His protective instincts were in hyperdrive. Every last one snarled at her plan to go among so many others, but he clamped down on his reaction and examined her reasoning. It was sound. Of course it was. Fuck. He let his tension out in an almost inaudible growl, and she glanced over her shoulder at him. She looked wry, apologetic and determined. He gave her a short nod, his mouth tight. She took a deep breath, turned away and went to talk with her troops.
They were huddled in a miserable tight clump around their campfire. They looked up as Niniane and Tiago approached. He had managed to get himself under better control and schooled his expression to impassivity by the time they grew close. He gave each of the ten soldiers a sharp, quick assessment. Their scents were stressed, and they looked shocked and grieving. A couple wiped surreptitiously at their faces as they all rose to their feet.
Niniane said, “Arethusa’s death is an unimaginable loss, and others are doing what needs to be done. For now I came to share her memory with you, and to tell you how proud she was of each and every one of you.”
She said other things, his faerie, and they were all the right and meaningful things one would say to people who were grieving, but she didn’t really have to. If he knew how to do one thing well, it was how to read soldiers. With those first two sentences, those troops were hers, heart and soul.
Someone brought Niniane a stool, and they stayed with the group and talked about Arethusa until the sky lightened with the first pale streaks of dawn. Niniane made arrangements for the captain to take command until they reached Adriyel proper, where a more permanent arrangement would be made to appoint a new Dark Fae Commander. The captain’s name was Durin, and he was a competent male with a respectful manner.
At last Niniane stood, and of course everyone else stood as well. She was just offering a last few words of encouragement to them when one of the troops sidled unobtrusively to stand behind Tiago. It was the slight, quiet male named Hefeydd, the one responsible for tending the draft horses that hauled the supply wagons.
Tiago was aware, of course. He was aware of everything that happened in the vicinity, aware of every thoughtless gesture, every hand that was raised, every sudden movement. He waited, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet.
A diffident voice spoke in his head. Sir.
Yes? he said. His mental voice was calm. He flexed the fingers of his sword hand.
Commander Arethusa gave me something that I was to give it to you if, well, if something were to happen—No, sir, please don’t turn around! I th-thought you might not mind if I just slipped it into your hand?
Yeah, like that was going to happen, he almost snarled, but then he stopped himself. Hefeydd had been one of the ones with reddened eyes who lingered at the edge of the campfire’s light. The soldier hadn’t added verbally to Arethusa’s impromptu wake, but Tiago had taken note of the grief in the Dark Fae male’s gentle face.
Tiago sighed, put a hand at the small of his back and opened his fingers.
A flat leather-wrapped package slid gently against his palm. Even as his fingers closed around it, he sensed Hefeydd moving away.
Tiago tucked the package under his arm as Niniane turned to him at last. If she had looked tired before, now she looked utterly drained, her small face white with exhaustion. He throttled the impulse to scoop her into his arms and carry her away. They had to take such care when they were under others’ scrutiny. He mustn’t do anything that would make her look weak or less than capable in the eyes of her people.
She came over to him, and he had to content himself with putting a gentle supportive hand at her back. He shortened his stride to match hers as they picked their way through the shadowed encampment.
Back at Niniane’s tent, Cameron still kept watch. Tiago’s sharp gaze ran over the human woman’s figure. Cameron looked tired but alert, her tall, slim figure held erect. He raised his eyebrows at her and she gave him a nod. She said to them, “I made coffee, if you want some.”
Niniane shook her head, wordless. He held the tent flap for her as he said to Cameron, “I’ll take a cup.”
He followed Niniane, who came to a halt in the tent’s sitting area. The brazier contained fresh coals, which warmed the area, and the lamps were lit. He dropped the leather package by one of the wooden chairs. Niniane turned to him. He pulled her into his arms and knew a fierce sense of relief as her small body nestled against his.
She buried her face in his chest. He stroked her silken black hair. “I am so proud of you,” he told her.
“Don’t be nice to me,” she said, muffled against him. “Or I might bawl like a baby.”
He cupped the back of her head with a protective hand. “You go ahead and cry if you need to,” he whispered.
The tent flap rose and Cameron stepped in, carrying a metal cup full of steaming hot coffee. She hesitated when she saw them but then stepped forward to set the coffee by the nearest chair before turning to go.
Niniane lifted her head. “Do we know anything yet?”