Bloodstone

by Johannes, Helen C.

  That promise she’d made—by Kiros, she should never have offered that much! He would never have asked it of her, but the Shadow—the damned Shadow!—had coerced it from her. And now he had to hold her to it, at least until he could figure out why the she-lion had brought her to him. What possible role could this woman have in whatever magic appeared to be unfolding? How could the she-lion—Ayliss—know about the woman he’d been dreaming of for almost as long as he’d been confined here? Hadn’t the lion appeared only days before he first encountered the woman? And this woman was human, as limited in years as the boy. She couldn’t be more than twenty. Why her? Why now? What could possibly have set in motion these events?

  Durren ran at another gap in the wall and leaped, his cloak snapping in the breeze he made, but the toe of his boot caught on something, and he landed in a sprawl. Breathing hard, he pulled his legs out of the void and leaned into the solidity of what had once been a guard tower, now roofless against the sparkling stars. He sat, absorbing the chill reality of stone, the clamminess of sweat sticking his tunic and hood to his skin.

  You can’t escape if you run in a circle, the Voice in his head said.

  He wished he could reach into his skull and silence the voice once and for all, but the damned thing that had awakened with him after the spell-blast was right. Blowing out a breath, he looked down into the courtyard. Deep shadow hid most of the rubble, and starlight gilded the walls, making them look whole where he knew full well they were not. Just as he knew full well the terms of the promise he’d brokered with the woman—her company, her presence, her companionship. Not one word of her body open beneath his, not one word of coupling, though—by Kiros!—he could think of almost nothing else. Not when every fiber of his being was trained on the chamber whose location he knew with the same surety a homing bird knows the location of its roost.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A clatter and a muffled “Ow!” brought Mirianna bolt upright and blinking in the dimness. She had the blanket clutched to her chin when she realized it wasn’t the Shadow Man but Gareth who’d toppled her barricade and sat on the floor holding his shins.

  She threw back the covers. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” He rubbed his face across drawn-up knees. “But I thought for sure I knew where the door was.”

  “You did—you do know.” Crawling to him, she ran her hands over his shins and found, to her relief, nothing worse than bumps that would likely bruise. “It’s my fault. I blocked the door.”

  “Why?”

  “Um...” She sat back on her heels. Why indeed? What could she possibly tell him that he would understand? His cheeks were still unmarred by stubble, and his voice had yet to deepen. What did he know about the desires that drove men and women? “I—it doesn’t lock, and I was afraid...”

  “My master will protect us. He drove off the Krad, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, of course.” She wanted to hug the boy to her, to shelter his innocence from all the evil in the world that lay in wait for him, for anyone who lived long enough to encounter it.

  “Well, then...” He pulled his feet under him and prepared to rise, but his eyes searched for her in the dimness. She could see a hint of fear, of doubt lurking behind his bravado. Had she put it there?

  She remembered how the Shadow Man had thrown himself between her and the lion, how he’d kept her from harm on the ramparts, how he’d risked himself for her, for the boy, for all of them with the Krad. Although his power overwhelmed Rees and Pumble, she suspected he wasn’t invulnerable. “You’re right. Your master is very brave. I guess I was just scared in the dark.”

  Gareth grinned. “Good thing you’re not blind.”

  Despite herself, despite all the turmoil of the night and the sleeplessness scratching at her eyes, she laughed. “You’re absolutely right.” Rising, she cleared away the furniture and opened the door. “Do you remember the way to the privy?”

  “I could walk it with my eyes closed.”

  Her heart lurched with tenderness, with admiration, but she covered the ache with another laugh. Ruffling his hair would probably embarrass the boy. And that would embarrass her.

  Gareth was still grinning when he set off, tapping his way across the courtyard.

  Mirianna watched him slowly but surely navigate the obstacles until the weariness of a sleepless night made her drop onto a bench and drag both hands over her face. Who was this creature who kept them here? The Shadow Man, Durren Drakkonwehr, or whoever he was, could have had her last night. She flushed, remembering how willingly she had—there was no other word for her behavior—offered herself. She’d had no rationality, no reason, no control whatsoever, and he could have taken her right there on the rampart.

  Shuddering, she ran her hands up and down her arms. He’d had the perfect opportunity, but he’d inexplicably turned her away. He could have crept into her mind, into this very chamber, but he’d stayed outside. True, she’d tried to ward him off from her dreams by staying awake, but she remembered now, in the brittle morning light, that she hadn’t been sleeping in Ar-Deneth when he’d come to her in the room that had been his. Goosebumps prickled her body.

  Mirianna shoved her hands into her hair and fastened it away from her face. Somehow, some way, the Shadow Man, Durren Drakkonwehr—whatever he was—had been part of her dreams for as long as she could remember dreaming. The realization raised another wave of gooseflesh, but she could no longer deny the connection between them. What she needed to do now was find out why it existed. And that would require another round of confrontation with a Shadow. Standing, she squared her shoulders. This time she would tackle him in the daylight. With Gareth around.

  Stepping out into the courtyard, she wondered where the Shadow Man had spent the night and if he’d spent it in any more comfort than she. By the Dragon, she hoped he felt just as bedraggled this morning. It would serve him right!

  ****

  When Durren entered the courtyard, the woman at the well started, dropping her bucket. Water splashed her legs, but she ignored it, regarding him as warily as a sheep regards a wolf. She was still afraid, he noted, but her look had become more direct, and her chin rose in an attitude of defiance.

  The thought lifted a corner of his dark mood, but he had no idea why. His head throbbed from too many hours without sleep, his eyes burned, his joints ached from a night surrounded by cold stone. Whatever solace a soak in the pool had given him yesterday had drained away entirely. He eyed the woman, noting she looked pale and drawn, her mouth pinched.

  She looks as bad as you feel, said the Voice in his head.

  Good! Serves her right. Sitting by the cook fire, he poured himself a cup of heated water and greeted the boy, who replied around a mouthful of porridge. All the while she watched from the well. He lifted his hood just enough to slip the cup under it.

  About time she sees how you live.

  Hah! If SHE weren’t here, I wouldn’t have to be so careful about keeping my face covered. The test in Ar-Deneth had proved the boy was safe, but she—she had perfect vision.

  Just whose decision was it to bring her here? the Voice in his head said. And when was the last time you unveiled in broad daylight—by choice?

  Durren choked on a swallow of water, coughed, and cleared his throat. After the first shock of the spell damage, he’d refused to look upon himself, using the pool to bathe and the tunnels to dress. Scowling, he drained the cup and removed it from his hood. That doesn’t mean I want to give up my choices.

  The woman still hadn’t moved, even to pick up the bucket. Using a spoon he found lying near the cook fire, he scooped out porridge into his empty cup. The smell of the oats, plain and humble, teased at his nostrils like a king’s banquet and he remembered he hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning. Just then, his stomach growled long and loud.

  The boy clapped a hand over his mouth, and Durren heard a sound he hadn’t heard in years. Giggling. He sat, stunned, while the boy coughed, flushed, and hung his head.
<
br />   “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t think—I mean, I didn’t know...”

  “That my stomach growls just like yours when it’s hungry?”

  The boy nodded tentatively.

  “Well, it does.” Durren set down his bowl uneaten. Amid the stress of the flight to Drakkonwehr, the Krad attack, and his preoccupation with the woman, he hadn’t given any thought to how the boy perceived him. What kind of stories had Ulerroth and the others in Ar-Deneth told him? Reaching out, he touched the boy’s knee. “Listen, Gareth, in many—most ways, I’m no different from you. You have nothing to fear from me. If my stomach makes funny noises, feel free to laugh.”

  “You won’t mind?”

  Durren considered; this was Gareth, not anyone else. He picked up his porridge. “I might laugh with you.”

  The boy’s grin lit up his face.

  A strange sensation stretched Durren’s lips and he paused, wondering what it was. It was a smile, he realized, a genuine, happy smile, not the bitter, twisted smile he’d grown so used to over the years. Only Ghost, in a periodic coltish mood, could elicit such a smile from him, and he couldn’t remember how long ago that had occurred. He ate in bemused silence, his mood lightening with the day.

  Only when the boy laid aside his empty bowl and rose did Durren notice a pensive expression had replaced his grin. Once again, Durren wondered if he should have brought a blind boy into a place fraught with so many dangers, but with the Krad active so close to Drakkonwehr, the beads had been cast: there could be no turning back now. “How are you settling in, Gareth? Finding your way around?”

  “I’ve a good memory, sir. Once or twice and I’ve got the lay of things. With a bit more time, I’ll be no trouble at all to you, sir. It’s just...”

  Durren gave thanks the boy had never learned to guard his expressions. “Tell me what’s troubling you. I’m not a mind-reader, whatever you may have heard.” He hadn’t meant to sound gruff, but the boy stirred in him odd, vaguely...protective urges. The sensations were unsettling at the least—irksome even.

  The boy chewed his lower lip, pinking the skin with faint teeth marks. “Well, I know it’s not my place to say, but...are you really going to make her stay?”

  After a moment of perplexity, Durren realized her referred to the woman and not the shelion. The boy—Kiros be thanked!—remained blissfully unaware of the lion’s existence. Frowning, he reviewed his memories of the woman and boy together. He would wager the stones he’d traded to Ulerroth the two seemed well suited. “Why? Has she been disagreeable to you?”

  “Oh no, sir! She’s nicer than Freth and Nell together. And she smells sort of...sweet. Not like mutton and ale, but like sunshine and—and flowers.”

  Like lilacs and wood smoke and...woman, said the Voice in his head.

  Blood rushed to his groin, and he fancied he could detect her scent even though his consciousness told him she still stood by the well halfway across the courtyard. By Kiros, he needed to think, not react. With a deep breath, Durren willed his eyes to open and his heartbeat to slow enough he could grasp what the boy was saying.

  “...took care of me, but...” The boy swung the top of his staff in a circle, grinding pebbles under its foot. “She thinks I don’t know, but she was crying last night.” Cocking his head in Durren’s direction, he scratched at the puckered scab over one eyebrow. “Did you know?”

  No, he did not.

  He must have said something appropriate because Gareth left to tend the horses, leaving Durren alone and feeling as if a boulder had fallen from the wall and flattened him.

  While he sat thus stupefied, the woman refilled the water pot on the coals, set aside the bucket, and sat across from him, tucking her skirt about her legs. When she raised her gaze to his hood, he realized he hadn’t even asked her name.

  Mirianna, the Voice in his head supplied. That’s what the old man called her.

  Her father. With a twist of his gut, he realized she hadn’t said anything about the old man although he suspected—now he took the time to think about it—she must miss her father terribly. Hadn’t she offered herself—made that damned promise—just to save him? Durren put down his bowl, ashamed of how he’d overlooked far too many details for far too long. “Last night,” he said, “I’m afraid I didn’t explain myself very well.”

  She sat primly on the rock Gareth had vacated, hands clasping her knees, the sole of one boot scuffing the toe of the other in a motion Durren found oddly mesmerizing. “You haven’t answered all of my questions.”

  “I don’t know all the answers.” The words had slipped out, startling him from his trance. While he’d intended to be forthcoming, he hadn’t thought to admit that much.

  Tell the truth—you haven’t thought about anything except as it affects you, said the Voice in his head. Not since Herrok-Eneth fell.

  Be still! But it was the truth, and the knife of shame twisted again in his gut. For years he’d wallowed in self-absorbed misery, blaming Syryk and Ayliss for his condition and caring for nothing except Ghost. Now the earth had shifted and everything he knew seemed to be transforming before his eyes—and not all of it pleasing to look upon.

  Face aflame, Durren made an effort to step outside himself, to look at the woman and see if he could divine her reaction.

  She chewed her lower lip but hadn’t looked away although her face paled.

  She has a warrior’s heart. She’s scared to death of you, but she won’t back down, said the Voice in his head.

  She’s braver than I am, going unarmed into something completely unknown. Having admitted that, Durren cleared his throat. “Ask, and I’ll tell you what I can.”

  “Last night...” It was her turn to look away, to clasp her hands so tightly the knuckles whitened. “What exactly do you want from me?”

  That was easy. He’d thought of nothing else all night. “Your presence. Your companionship. Your company.”

  He watched a swallow work its way down her throat. Somehow she didn’t seem as reassured as he’d expected. Didn’t she understand what that excluded? He opened his mouth, but she was already saying in a strained voice, “To live here? With you?”

  “And Gareth.” Mentioning the boy seemed important, as if his presence might somehow mitigate the situation, her fear of it.

  “For how long?”

  “I don’t know.” Something was unfolding, and she was as much a part of it as he. They had to see it through.

  “To what end? For what purpose?”

  Freedom from the spell that bound him? Death? Even that would be a release of sorts. Dare he hope for redemption? “I don’t know.”

  When her gaze shot to his face, he held it through the fabric of his hood. Her eyes were rimmed with white, and he thought she might bolt if he couldn’t find some way to anchor her. “Mirianna...” He tasted the name on his lips. The syllables rolled gently off his tongue, like soothing music. “Mirianna,” he tried the name again now he had her attention, “I’ve been here a long time, living as you see, with no change—until now. Tell me why you’re here, what brought you to the Wehrland.”

  “Are you really Durren of Drakkonwehr?”

  He took a deep breath, schooling himself to patience. She had as much to wrap her mind around as he had, if not more. “Yes.”

  “Can you really—does looking at you—can I die if I look at you?”

  He sighed. He’d spent fourteen years waiting; why should a few more moments seem so unendurable? “Mirianna, I don’t lie.”

  She shivered and rocked in her hunched position. “What happened back then? Why didn’t you die when the Stone Dam broke at Herrok-Eneth? And why do you think a lion is your sister?”

  Durren rubbed his gloved hands over his thighs and glanced at Gareth, hoping the boy hadn’t heard the note of hysteria in her voice. He seemed engrossed in grooming the horses, so Durren returned his attention to the woman. “I tried to stop a mage from raising the Dragon. When I broke his crystal, the spell—” He cast around for a
better word, but couldn’t find one. “The spell exploded, blowing out these walls. I woke up leagues away, like this.” He raised black-clad arms, lowering them when her expression told him she grasped his meaning. “The Krad destroyed everything in their path, every living thing that was left.” He stared at the ground between his boots. “From Koronolan on, the Drakkonwehrs have been charged with protecting the world from the evils of Beggeth. I failed, so I stayed here where I wouldn’t inflict harm on anyone.”

  “Except when you go to Ar-Deneth.”

  Something about the place, or her memory of it, made her shudder so violently she almost lost her perch on the rock. Puzzled, he made his reply as gentle, as reassuring as he could. “Even a creature like me has to eat.”

  “Can you die?”

  “Not by your hand or I wouldn’t have left you that knife you carry under your skirt.”

  Her flush shot much needed color into her cheeks.

  He wondered what discomfited her more, shame at having been caught thinking of harming him or embarrassment at knowing he’d seen so much of her bare leg. The sudden image of a long alabaster thigh sent a rush of blood to his groin, and he squirmed on the stone. By Kiros! He had all he could do to keep her from bolting as it was.

  “Believe me, Mirianna, I’ve often thought the world would be better off if I had died. But I didn’t, and now I’m beginning to think there may be a reason why after all.”

  “Because something’s changed? Is that why you think the lion is your sister?”

  She keeps her head, the Voice in his head said. She’s scared, but she’s still thinking.

  Yes, she’s smart.

  Smart and brave. Not your typical woman.

  Yes! Now, be still! Durren focused on the woman, on how she watched him with those wary turquoise eyes. “The lion first appeared to me a few days before I visited Ar-Deneth. Nothing has been the same since.”

  She licked her lips, looked down at her boot toes, rocked them up and down before glancing up under her lashes. “Even...the dream?” She flushed scarlet and balled her skirt in her fists, but she kept her gaze on him.