Cimmerian Rage(11)

She would save her words for him.

But when she found him in the first place she looked, inside the palisade, bathing in the hot springs runoff Callaugh collected in deep, stone pools, Ros-Crana had yet to decide which words she’d have with him. Or, at least, in what order.

Standing between two tall ferns of the kind that flourished so well in the damp, sweaty mists, she watched him. He rested in the deepest pool, shoulders barely out of the water and head bowed forward as if asleep. Steam rose all around him, curling up into his lowered face, drifting in thick wisps to saturate that frost ivory hair, matting it down at the sides of his head. Kern’s skin was usually frost white. Under the hot waters, they flushed barely to the edge of pink. But still he looked pale. And unmoving. Like a snow sculpture ready to melt away into the Callaugh springwater.

He bathed alone. His appearance would have hastened any bathers from the pools ahead of him. His solitary nature would have deterred others from joining him.

Most others.

“You are wasting time,” he said. Strong and clear, though he never moved from being bent over the pool.

She stepped from the green foliage, trading their strong mulch scent for the more sulfurous touch of the hot springs. Already she felt beads of moisture tickling in the short hairs behind her temples, her ears. Her tunic stuck uncomfortably to her body.

“I never waste time, Kern Wolf-Eye.”

“You’ve wasted my time. Weeks. A month. And nothing to show for it. More promises and excuses. You sound like a ‘civilized’ man, talking on both sides of a conversation. Tell me what you think, Ros-Crana.”

That she would not do. Neither would she lie. “Civilized” men lied because they could hide behind cheap words and their backward laws. In Cimmeria, Crom listened only to the truth. You were man—or woman— enough to stand up for your words. Or you kept your mouth closed.

Not that she had ever been known for a guarded tongue. Not as war chief, any way. But as chieftain . . . There were many things she must be wary of, and Kern was one of them.

Men were difficult beasts in the best of times, she reminded herself. Other times, they were simply beasts. Of course, people said that often about the wolf-eyed one. That he was more beast than man, like the Ymirish. And the monster Grimnir. But she did not believe that. She’d seem Kern bleed. Fight, and kill. And fall.

She walked around the edge of the pool, standing across only a short reach of steaming waters. “I can tell you what I am, Kern. I am not your enemy.”

This got his attention. Finally. He raised his face away from the steam and caught her in that blazing, lupine gaze. “You stand against Grimnir, or you stand with him. There is no other way with me.”

For an instant, Ros-Crana feared, as Kern let slip his own guard and showed her a measure of the rage simmering so close to his placid, cold surface. Her bodyguards had taken up a station at the gates, waiting for her. She could bring them with a shout if needed.

But Ros-Crana knew how to take care of herself. She did not back away from a fight.

“Is that what you will challenge me with at my own council?” she asked.

He did not answer. Sitting back, he stared. Challenging her there.

She laid her spear on the ground and folded arms across her chest. Unafraid. Then, before she challenged her own decision, she unclasped her cloak and dropped it into an untidy pile around her feat. Her tunic was harder to strip away, already clinging as the steaming water soaked it down, but her kilt and damp shift were simple enough. Modesty was not a large issue among most clans, where kin and kine often shared close quarters, and community bathing, on warmer days, was normal. And standing clothed in the baths, sticky and uncomfortable while trying to impress upon a naked man her authority as chieftain . . . it felt too awkward.

She would meet him on his own terms, then.

A cask sat on softer ground nearby, always filled with fresh rainwater. Ros-Crana stepped over toward it, picked up a ladle, and dippered a large bowl of water from the reservoir, pouring it over her head in a brisk, cleansing sluice. A second wash, for the sweat and grime of the day. And a third time for nothing more than the pleasant tightness it raised over her skin.

It was then she noticed the bloody, broken spear Kern had taken back from her. Driven point down into the soft earth next to the cask. It was there, for her to mention or take. She did neither.

She moved to the pool and slid into the hot waters with hardly a problem, directly across from him, finding a seat on one of the submerged stone benches.

He nodded. Brought up a handful of water and scrubbed it over his face, letting his weeks of travel and hard fighting seep from every pore. She watched him, and moved closer. Determined to know his mind and mettle once and for all.