Bloodstone

by Johannes, Helen C.

The horse plodded several strides, then abruptly raised its head and huffed.

  Mirianna watched the gelding’s ears twist and prick. One large, dark eye rolled on a white rim. The animal huffed again and stamped. She tightened her grip on the reins—and her grip on her fears. It was probably nothing more than a night animal. If it were a Krad, she would smell it too, and she smelled nothing but the heavy fragrance of pine and spruce.

  The horse shook its head, whistled, and back-stepped. Mirianna wound the reins another turn around her hands. The gelding champed at the bit, trying to tongue it forward, but she intended to keep the animal, and herself, under control this time. She leaned forward and peered into the darkness.

  Her intent gaze separated the forest into shadows of blue and black. The black stood solidly, like sections of impenetrable wall. The blue shadow quivered like liquid, dissolving and reforming before her eyes. Lacing itself through the black, it wove a darkness of muted edges and velvet curves so quickly, Mirianna was only vaguely aware of the transformation. Just beyond her horse’s feet, pale bits of rock gleamed from the forest floor like scattered fragments of a fallen moon. Stirred by the whisper of the breeze, shades of bough and grass danced among the stones in an ethereal ballet.

  While she sat, transfixed, warmth ebbed into her limbs, along with a strange tranquility that felt as if it had been willed into her. Her eyes drifted shut with the infusion of languor. She opened them slowly, knowing in her heart what would be waiting when she chose to look.

  You’re here, her thoughts said to a disembodied pair of yellow-green, iridescent eyes.

  Yes.

  The she-cat’s voice purred along Mirianna’s nerve endings as if the word had been transmitted directly to them. Come, it said, and not a sliver of her logic raised a protest when she heeled the gelding and followed a glimmer of green deep into the Wehrland.

  Chapter Twelve

  The man saw her as he straightened from spreading the burned-out remains of the Krad pyre. He froze in the incomplete motion of a turn and stared while ash settled in a fine powder on his boots. He knew he didn’t dream, yet she was here, the woman of his dreams. She stood at the edge of his camp, her hair a halo about her face in the first golden rays of sunrise, her body a slim, glowing column against the purple line of forest.

  “By Kiros,” he whispered. He closed his eyes, breathed, and opened them.

  She stood as before, wrists crossed under her chin, hands clasping the edges of her cloak. Hands like the sculpted wings of a dove. He imagined their feather-light flutter on his shoulders, the hidden fingertips’ delicate glide over his chest, the slow slide of her palm down his belly. The thought sucked the breath from his lungs.

  He completed the motion of his turn and, dream-walking, climbed toward her. She rotated like a carved figurine at his approach, and her gaze settled on him with a heart-stopping gleam of blue. Her eyes were large and luminous, her skin as softly translucent as pearl. Her fragrance, heady as lilacs scented from a distance, wafted toward him on the faintest breeze. He drank it in like a man dying of thirst.

  Each deliberate step brought him higher and nearer until his body broke the incandescent plane of dawn. Rays of sunlight filtered through the edges of his hood and formed themselves like golden tracery around his shoulders and torso. He was aware of the glow only as it reflected in the pools of her eyes, a glorious halo around the lightless form of a man.

  Lightless.

  His boot struck a stone, and he stumbled. His gaze dropped with his hands, for balance, and he saw his shadow.

  His shadow had wrapped itself snake-like around her ankles. While he straightened, it rose sinuously along the curves and hollows of her body—curves and hollows his hands had longed more than a dozen years to explore. And now his shadow had touched her first!

  Cold fury arrowed to his temples. His hands balled into fists. But there was nothing to seize and pummel, nothing but a shape-shifting absence of light whose touch sucked the vitality from living things and left a pale echo in its place. He watched in impotent rage while this...shade of himself slithered across her face, taking first her mouth and then her eyes into its unholy possession.

  When the shadow passed, the sunlight had faded. Gone was the luxurious golden glow of sunrise. Gone, too, was the dream, and the woman of it. In her place, bathed by mundane daily brightness, stood her ghost.

  The merciless light revealed cheeks from which all color had washed, eye sockets lined with charcoal, hair disheveled and festooned with pine needles and broken twigs. Two uneven, raised scratches stood out garishly red on her forehead and trailed into her hairline. More needles and twigs decorated her cloak and clung to a long, jagged tear near the hem. Her eyes, bloodshot and dull, fixed him with the dazed stare of a sleeper shaken from a dream.

  The transformation left the man equally disoriented. He’d expected—what had he expected? Something evil. Lustful. A conjurer’s trick. Not something as wretched and bedraggled as a—as a lost kitten. His gaze swept her once more, this time taking in the exhausted horse standing head down behind her. A woman. Nothing more than a mortal woman.

  A woman? the Voice in his head said. Or THE woman?

  The man’s hands paused in the act of unclenching.

  She came to your camp the night before last. Lost then, too.

  There had been three men with her. Where were they now? His gaze raked the clearing, but nothing moved in the brush except a doe watching with ears outstretched. He raised his hand to the Sword of Drakkonwehr stuck in his belt. Closing his fingers on the hilt, he rubbed his thumb over the stone embedded in the crosspiece. “Bluet drakkenoth, ominor ay rhoenon pek,” he whispered.

  He risked a glance at the bloodstone, but no glow answered the incantation. No mage magic here. But someone—or something—had clearly left the woman in a trance-like state.

  “Who are you?” He resisted an impulse to shake her. “How did you get here?”

  Her pupils narrowed at the sound of his voice, and her gaze shifted until it landed on his torso.

  He felt it like an inadvertent touch between strangers, one that lingered a second too long. For a heart-thudding moment, he imagined her hand flattened there at the apex of his ribs. By Koronolan!

  When her gaze reached the fastenings of his hood, he watched a swallow work its way down her throat. The action left her lips slightly parted, the lower one shadowed mauve. He yearned to touch his finger to it, to probe its fullness for the dew hidden just inside—and entirely beyond his reach.

  Her head lifted and she looked full into the black shroud where his face should have been.

  He thought he knew how to endure this moment. He’d seen it all before: horror, shock, revulsion, panic. But the fear contorting her features twisted in his stomach like a Krad blade. With rising gall, he watched her eyes roll back in her head and her body crumple.

  She lay at his feet like a discarded rag doll, her cloak open, her throat a white curve descending into the hollow formed by fragile collarbones. Below it, an expanse of delicately veined skin stretched from her shoulders to her bodice and disappeared into a deepening valley beneath the lacings.

  Heat flushed his chest. His hands tingled. Yellow light flickered around the edges of his vision. “By all that’s holy,” he whispered.

  Take her, the Voice in his head said. She’s a gift.

  He shuddered. Why shouldn’t he take her back to Drakkonwehr? A woman, lost in the Wehrland—who would wonder if she simply disappeared? He saw her stretched out on a bed in a darkened room, her body illumined by a single candle flame. He saw his black-gloved hands reach out, cup her breasts, stroke down her belly. Blood rushed to his groin, and he felt himself grow hard. He reached, in the vision, to snuff out the candle flame, and saw her face—and the terror etched there.

  “No! Not that way!”

  Not THIS woman.

  He came to himself with a disconcerting rush. The echo of his cry lingered along the trees when he realized he was still stand
ing over the unconscious woman, that he had not, in fact, knelt and touched her. Weak with relief, he sank down on the nearest rock and passed a hand over his eyes. Take your fantasies elsewhere, flesh. I finished with you in Ar-Deneth.

  “—Good—” said a voice he knew. And feared.

  The she-lion sat on her haunches not fifteen strides away, her body as motionless as a statue but for the leisurely flick of her tail. Her fur gleamed golden in the morning light, and her eyes shone like twin suns.

  “You brought her,” he said hoarsely. “Why?”

  Her stare held his gaze for heartbeat after heartbeat. When he’d almost forgotten his question, he felt her reply purr in his ear. “—Because you need her. And so do I...Durren—”

  The name shot through his body like a lightning bolt. He stared at the huge cat as she turned and glided toward the trees. “Ayliss?” he whispered.

  She gifted him with a momentary turn of her head, black-lined lips curled in an enigmatic feline smile. Then, like a ghost, she melted into the shadows.

  ****

  Mirianna peered through her lashes at blue sky decorated with wisps of bright clouds.

  Morning? But how…?

  A quick inventory of her senses told her she lay on broken plates of rock. Spikes of meadow grass leaned over her shoulder. Distant treetops speared the sky, ringing a clearing that sloped down and away from the lichen-studded stone under her fingertips.

  The last she remembered, she’d been riding her horse through the night and searching for her father. Alone. Lost in the no-man’s land that was the Wehrland, while branches lashed her face and snatched at her cloak. Running from…something…

  Led by…someone?

  Twin glimmers of yellow-green, luminescent,… eyes hovered on the edge of her consciousness and vanished when she tried to bring them into focus. The effort awakened a torrent of complaints from every muscle and joint in her body. Mirianna groaned.

  Had she fallen? She moved each of her limbs in turn. Finding them stiff but uninjured, she struggled to sit up, and a damp cloth dropped from her head into her lap. She stared at it while everything else pitched and rocked.

  “Would you like some tea? It’s willow bark. Good for aches.”

  Mirianna carefully raised her gaze. A boy about thirteen knelt beside her. He wore a cloth wrapped around his forehead, and his tunic, ripped over one shoulder, was russet with dried blood. All she could think of to say was, “You—you’re hurt.”

  Color rose on his pale cheeks. “I’m on the mend. You’re the one who fainted.” With a crooked grin, he proffered a bowl. “Drink this. It’ll make you feel better. I should know.”

  He’d coaxed a smile from her, and he looked harmless, so Mirianna held out her hand. When he made no move to pass her the tea, she leaned toward him and took the bowl from his grasp. His gaze, which ought to have followed her movement, remained fixed on a point somewhere near her chin.

  The blind boy.

  Apprehension thrilled along her nerves. The boy couldn’t possibly be alone. He hadn’t been alone before…

  Memories followed in a stomach-tightening rush, tumbling over one another, strange events made even stranger by this ungodly wilderness. A voice in the night, sounding from nowhere and…everywhere, terrifying her and yet—somehow—stopping her horse from bolting. A presence haunting her room at the inn, invading her dreams with vivid, erotic suggestions. A touch—a dream!—that wasn’t so much a touch but a desire made...tangible. Mirianna quivered. Her breasts swelled, and the burgeoning nipples prickled against the fabric of her bodice.

  Where was the boy’s master? Where was the Shadow Man?

  Her fingers clenched, sloshing warm liquid onto her hand. She sucked in a breath, placed the bowl on the ground, and twisted her body to find the answer.

  “So,” said the voice that made her stomach break into shards of sensation, “you do remember.”

  Mirianna forced a swallow. The Shadow Man stood so close she could smell boot leather and wool, could see black-encased thigh and calf muscles that looked as solid as the rock on which she sat. Looked solid, because underneath the black hood, gloves and all-concealing clothing had to be nothing at all but darkness.

  “I—I remember you told us the way to Ar-Deneth.” Resisting the inclination of her gaze to rise, she turned away, making a show of reaching for the tea and sipping it. Don’t look at him! Instead, she scanned the clearing for signs of her father. Be safe, Papa. Please be safe!

  “Did you make it to Ar-Deneth?” The boy leaned forward with hands on knees. “I served at the inn until a few days ago. Did you stay there?”

  “Yes.” Mirianna managed a wan smile until she remembered he couldn’t see it. She touched the back of his hand instead. “It was a very nice place.”

  “Gareth,” the Shadow Man said, “check the pack mare. See if her leg is fit.”

  A look of disappointment crossed the boy’s features, but he stood without hesitation. Staff in hand, he felt his way down the hillside toward four horses tethered below. Her own gelding, Mirianna noticed, was one of them.

  She sipped the tea, swilled it, and sipped again, forcing herself to linger over the cooling liquid. The Shadow Man’s brusque order to the boy told her he stood so close, she could almost feel the imprint of his lower legs cradling her spine. She wished he would speak or leave before the brackish tea made her vomit or her strung-tight nerves made her bolt.

  “Why didn’t you stay in Ar-Deneth?” he demanded. “Why did you have to come back?”

  His voice, though low, ripped at the shreds of her control. Not because it accused. She’d expected that. Just as she’d expected anger. And menace. What set her nerve endings vibrating was something that underlay all the rest, something she should have expected because she’d heard it before, only she hadn’t recognized it then. Nor could she quite name it now, except it bore elements of frustration. And anguish.

  She set the bowl aside. “Please understand, I wouldn’t have come, but we—my father—needed more bloodstone. Ulerroth said—the innkeeper said you were the only one who—”

  “There were three men with you. Where are they?”

  His tone brought Mirianna’s chin up, but she held her gaze fixed on the empty tea bowl. She was not going to cry. Her father was safe…somewhere. He’d been ahead of her when they escaped the ambush. “I—the clearing was full of Krad. We got separated.”

  “Krad!” The Shadow Man strode to the lip of the hillside and planted one boot on a rock.

  He stood half turned away and far enough the jangling of her nerves faded to a hum. Emboldened, Mirianna let her gaze rise. The morning sun shone full on his back, showing her the sheen of wear on the black hood, tunic and breeches that concealed every inch of his flesh but hid none of the contours. On his raised thigh she detected a tear that had been carefully mended. His gloves and boots bore the creases and scuffs of long use. Even his belt showed faintly green where the dye had faded. A sword, the broken blade extending no more than two hands’ span from the hilt, stuck out from his belt like a common thief’s dagger.

  Was this the being who’d invaded her dreams and turned them so disturbingly sensual? Was this the wraith who two nights ago had spirited the blind boy from their sight? Was this the possessor of a voice that had shaken her to the core? In the full day’s sun, he looked no more than a man, taller than some, leaner and more fit than most. Chagrinned by her fears, Mirianna rocked to her knees and made ready to rise.

  He turned at the rustle of her movement. Her gaze went automatically to his face. But there was no face to be seen. Only a shapeless drape of black cloth filled his hood where eyes and nose and mouth should be.

  Mirianna sat as if turned to stone. Horror cooled her blood, and the hair rose on every part of her body. It’s his look. One look from him—at him—and men go mad. Or die. By the Dragon, let me not die!

  Somehow, she summoned the power to close her eyes. She knew she’d succeeded only when she opened them again
and the Shadow Man no longer filled her vision. Every nerve, however, thrummed with his presence, and she knew he stood not more than three paces behind her and to the left. She knew, too, he faced the forest’s edge, his right hand gripping the scrolled hilt of the weapon in his belt. She knew all this, and more, because—somehow—he’d let her know it so she might never again forget who and what he was. Don’t worry. I won’t forget again.

  She turned slowly, like one waking from a dream, and saw what had captured his attention—three riders emerging from the trees.

  “Papa!” she choked, and stumbled to her feet to meet him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tolbert slid out of the saddle and wrapped his arms around his daughter. “Mirianna, lamb, I thought I’d lost you.”

  Mirianna pressed her face into his neck. She clung for a moment, then leaned back and let him look at her. “I’m fine, Papa. Honestly, I am. But you—” She plucked a cedar twig from his hair. Creases etched his cheeks, and a distinct grayness underlay his usual color. He looked every one of his years, and more. “You need to eat.”

  Tolbert chuckled, but the sound broke into a cough. When he recovered breath, he hugged her again and kissed her gently on the cheek. “So, lamb, do you. So do we all, now.”

  “Perhaps we can share your fire.”

  In the joy of finding her father, Mirianna had forgotten Rees and Pumble, the two men the Master of Nolar had given her father as escort. And even that dark being which stood somewhere behind her and drew Rees’s stony glare. The Master of Nolar’s man still sat his horse, and his hand hovered near his bow. Beside him, Pumble stood, sweating, his fingers twitching over the hilt of his sword. She turned slowly in her father’s arms.

  “I said,” Rees repeated, “perhaps we can share your fire, this time...Shadow.”

  The Shadow Man stood at the rock ledge, his body as motionless as a bat captured by the sun. His hand rested on the hilt of the sword in his belt, and between his gloved fingers something glinted red. His hood revealed only a drape of cloth where his face should be, yet she knew underneath every inch of that which passed for face was turned on Rees, and the air between them stretched to a brittle thinness.