  Astira winked. "Gets us ready for the cold season."

  Omar laughed again. He could not remember the last time he had laughed so much. Gods, he hoped he got to stay as their lifesworn. It would break his heart in many ways, but in so many others they would heal him. He would give anything not to return to the lonely existence he'd been enduring. "I suppose I shall have to get used to it; certainly I've gotten used to much, much worse."

  "Are you really going to stay with us?"

  "If Symaia accepts me as his protector."

  Astira frowned. "That doesn't seem fair. I mean, I know you two are friends, but… what about your life? Any goals or dreams you have? Don't you get a choice? It doesn't seem fair you live a life where all your choices are taken away. It's little better than slavery."

  Omar looked at her in surprise. "Slavery? No, not at all. I made the choice the day I accepted the offer to train as a lifesworn. Unlike so many, who are born into their position or trade, we do choose. It is an honor to be trusted with the life of another—to be their protector, advisor, their confidant and closest friend. At least, that is how it should be. Life rarely matches the ideal." Though it certainly had for Ahmla, and some days it was hard not to hate him a tiny bit for it, even if Omar knew that wasn't fair. Ahmla deserved every single bit of happiness and success he'd earned. "I do not know how to describe it in a way you might understand. It's… a calling, of sorts, for many of us. We do not do this for the money or security, as so many jobs provide. Those that do quickly find themselves unhappy and choose to retire. It is not unlike the choice that most priests and parents and spouses make. Some of them have little choice, certainly, but most choose to do those things and who they do them with, knowing full well it is for life. Do you think yourself going into slavery for choosing to marry Symaia? Nor do I think I am being forced in being told to protect him."

  "I think I do, finally, understand now. I am sorry for my careless assumptions and words."