Bloodstone

by Johannes, Helen C.

  “Rees!”

  “Mmm,” he murmured, nuzzling her cheek. “You feel good, too. But I bet you taste even better.”

  Mirianna braced her forearms on his soaked tunic and turned her face away. His clothing dampened hers, making her shiver. “Rees,” she grunted, “I said no.”

  “That’s what you said,” he murmured, “but you know that’s not what you mean.”

  Oh, for the love of the Dragon! He thinks I’m shivering for his sake! Imbued with sudden strength, she pushed.

  Rees staggered, slipped on the gravel, and fell to one knee.

  Mirianna didn’t halt this time at his expulsion of curses. She scrambled over the ravine’s edge and dashed into the aspen grove, running pell-mell until she saw firelight glowing between the saplings. At the edge of the trees, she slowed to a walk, smoothed her skirt, and listened for Rees’s stumbling footfalls while her breath returned to normal. She heard him crashing through the underbrush as she strolled into the campsite.

  “Where’s Rees?” Pumble said from the fire’s edge.

  “Washing up.” Suppressing a smile, she knelt and smoothed out her father’s bedding.

  Rees broke out of the aspen grove and stalked into the firelight. He flung the skins to the ground beside Mirianna. “Here’s your water.”

  Pumble sat back on his haunches and gaped at him. “What’d you do, take a bath?”

  “Shut up!” Rees marched around the fire pit and, seizing the smaller man by the collar, hauled him to his feet. “Go check the horses.”

  “Sh—sure. All right.” Pumble backed out of Rees’s grip and hurried into the darkness.

  Tolbert, who’d been dozing against his saddle, woke with a snort. He peered across the fire at the tall blond man and blinked. “You’re all wet. Is it raining?”

  With a muttered curse, Rees snatched his spare tunic and stomped back into the aspens.

  Mirianna swallowed her laughter. “No, Papa,” she said, pouring water into her pot. “Here, I’ll have your tea ready in a few minutes. Then we can all get some sleep.”

  Tolbert grunted. He shifted on the hard ground, rubbed his backside. “I thought I was sleeping.”

  ****

  Gareth balanced the tray with both hands as he counted the stairs. Twelve...thirteen…fourteen. He paused at the top, remembering which room Ulerroth had told him to knock at.

  “Mind now, boy. The one at the end of the hall,” his master had said for the third time as he placed the tray in Gareth’s hands.

  Ulerroth’s hands were sweating. Gareth felt the moisture on the tray’s edge. His master sounded harried. Not cross, but...uneasy. This morning his master, who usually greeted the morning with a ringing bellow of good cheer and a sound slap on Freth’s backside—prompting, in turn, a sputtered tirade from the cook—had arisen late, called for Gareth with a hoarse voice, and broken his fast in hurried silence.

  Now Gareth shifted the tray to one hand, turned left, and walked slowly down the hall. He trailed his fingers along the wall, noting doors. When he’d counted three, he halted. In this room was the man they called the Shadow. He’d served him twice, both times in Ulerroth’s presence, but on neither occasion had the man spoken. I’d think he didn’t exist, except I can feel him...somewhere...in that room.

  Gareth shivered. His tray tilted. The tankard slid into the platter with a loud clunk.

  There was an answering sound from within the room.

  Two sounds, Gareth’s mind told him even as he stood frozen at the door: the muffled sound of boots touching—not hitting—the floor and then the footfalls of someone moving, cat-like, across the room. For one suspended moment, Gareth waited for the whisper of a knife sliding from its sheath. When it didn’t come, he unpeeled one hand from its death grip on the tray and, swallowing, tapped his knuckles on the door.

  “I—it’s Gareth. I—I’ve brought you bread and cheese.”

  There was no answer for such a long time, the sweat that had bloomed under Gareth’s armpits moments earlier trickled down his ribs. He wiped his upper lip and wondered if he’d only imagined the noises. I could just leave the tray. He probably won’t answer, anyway. I’ll just knock again and—

  “Come.”

  Gareth started. The tankard skittered across the tray. He caught it with a shaking hand. Wishing fervently he were anywhere else but at the threshold of this room, he fumbled for the door latch. It gave easily, and he pushed the door wide open.

  Most guests preferred to open the shutters for air, and Gareth was used to navigating by the familiar shadows the incoming light would reveal. This time, although it was early afternoon, the chamber was dark, as dark as the stable at night. Gareth swallowed and walked slowly across the floor, finding the table with his outstretched hand. He slid the tray onto it and transferred the platter and tankard to the tabletop. His ears strained for any sound, but it was difficult to hear over the rush of blood in his ears. Still, a faint scent of warm leather told him the room’s inhabitant occupied the left near quarter of the room. Lowering the empty tray to his side, he turned in that direction. “Will that be all, sir?”

  Again, nothing for so long he thought he’d been mistaken about the voice, the sounds. Then, “No.”

  The word sent a jolt through Gareth. He clutched the empty tray to his chest. “Wh—what can I do for you, sir?”

  “Tell me what you see, boy.”

  It was a quiet voice, resonant yet muffled in some way. Gareth adjusted his face toward the sound, wondering at the unexpected question. “Nothing, sir.”

  “Nothing? Ever?”

  Gareth shifted his stance. He lowered his head and skated a hand along the edge of the tray. “Well, I do see shadows, sir. And sometimes shapes, when the light is bright.”

  “It’s nearly dark in here. Do you see me, my shape?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’re facing me. How do you know where I am?”

  A grin pulled at Gareth’s lips. “Why, your voice, sir.”

  There was silence for another space of heartbeats. Gareth heard the sound of something, leather brushing wood? He cocked his head toward it, then started again at the man’s voice. “I’m going to move. Count to ten, then point toward me.”

  “As you wish, sir,” Gareth said, frowning. “But, why?”

  “Just do as I say, boy.”

  Almost immediately, he heard the sounds of movement. First right, then back again left. Gareth turned slowly, following the faint scuffing, forgetting, for a moment, to count. When the sounds ceased, he realized he was supposed to point. “You’re over there, sir.”

  “So I am. How did you find me?”

  “I can hear you.”

  “I was being very quiet.”

  “I suppose so, sir, but I still heard you.”

  The man chuckled softly. “Then let’s try once more. This time, go out in the corridor, close the door, and count to ten. Then come in and find me.”

  Gareth’s frown deepened. This was a peculiar game, but the man, at least, seemed amused by it. “As you wish.”

  A long count of ten later, he opened the door, entered, and closed it behind him. His breathing had eased, and he listened for sounds that were not his own. Hearing nothing definite, he turned his face to all sides, letting the air’s movement play against his cheek. There was a faint scent of wool in the air, wool and—he sniffed—leather. He turned toward it. A subtle heat warmed his cheek. He stepped closer. A whispering sound of inhalation tickled his ear. Confident now, Gareth advanced. “Here, sir,” he said, stretching out his hand.

  A gloved hand grasped his wrist, preventing his arm’s full extension. It was not a wide hand, but the fingers were long, easily enclosing Gareth’s bones in a grip that spoke of strength held in check. The leather that impressed itself lightly on his inner forearm was butter-smooth and, surprisingly, warm.

  Heat rushed up Gareth’s cheeks. Why shouldn’t it be warm? He’s human, isn’t he? He remembered Freth’s comments, forced
a swallow, and wondered who was more right about the possessor of the grip that turned his arm aside and released it.

  “How did you find me, boy?”

  The question shook Gareth from his thoughts and he blurted, “Why, smell, sir.” He flushed at the insulting sound of that and added, “I mean scents. And heat, too. That’s how I knew you were in the stable yard two nights ago.”

  “You didn’t challenge me.”

  Gareth lowered his chin. His cheeks burned. “I—I wasn’t certain until I heard the kitchen latch.”

  He heard the man inhale deeply, and then let the breath out. His breathing, too, had a muffled quality. Gareth wondered if he wore something over his face.

  “Go back to work, boy. Tell your master I’ll see him later.”

  It was a cool dismissal, even curt. Gareth frowned. Had he somehow displeased the man? “Yes, sir,” he murmured.

  ****

  The man had watched the boy all evening. From a stool placed deep in the landing’s shadows, he’d watched the boy come and go from the kitchen bearing trays of food, platters of cheese, tankards of ale, doing everything his master and the serving maid directed, and doing all of it promptly and efficiently. Shifting his gaze, the man surveyed the candlesticks arrayed on ledges along the walls and those fastened into the wheel over the common room. One would hardly guess his world is as dark as mine; he moves so well in this one.

  But he could move in yours, too, the Voice in his head said. As well or better than he does here.

  The man shifted on his stool. The idea disturbed him although it had been fomenting in his brain since, since first seeing the boy in the stable yard? Or after listening to his voice greet and soothe Ghost? He remembered the sound of that voice, soft, womanish almost, as it straddled the boundaries between child and man.

  The man snorted. He looked away from the dwindling crowd below and fixed his gaze on the triangle of deep shadow in which he sat. This is my world. Here, on the edge of darkness. Alone. There’s no room for another!

  Unless he were blind...

  The man scowled. The boy will die.

  Eventually. But so will Ghost. You’re prepared to cope with that.

  But Ghost isn’t human.

  No, the Voice admitted, but you still are.

  The man’s fists clenched, driving leather into skin, tendons, veins, until everything throbbed with the beat of his blood. Damn this body! And damn you, Syryk! Rocketing off the stool, he turned his back on the merriment below and swept down the corridor.

  ****

  Mirianna smiled. Her lover leaned over her, his face in shadow, the sun outlining his shoulders and head. His hand cupped her breast and kneaded it gently. She sighed and arched toward the touch. His fingertip circled her nipple, teasing the nub until its ache sent ripples through the pit of her stomach. Her legs shifted restlessly beneath the weight of his body pressing her down, holding her hard against the grass—no, the ground—no, a blanket on the ground—

  “See, now? I knew you wanted me.”

  Mirianna’s eyelids jerked open. In the heartbeats required for full consciousness to rush into her body, she realized the shadowy form looming over her was not the faceless lover of her dreams, but Rees. And his fingers had worked the lacings of her bodice nearly open.

  “Damn you! Get off!” she hissed, shoving at him.

  His hand clamped over her mouth. “Easy, love,” he murmured, straddling her. “I wasn’t going to hurt you last night and I’m not going to hurt you now. I just want to show you how much we can give to each other on these long, lonely nights.” He bent his head and touched his mouth to the hollow of her shoulder.

  Bile rose in Mirianna’s throat. Rees’s thumb and fingertips dug into her cheekbones, holding her mouth pressed against his palm, preventing a scream. She knew her father slept too heavily for a muffled noise to wake. And Pumble—Rees would have set him on watch someplace too far away to interfere. She pushed once, ineffectually, at Rees’s shoulders, then fumbled for her knife. A grinding feeling beneath her back told her the weapon had slipped under her body. Her thoughts flew to the dagger strapped to her thigh, but she knew at once it was unreachable under his enveloping legs. Frantic, she launched her fingers at his hair.

  He deflected her hand with a forearm, shifted his weight, and pinned her wrist with his arm. “Relax,” he murmured beneath her ear. “You’ll like this.”

  “No!” Mirianna gasped into his hand. She thrashed from side to side, bared her lips, snapped her teeth at something, anything...and found the inner web of his hand.

  Rees howled and jerked his hand back.

  She gulped a breath, but the scream that echoed off the surrounding trees and shivered through every muscle in her body was not hers.

  Rees’s eyes showed white. His gaze darted around the clearing while his body remained unmoving, frozen in the act of recoil. For heartbeats, Mirianna heard nothing but the rasp of his breath. Then, ever so faintly, a hissing sounded.

  Rees bolted to his feet. “Pumble!”

  The shorter man burst into the clearing, his sword drawn. “What in Kraddom was that noise?” he panted, face moon white. “The horses are jumping all over the place.”

  Rees backed across the campsite, pausing once to glance at Tolbert’s still sleeping form before reaching his own bedding. “Lion, I think.” Snatching up the bow and quiver leaning against his saddle, he pivoted slowly while fitting an arrow to string, and his gaze raked the clearing’s edge.

  Mirianna sat where she’d lain, fingernails digging into her palms. The forest loomed on all sides, dark and unnaturally silent. Overhead, even the canopy of leaves didn’t rustle. She heard no crickets, no night birds.

  “Throw wood on the fire.”

  Rees’s order startled Mirianna. When her head snapped in his direction, he jerked a nod at the fire pit. “Lots of brush. I want flames.”

  Her mouth dry as cottonwool, she crawled to the fire pit. Her arms shook so, half the twigs and branches she heaved toward the coals scattered around the rock ring. Those that landed true, crackled, popped, and roared up.

  “More! I want more flame.”

  Mirianna threw larger handfuls on the coals. In moments, the flames strained at their rock perimeter as twigs curled and broke and leaves vanished in an explosion of heat and light. The flaring drove shadows out of the cleared space and behind the birches.

  “Good,” Rees murmured. “That ought to keep the beasts at bay.”

  “—Not all of the beasts—”

  Every hair on Mirianna’s arms rose at the voice.

  “Who—who’s there?” Rees demanded, his back jammed against Pumble’s, arrow drawn and bow raised.

  “Dragon’s blood!” Pumble wheezed. He yanked a charm out of his tunic collar, kissed it, and mouthed over it words Mirianna couldn’t hear. Both men’s faces shone in the flickering light as they circled slowly, defending the clearing against...what?

  Though the roaring flames assaulted her body with heat, Mirianna shivered, cold to the core. What magic was this that spoke with a disembodied voice? That screamed like a woman in agony? A lion, as Rees said? She shuddered again and dragged her wayward knife into position at her hip. Not all of the beasts, the voice had said. What did that mean? That the fire wouldn’t keep all the beasts in the Wehrland at bay? Which ones were invulnerable to it? The Krad? No, she’d heard the Krad were afraid of fire. What then? The lion? Teeth sank into her lower lip, she glanced toward her father who still slept, blissfully undisturbed, six feet away.

  The distance was too far, much too far for a night and a place like this. Turning on her hands and knees, Mirianna crept toward him. Pebbles bit into her knees, but she ignored the stabs of pain. Her father was what mattered, her father and his safe—

  A flare of yellow-green light on the fringe of her vision brought her to a halt inches from her goal. For a moment, she hesitated, thinking she’d imagined the image glimpsed yards away between a double-trunked birch, that it was a r
eflection of firelight off some object—a spider’s web, perhaps, damp with dew—but something within told her it was not. Holding her breath, she stared.

  The image returned, sharpened, solidified. Glowed. The eyes—for that was all she thought they could be—seized hers and delved into them, probing her thoughts, mind, heart until her consciousness was rendered blank. She stared, powerless to move or pull away but strangely unafraid while six words slowly filled the emptiness of her mind: Remember, not all of the beasts.

  Heartbeats later, her mind was her own again. Her eyes focused and she found herself staring at Rees while he stared at her. She was awake and cold and filled with a strange whirling uncertainty that had at its core a deep, solid knowledge of...something that made her cringe away from him and burrow deeper into the warm arms surrounding her.

  “There now, lamb,” Tolbert’s voice crooned in her ear. “You’ve just had a fright.”

  Mirianna’s gaze darted across the faces ringed around her at the fire pit’s edge. “Th—the lion—?”

  “Gone.” Tolbert sighed. “I didn’t even get to see it.”

  I did. And it, it told me...something. She glanced furtively at Rees, who’d laid aside his bow and was bending to the pile of firewood.

  “We’ll keep the fire burning for the rest of the night.” He fed chunks of wood into the flames. At each thrust of his arm, the slice of crystal dangling from his neck danced and sparkled. “That should keep it away.”

  Will it?

  Mirianna tore her gaze from the glittering disk and studied the Master of Nolar’s man. Or is there something else here, something that’s not afraid of fire?

  She gripped her father’s arm and leaned into him, not arguing when he insisted she spend the rest of the night at his side. It’s where I belong. And where I should stay, for both of our sakes.

  Chapter Five

  The man opened his eyes at the sound of the knock. He’d not been sleeping, merely lying on his bed in the stale darkness of the closeted room, fully clothed, waiting.

  Waiting for what? said the Voice in his head. A summons to act?