Free Reaper Of Sorrows (Book 1) by James A. West

a girdle of small medallions that accentuated her figure to a startling degree.
    “Do you find our entertainment objectionable?” she asked with a hint of smile.
    “Not at all,” Rathe answered gruffly, unsure how he should proceed. Before Lisana, such had never been a question he entertained. Now all had changed. He decided sternness would suffice, but keeping his eyes to himself proved difficult.
    Nesaea casually settled a hand on his arm. He let it stay, drawing the scent of her perfume into his nose. “Perhaps you found my dancing disagreeable?”
    “It was splendid,” Rathe said, trying not to think of the way she had leaped and swayed to the rhythmic thrumming of zither and the beat of tambour. He had never seen the like, even from the dancing girls of Trem.
    Nesaea looked out into the night. “Then why did you leave?” she asked, sounding genuinely interested.
    Rathe took a deep breath and answered honestly. “It was the allure of a beautiful woman that set me on the path of the banished. If I want to live to long enough to see gray in my hair, reforming my character is the wiser choice.” The sentiment was pure, but holding to it was another matter. He felt Nesaea’s pull on his will, and feared he would not be able to resist.
    Nesaea seemed to dismiss his subtle praise of her attractiveness. “So it is true: a set of pretty eyes brought low the Scorpion of the Ghosts of Ahnok,” she mused. “And now he fears all women? I assure you, hearts will break at word of that.”
    “My former commander would say my downfall came from an inner weaknesses, not Lisana. I must agree.” Rathe found Nesaea looking into his eyes. She was taller than he had guessed, barely a hand shorter than him. Her full lips parted in a wide grin, mere inches from his own.
    “I might ask how you recognized me?” he said, knowing full well how she had known his face. Do not wait for an answer. Tell her you need your rest. Flee now, while you still can.
    He did not budge.
    Nesaea looked into his eyes, her own gaze steady. “It’s the rarest hermit who does not know the face and exploits of the Champion of Cerrikoth,” she said. “For everyone else, the Scorpion is a figure of countless legends, many of which my companions have been known to spin, especially for our female audiences.”
    “Did you intend to seduce me this night?” he asked bluntly, and tried to ignore the tingle of arousal he felt at her nearness. Perhaps he did have a weakness for beautiful women, but having fallen as far as a man could, what did it matter now?
    When she laughed, she deftly hooked a hand under his arm, and began caressing his shoulder with the other. “In light of what you said, the art of seduction is wasted, as you have apparently foresworn your ‘inner weaknesses.’ I’d rather know why men of war are so easily charmed by a pair of pretty eyes?”
    Rathe shrugged, his skin heating at her touch. “Carousing can bury the horrors soldiers see and feel on battlefields. What I know for certain is that after a man kills another, he must seek out life and light and joy in order to steal away the taint of death from his soul, before it sinks too deep. Women, more than wine or revelry, provide the only lasting escape to such a man.”
    “Come to my wagon,” she said abruptly.
    Rathe laughed, and it felt good to do so. “You do mean to seduce me!”
    She stood away, favoring him with a flat expression.
    Rathe raised his hands in surrender, not a little disappointed. “Very well, you do not wish to ravish me. But if not, then why invite me to your wagon?”
    Nesaea paused before answering, favoring him with a speculative eye. “So I can give you answers to questions you have not yet asked yourself.”
    Intrigued by her cryptic answer, he walked at her side to a wagon styled after a war galleon of narrow beam. A breeze fluttered azure and saffron pennons hung from the short mainmast, giving the illusion of billowing sails. Webbed shrouds of