Dangerous Talents

by Frankie Robertson

  He was master of his Talent now, confident in his ability after years of practice. He could give over his goal to one part of his mind so he could think about other things even as his Talent pulled him where he wanted to go. Which was a good thing, since he’d spent a fair amount of time of late thinking about the woman at his side.

  The blanket quivered. Celia was shivering. Tentatively, half expecting a rebuff, he rolled to his side and moved a few inches until his back was against hers. He would rather wrap himself around her, but he feared she would refuse. She needs the warmth, he told himself, ignoring the foolish pleasure the slight contact brought. We need to move quickly tomorrow. I can’t afford for her to take a chill. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he felt her relax and lean back into his body’s heat. She stopped shivering, and the rhythm of her breathing changed as she slipped into the realm of dreams. He was glad she could escape her troubles for a little while.

  He should do the same, he knew, and closed his eyes.

  It seemed like only a moment later when a sudden gasp and moan startled him awake. He was already reaching for his sword when he realized there was no threat. Celia lay on her back beside him, rigid and shaking. He reached out to her and found her hands covering her face. She was clammy with sweat. “What is it? Are you ill?”

  She took a deep shuddering breath and sat up. “I’m okay. It was just a nightmare.” She shivered.

  Dahleven sat up and pulled the blanket they’d lain on over her shoulders.

  It was no surprise that fear plagued her dreams after what she’d been through. For the moment, his desire for her was not an issue. All he wanted now was to comfort her. He rubbed his hand in slow circles over her back, just as he used to do for his little sister, Kaidlin. For some reason she’d always sought him out, rather than her nurse or their mother or sister, when some night terror had upset her.

  Dahleven didn’t ask Celia to relive her nightmare by recounting it, he just rubbed her back in slow, lazy circles until he felt her relax. Then he pulled her down to nestle against his chest. To his relief, she didn’t argue or resist. She’d barely settled her head into the hollow of his shoulder before he heard her breathing deepen and slow in sleep.

  Pleased by her trust in him, Dahleven slept.

  *

  When Cele awoke, she saw the same scene as when she’d closed her eyes the night before. Nothing. Only the feel of her lids moving told her that her eyes were open.

  During the night, she’d curled around Dahleven, her arm curving over his waist, her legs tucked behind his. She was toasty and comfortable—except where the stone floor pressed an ache into her shoulder and hip. He’d been so gentle when she’d wakened from the nightmare. Was this the same man who’d barked at her just days ago? Reluctant to leave the warmth but needing to ease her bones, Cele gingerly pulled away, hoping he wasn’t awake yet.

  Stiffly, she stood and stretched life back into her sore muscles. The worst of the pain from their long climb had faded, but her muscles and joints felt like they belonged to an old woman after the night on the cold floor. She’d never thought of bare dirt as accommodating before, but compared to unforgiving stone, it was comfy.

  Dahleven apparently felt the same way. He groaned as she heard him roll onto his back, then stand and make his way to one of the chests. A moment later, sparks flashed like fireflies and a torch flared and caught.

  Cele blinked owlishly even as she welcomed the light. Her eyes weren’t so bedazzled, though, that she missed Dahleven’s half-smile.

  “We’ll move faster today, now that we can see where we’re going. You won’t have to hang onto my belt.”

  “That’ll be nice.”

  “But don’t take that as freedom to wander,” he said. “Stay with me, and stay in the shaped tunnels. The natural caverns are dangerous.”

  Cele had no desire to go exploring on her own, but she was curious. “Dangerous how?”

  “The footing’s treacherous; in some places the floor can drop right out from under you. And…creatures live in there, in the dark. Creatures you don’t want to meet.”

  Creatures? She shivered. “I haven’t seen or smelled any sign of animals so far.”

  “They avoid our tunnels.” Dahleven spoke seriously. “You’re safe as long as you stay out of the natural ways.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be right behind you.”

  Dahleven smiled. “We’ll be above ground by midday. Does that suit you?”

  Cele grinned. “Definitely!”

  “Myself, also. Let’s eat and take care of the necessities. Sooner begun, sooner done.”

  Before long they were on their way, each of them carrying a supply of torches. Dahleven led the way, holding one aloft. The flame danced, casting flickering shadows on the walls. A thousand questions flooded into Cele’s mind. How many of the others survived? What is Quartzholm like? Will the others be there? And top of the list, How the heck am I going to get home?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  When the floor started to angle upward, Dahleven felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. They were almost home, almost out of the tunnels. The rock walls on either side opened wider and they had space enough to comfortably walk abreast as they climbed the gentle slopes or shallow, widely spaced steps. He ignored the occasional narrow passageways that opened on either side of the wider tunnel. Some were ventilation shafts, others were bolt-holes from the private areas of Quartzholm above.

  There had been talk off and on about sealing the various hidden passages, or at least locking them with iron gates as the main tunnel was, if only to keep the children from wandering down and getting lost. It had been a long time since the provinces had moved against one another with more than a minor raid; there no longer existed a need for a quick exit. Or so the argument went on the rare occasion the subject arose—usually after a brief search for an errant child.

  Nothing ever came of it, though, and Dahleven was glad. He hoped the provinces never came to war again, but peace could never be guaranteed. Vigilance and preparation remained necessary, and that included maintaining the bolt holes. Besides, he wouldn’t have missed the chance to explore them as a boy. Shadows dancing on stone walls had looked much more ominous when he was eight. A memory of eager apprehension tickled down his spine. No, he didn’t support closing the tunnels. If a boy could find one of the hidden entrances, he should have the chance to test himself and challenge the Tunnel Trolls.

  Dahleven grinned and shook his head. How long had parents been using that old tale to frighten children into obedience?

  He wasn’t leading Lady Celia through any of the private ways, though. Their route would take them through the storehouse and up into the courtyard. He wasn’t going to give away the secrets of his home to this stranger, no matter how innocent she seemed or how lovely she was.

  Dahleven’s grin faded as his thoughts turned back to the business at hand and the grim news he bore. Outcasts and Renegades encamped together. Sorn, Lindy, and Halsten dead, and perhaps more. Knut a traitor.

  It ground in his gut that he had trusted the whoreson, honored him by requesting him for his company. Memories of camaraderie, training on the practice field together, celebrations, and conversations played themselves out in his mind. Had Knut paused overlong in reply to a question? Should he have interpreted a particular look in Knut’s eyes differently? He had thought before that Knut was merely private about a lady love, but now it was clear that Knut had been evasive about more than where he spent his free time.

  Everything Knut had said and done seemed doubt-worthy. Now.

  Dahleven shook his head. Urd’s view of the past was always clear. Verdandi’s present was murky at best, and Skuld delighted in keeping the future obscure. The three Ladies of Fate gave away nothing, and he was only mortal. That was small comfort when Lindy lay dead by the hand of a traitor that Dahleven had welcomed into his company. The skalds will sing no songs in praise of my cleverness.

  And if all of that wasn’t enough, the
re was the wholly surprising news he brought of Lady Celia’s appearance, and the Lady herself.

  She was a puzzle. Her presence alone was a mystery, and she could yet prove to have dangerous allies. She claimed innocence, and he was inclined to believe her. But he had trusted Knut, also.

  Dahleven surfaced from his musings. Lady Celia had been walking by his side; now he realized she’d fallen behind. She was only a few steps back, but she was walking with her head down, favoring the leg she’d gashed in her fall yesterday. He remembered the feel of her leg, slick with warm blood, under his hand, and felt an echo of the concern that had washed through him then. He’d have Ghav look at her wound when they got to Quartzholm.

  If Ghav still lives.

  Dahleven clenched his teeth, bunching the muscles of his jaw. His entire patrol could be dead, thanks to that traitor Knut. And my blindness.

  He slowed his steps till Lady Celia came even with him again. She was definitely walking more slowly. He could call a break, but they were very nearly home, and her leg would just stiffen in rest.

  “What is this place you’re taking me to?”

  Was she worried? Did she have reason to be? “Quartzholm.”

  “That was informative.” Her voice sounded wry—and tired. She paused a moment and shifted her pack. “What happens when we get there?”

  “We get warm baths, good food, and”—he glanced sidelong at her—”clean, appropriate clothing. What did you think would happen?”

  She considered at him closely, as though weighing his words. Then she nodded and straightened as if a worry had lifted from her. “I don’t know what to think. You weren’t too happy to see me. I thought others might feel the same. For all I know, they might lock me up or torture me or something.”

  “Do you deserve such punishment?”

  “Of course not! But I don’t know you, or your people! Who knows what could happen here?”

  “Odin’s Eye! What have we done that you would expect such treatment?” Or what has she done?

  *

  Cele took in a deep breath, ready to blast him. The arrogant bastard. What had he done? He’d shouted at her and menaced her with a knife. He’d run her over desert and mountain and dragged her underground. He had moved Sorn too soon.

  What has he done?

  Her emotions rebounded abruptly. He’d comforted her when Sorn died. He’d been gentle when she’d fallen. He’d shared his memories with her. He’d rubbed her back and taken no advantage after her nightmare. He and his men had saved her life three times.

  Five days on the trail were taking their toll. Cele’s fatigued thoughts spun with the emotional whiplash of outrage and gratitude. And, if she were honest, attraction. Jeff’s betrayal had left her stunned and angry and numb. But she wasn’t numb with Dahleven. He stirred up every feeling she had. It’s just a reaction to danger. But she remembered wanting to curl up against him last night, and blushed, glad of the uncertain light from the torch.

  “I don’t know what to expect,” she said in a tight voice. “Everything is different here. I’m trying not to expect anything—but that doesn’t keep me from worrying.”

  Dahleven blew out a deep breath. “You should stop that. Worry is a waste of time and energy.” He slanted a sideways glance at her. “Now planning, that’s another thing altogether. Right now I’m planning on a bath, hot food, and rest. You should do the same. Beyond that, only the Norns know what the future holds, and they never tell.”

  Cele’s anger ebbed. He’d done his best to reassure her, without promising anything. He was right. Worrying was a waste of time, especially since she didn’t really know enough about the place to know what to worry about.

  Eventually, they came to a halt before an iron gate, secured with a large boxy metal lock. The room on the other side of the gate was already lit with lanterns, but the area was so large and filled with barrels and sacks that they created more shadows than light. Dahleven handed the torch to Cele, shrugged out of his pack, and knelt, digging through it to pull a ring of keys from the bottom. He selected one shaped like a spatula with two holes of differing shapes cut in it. Dahleven reached through the bars and put the key into the slot and slid it upward. There was a metal on metal screech, then he jerked the lock off the curved hasp. In response to Dahleven’s push, the gate swung open with a groan. Just like a grade B horror flick. Cele suppressed a shudder.

  Dahleven waved her into the dimly lit storeroom, then locked the gate and relieved her of the torch. Holding it aloft, he led the way down a dim aisle formed by wooden boxes and hundreds of sacks of grain. The torchlight flickered across hollows and recesses; shadows wavered and jumped.

  Suddenly, a blackness shot down from above, landing abruptly at Cele’s feet. A spike of fear shot through her, and she shrieked. Breath jerked raggedly in her lungs, and she jumped back, banging against the boxes. Her eyes, adapted to the dim light, followed the shape as it streaked down the aisle.

  It was a cat.

  Dahleven swung around, sword drawn, just in time to see the mouser before it disappeared into another hidey-hole. Cele laughed shakily. Her eyes met Dahleven’s in chagrined amusement, and his tight expression returned a crooked half-smile. He chuckled before sheathing his weapon.

  Something tight released in Cele. A giggle bubbled to the surface. She shook with it, overcome by the absurdity of startling at a cat after what she’d been through in the last week. Laughter bounced through her, shaking loose from the uncertainty and fear, anguish and loss. Her breath came in gasps, and she propped one shoulder against the wall of boxes.

  Dahleven’s half-smile spread across his face, and his chuckle grew to full-throated mirth. He leaned on the boxes next to Cele, his shoulders quaking with the force of his laughter, then threw back his head and let it pour out of him.

  It was a beautiful sound, delightful and rich, and it triggered another gale of merriment from Cele. Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. The tension poured out of her. Gradually, the wildness of her laugh faded back to giggles.

  Close by her, Dahleven’s laughter subsided as he wiped moisture from his cheek. He faced her, left shoulder against the boxes, right hand holding the torch, and smiled into her eyes. He was barely a foot away, and the closeness felt comfortable, bonded as they were by humor and the release of days of worry and fear. When he leaned over and kissed her, she didn’t pull away.

  It was a brief and gentle query. Then he pulled back a scant inch.

  That small kiss wasn’t enough. Cele turned her face up, seeking Dahleven’s mouth. That seemed to release him, and he took her lips again, caressing them with his own. He stood, pulling away from where he leaned against the wall of boxes, freeing his left arm to slip around her. His hand bumped into her belt-pack, then collided with her backpack before he finally pulled her close. She giggled, and Dahleven snorted his amusement, then bent to kiss her again. Cele’s fingers gripped his shoulders. Every point of contact sizzled over her skin like a Fourth of July sparkler, and each spark threatened to ignite a conflagration. He tasted warm and salty and of something more that was ineffably Dahleven. His beard was soft, and she sighed with pleasure when he trailed little kisses down her cheek and neck.

  “Who’s there?” A voice came from the other side of the vast cavern.

  Cele stiffened and Dahleven pulled back enough to murmur, “That’s just one of the thralls who works down here.” After a soft final kiss, he lifted his head and slowly released his hold on her. He stayed close a moment, tracing his fingers along her cheek before stepping away with a rueful and chagrined smile. “We must go on.”

  Cele nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Her skin still tingled. It had been a long time since she’d enjoyed a kiss that much. She wasn’t sure she trusted the feeling, but it felt too good to turn away from. Bemused, she followed him through the maze of supplies.

  The aisle opened onto a wide, uncluttered area. The far wall was broken by openings of various sizes, five of which appeared to b
e dumbwaiters. Two men were hauling on the ropes, lifting something to a higher level. Two others were wheeling handcarts while a third was striding toward them.

  “You there!” he called out. “What are you doing down here?”

  As Dahleven came closer, the man’s expression changed from challenge to embarrassment. “My lord! I beg your pardon! I didn’t—”

  “Be at ease,” Dahleven said. “I’ve just come in the back door; you couldn’t have known.”

  The man bowed then straightened. His gaze drifted to Cele, obviously focusing on her bare, bruised legs. Cele could feel her lips tingling from Dahleven’s kisses and she cringed inwardly, sure the man was drawing an unflattering conclusion from her appearance.

  Dahleven spoke, drawing the man’s attention back to him. “This is Lady Celia, whom I’ve rescued from the drylands. Send up a message for Ranulf to meet us in the courtyard.” Then he turned away as though he had no doubt his command would be obeyed.

  They went through one of two wide doorways bracketed by open ironbound wooden doors. A tall flight of stairs stretched above them. Cele climbed automatically, her mind floating back to Dahleven’s kiss. What did he mean by it? Was it merely impulse? A reaction to the scare? Or something more? Did she want it to be more?

  She shook her head. It doesn’t matter. I’m going home.

  It was a long climb; Cele felt it in the gash on her shin by the time they reached the first landing. There they found three sets of double doors. Dahleven led her through the set on the right. They continued to climb to another landing, the sound of their steps bouncing off the seamless stone walls. How did they get it so smooth?