by Dana Marton
And then his searching lips found them, one after the other, and gifted them with the pleasure they sought. His hands moved lower to caress my belly once again and then the hollow of my hips as he tugged my thudi lower. As if in a dream, I felt him remove my last piece of clothing while I floated toward some mysterious delight.
When he moved over me and brought his lips back to mine, I clung to them with need and glided my hands over his well-muscled back. But then I felt his manpart hot and hard between my thighs, and I froze.
All I could think of was the guard by the creek at the House of Tahar, the way he had thrown me to the ground and tore my clothes away, how his rough fingers had dug into my flesh as he forced my knees apart, his foul breath on my face, his friends cheering him on, impatient for their turn.
The memory stole the air from my lungs, and the need to escape came upon me so strong, I shoved against Batumar and scampered off the cot, to the farthest end of the tent. I sat on the furs that covered the ground, my arms folded around my knees, my heart racing as I stared into the night, its cold touch sprinkling my naked skin with goose bumps.
I waited for Batumar to shout at me or worse. Tahar would have had any woman who refused to do her duty beaten to death.
“Has anyone harmed you?” Batumar’s voice, soft and gentle, came from the darkness.
I swallowed, tears welling in my eyes suddenly. “Nay, my Lord. The spirits saved me from the worst. But the memory is a weakness within me.”
His voice reminded me that it was he with me and no other, and I felt foolish for the way I had behaved. He rose from the cot. If he came to me, I would not have flinched away again. But instead, I heard the rustle of clothes as he dressed. He went to the opening of the tent.
“Go back to bed, Tera. I need to check the sentries.”
After he left, I returned to his cot, dressed, and pulled the blanket of pelts over me. I felt cold and alone.
Batumar had not returned by the time I woke in the morning. I put the thick robe over my clothes, then went to the gate, for I wanted to be there when Lord Gilrem and the Guardian returned. I tried not to think of them appearing somber with rejection but pictured them joyous with good news.
I spent the morning waiting, catching a glimpse of Batumar now and then as he walked among his warriors and talked with them. Although he looked in my direction once or twice, he did not come over to see me. And I did not go to him, ashamed of my cowardice the night before.
I was eating my midday meal by the gate, drawn by its strange stark beauty, when the Guardian of the Gate rose from the rock where he had been sitting and scratched three swirling symbols in the dirt with his staff. And soon the air within the circle began to shimmer, and I saw the dim outlines of the two men before the detail filled in. All wrong—they were lying down. Bloodied.
I rushed to them, several warriors behind me. They lifted Lord Gilrem and the Guardian of the Scrolls and carried them into one of the larger tents, laid them on cots, then parted so I could work my healing.
Lord Gilrem lay still, his clothing torn in many places, his face and hands covered with wounds of torture. I set my hands upon him, searching for the pulse of life in his blood. I found nothing. I laid my ear on his chest, hoping to hear at least a faint heartbeat. Not there. I cried out in anguish then, for I knew his spirit had already departed.
A low sound from Batumar drew my gaze as he entered the tent. He fell to his knees next to his brother, his face dark as death itself.
The Guardian of the Scrolls groaned, and I moved quickly to him, happy for that small sign of life. But as I sent my spirit into him to heal his wounds, I found little of his life force left, and even that resisted.
“Grandfather,” I pleaded. “We need you; stay with us.”
He opened his eyes and reached for my hand. He said nothing, but from the way he looked at me, I knew he had already made up his mind. Suddenly, his life force welled up and poured into me as his hand fell away from mine.
The rush of blood in my ears made me deaf, and soon I could no longer see the tent or anyone in it. A great white light—blinding as grief—and then nothing.
I woke alone in Batumar’s tent in the middle of the night, my head still buzzing, my soul aching with grief. I squeezed my eyes shut as I thought of the Guardian and Lord Gilrem. I waited, but the great pain in my heart would not abate, so I rose from the cot and gathered my robe around me.
I walked outside and found the tent where the bodies had been laid. And there I found many of Lord Gilrem’s men and the Guardian of the Gate. The Guardian sat on a stool in front of the body of the Guardian of the Scrolls, his face buried in his wrinkled hands.
I went to stand behind him. “I am sorry,” I said. “If I had known—”
But he lifted his head and shook it, then whispered under his breath. “He wished to go. He died in the service of peace. None can wish for a more noble death than that.”
We bowed our heads and offered our prayers to the spirits. Some time passed before I broke the silence.
“Where is the High Lord?” I was surprised not to see him by his brother’s side.
“Preparing to go to Mernor,” the Guardian told me. “As Lord Gilrem did not die in battle but was murdered, his body cannot be laid to rest until his death is avenged. Such is the way of the Kadar.”
I stared at him, disbelieving. How could any people think that the pain of one death could be healed by causing another? And what of Batumar? Did he value his own life so little that he would risk it so? Did he not know he was going to his own demise?
I stumbled out of the tent and wandered around in search of him. No stars shone above and no moons, the sky covered with dark clouds. I felt lost in the city of tents, tripping on roots, supplies, weapons. My bones filled with cold by the time I returned to the High Lord’s tent.
Batumar stood alone in the middle of the darkness. “I was about to come look for you.”
The clouds must have been moving, as moonlight shone through the smoke hole suddenly, and I could at last see his face. His features were riddled with guilt. I knew the feeling well, for it squeezed my chest with every breath. Did he blame himself for the death of his brother and the Guardian?
If so, then no more than I. And I had better reason for it. “I wanted the treaty. I should have gone. I am the one who should have died.”
He stepped toward me.
“You must not leave,” I whispered.
“It is a question of honor.”
“Honor be damned. Your first duty is to our people, who will perish if you are killed. You are needed here to lead your men in the war.”
“I lead only by the confidence the warlords place in me. Should they think that I am too weak to avenge my own blood brother and not honorable enough to do so, their confidence would be quickly withdrawn.”
Frustration clenched my jaw. Of all the foolish acts of men!
“If I go, a chance exists that I might return and stand ready to lead our army when the enemy reaches us,” he said. “If I remain and the warlords withdraw their alliance, our warriors will stand without a leader. A new High Lord cannot be selected so quickly. The warlords might return each to protect his own territory.”
“And fail separately.”
“We must stand together.” His gaze roamed my face, his voice soft, as if he were already saying farewell to me.
Forever. The thought slipped into my mind. And I found I could not accept that.
I pushed the robe off my shoulders and watched as his gaze followed its path to the ground. I grabbed the bottom of my short Shahala tunic and pulled it over my head.
My skin glowed in the semidarkness like a moonflower. I heard his sharp intake of breath, every other sound drowned out by the loud rush of blood in my ears.
“Have you come to offer your virginity for good luck?” His voice was as thick as mosan-berry syrup. And then after an eternity, he turned from me. “We had enough sacrifices already.”
I swallowed and forced myself to speak before I lost my courage. “I came to offer my heart.”
He turned back slowly. His large frame, solid as the rock of the hills, drew me. I stepped forward. He took a step of his own, then another, without rush, as if not wanting to scare me. He stopped when he reached close enough to touch.
“Tera.” He whispered my name, then gathered me into his strong arms. And then he kissed me.
I kissed him back.
With a soft growl, he carried me to his cot and lowered me onto the pelts. He warmed my body with kisses and caresses, and after he removed his clothes, I returned the favor.
I knew his body fully, and he fully knew mine. Afterwards, with our bodies and sprits blended, he held me in his arms with such great gentleness that it brought tears to my eyes.
~~~***~~~
CHAPTER TWENTY
(Sorceress)
Batumar had gone through the gate by the time I awoke, the morning silent, despite the great number of men on the plateau. I walked into the forest and fell upon the soft shirl moss. I wept for the Guardian of the Scrolls, for Lord Gilrem, but most of all for Batumar. I missed his presence in every way, his warmth, his voice, his rare smiles and the gentleness he showed me when we were alone in the night.
The Guardian of the Gate found me there, and from him I learned that ten of Batumar’s guards had gone after him, despite the direct order that none should do so, knowing that disobeying the High Lord brought with it a punishment of death. Many more would have gone, but they determined that a large group would bring undue attention and be more hindrance than help. The ten had to be chosen by drawing lots in the end, so eager were they all to die for Batumar.
I left for Karamur under the protection of the Palace Guard that same day, for thus had ordered the High Lord before he had left. The two-day journey seemed to last two years. I spent most of it looking back, watching for a herald to catch up with us to let us know that Batumar had returned. But no news came.
I hoped then that maybe a herald had been sent to the palace and was already there ahead of us, having traveled faster alone through the vast forest. But we were the first to arrive. We had to deliver the sad news of Lord Gilrem’s death and of Batumar’s journey through the gate to avenge his brother.
A dignitary awaited him from the Kingdom of Chebbar, sent by Queen Manala to plead for assistance. The invading hordes pushed against the borders of her kingdom. I learned this and more from Leena who, upon hearing of our return, rushed to greet me at the palace gate and would not budge from my side until we were in my chamber in Pleasure Hall. And even then, she would leave me only to order the other servants around to ensure my comfort.
She welcomed me with joy, but every time she left me, she returned with eyes reddened, so I knew that in private she cried for Batumar. She made sure I had food plentiful, all my favorites and a steaming mosan-berry pie, but although the servant women did their best to cheer me, my heart was heavy with grief.
Days passed without news. Rumors started in the city, servants whispering that the High Lord too had been killed. Lord Gilrem had always ruled in his stead when he had been gone before, and without Lord Gilrem now things were falling into disarray, despite the best efforts of the captain of the Palace Guard.
One morning, when Leena came to my chamber with breakfast, she brought a servant girl, her arms much bruised, her eyes teary. She curtsied.
“What is your name?”
“Mora, my Lady.”
“What happened to you, Mora?”
She flushed red and would not raise her gaze from her feet.
Leena nudged her.
“Men attacked me in the marketplace, my Lady,” the girl whispered.
I reached for my herbs and began mixing up a poultice for her bruises. “Why?” Karamur might have been in upheaval, but it was not yet a lawless place.
“Tell our Lady what you told me,” Leena encouraged her.
Still, the girl would not speak, so Leena had to speak for her. “People were talking against you in the marketplace, my Lady. Shartor’s followers. Mora spoke up in your defense, and they turned on her.”
I gave Mora the poultice with instructions, thanking her for my defense and urging her not to risk herself again in such a manner; then Leena sent her away.
“I know you walk outside the palace, my Lady. I beg you not to do so again until the High Lord returns,” Leena said when we were alone. “Shartor has gained much power of late. In the absence of a stronger leader, fools listen to him.”
“The guards will protect us. Shartor holds no power here.”
As it turned out, however, whatever Shartor’s powers were and wherever they lay, his cunning I had greatly underestimated.
The following day began with a great uproar. The most valuable tapestry in the palace, one that depicted the Kadar’s arrival to our island, had disappeared from the Great Hall. The Palace Guard searched the entire building and interrogated the servants, thoroughly occupying their time.
I sat alone in my chamber, praying to the spirits for Batumar, when an unfamiliar servant girl rushed in and begged me to follow her to the kitchen, where some accident had happened and my healing was urgently needed. Leena had gone to the washroom for my Shahala clothes, and I had been sitting by the fire wrapped in a blanket. I would need more thudis and tunics prepared, I thought, and dressed once more as a concubine. The girl quickly helped me into a golden gown, the topmost dress in my trunk.
“Was someone burned?” Burns and cuts were the most frequent injuries in the kitchen.
“Yes, my Lady.” She laced the back with trembling fingers, running for the door as soon as she finished.
I grabbed my veil and herbs and rushed after her. “How badly?”
“You must hurry, my Lady.”
I slowed. “I might need jalik for a bad burn.” I turned back toward my chamber. I had some jalik leaves drying on the mantel, not completely ready yet, but better than anything else I had.
She grabbed my hand and tugged. “Poison, my Lady, you must hurry.”
“Which is it then, poison or burning?”
“Both,” she said, then stuttered the rest, so agitated as to be incoherent.
Healers gained a great calm in a crisis, but those untrained in the healing arts often panicked. I did not think she would be able to give me much detail now. Best to see it for myself, I thought, and followed her.
But when we reached the kitchen, we found the kitchen staff missing and only two strange men within.
The girl closed and barred the door behind us, then covered her face with her hands. The men grabbed me at once.
“What is the meaning of this?” I demanded.
They pulled a sack over my head; then they stuffed me into an empty flour jar. They fastened on the lid tight.
The outer door creaked open; then I heard the noise of the street. The jar jostled as they carried it. In the narrow space, I could not lift my arms to free my head from the sack. I called for help, but the burlap and the jar muffled my cries.
My lungs burned for air. I banged my fists against the fire-hardened clay, fearing that if they did not release me soon, I would suffocate.
But at long last they set the jar down and opened the lid, then dragged me forth into the light.
I blinked against the sun as I gasped for air. The smell of smoke twisted my nose and made me cough.
“The sorceress!”
I turned toward Shartor’s voice. We stood in an alley somewhere behind the palace, the narrow space filled with his followers. The men and women looked upon me with hate, scowls on every face.
“Lord Gilrem is dead because of her,” Shartor pronounced, his strange eyes bloodshot and wild. “And so is Lord Batumar. She is the friend of our enemies. I swear to you, it is she who called the war.”
“Lord Shartor, I—”
The crowd began to chant and drowned out my protest. They chanted one word: “Sorceress!”
They ceased o
nly when Shartor held up his hands. “What is the punishment for sorcery?”
The crowd roared, “Death!”
“And what is the only way to kill a dark sorceress?”
The crowd parted, revealing a great steaming cauldron over a burning fire. “Boil her in tar!”
The two men who had kidnapped me grabbed me and dragged me forward. I protested, but the crowd would not hear my words. They closed their hearts to my pleas and were more interested in blood than reason.
Spirits, help me now.
The bubbling cauldron waited but a dozen steps away. I fought, straining my arms and scraping my ankle on the rough stone.
Then the sun dimmed suddenly. And within another step, the alley grew dark.
“The mist,” women whispered, charms jingling.
And indeed, the mist descended upon us rapidly and thickened. In another few steps, I could no longer see the cauldron.
“The sorceress calls the mist. Do not weaken. The mist will lift when she is dead,” Shartor shouted from somewhere in the deep fog.
I heard footsteps on stone. Moving away.
The men’s hold on my arms tightened at first, then loosened. “Lord Shartor?”
“Boil her in tar,” came the order, but this time, no chanting from the crowd.
A dog howled in the distance, the eerie sound echoing off the walls around us, the mist distorting the howl into something otherworldly.
The man on my right let me go first. His boots slapped against the stone as he hurried away. The man on my left was close behind him.
“Sorceress!” Shartor roared in the mist.
I ran in the opposite direction from his voice, my soft leather slippers soundless.
I could only guess the way back to the palace and prayed to the spirits the whole time to lead me. I did take some wrong turns, but at long last, I reached the cliff. I climbed, my heart clamoring from narrowly escaping death and also from worry about what had happened that I did not yet know. For I knew that the mist was the Guardians’ way of calling me to them.
