VirtualWarrior

by Ann Lawrence

  With a sniff she determined it was not the stuff in the cupboard that gave off the seductive scent.

  Cool air washed over her, bringing the strange scent again.

  She waved the candle back and forth before the cupboard’s shelves and watched the flame flicker. The breeze came from the back of the cupboard.

  A line of uneven wood ran along the corner. She followed it with her eye and realized the back of the cupboard was actually a small door with what looked like a bent nail as its latch. A tug on the nail caused the shelves to swing forward away from the back wall. Before her yawned a dark, narrow space.

  With a backward glance to assure herself that Cidre’s herbarium door was closed, she stepped through the cupboard. To her right was a winding staircase. The air was filled with the unusual spicy scent. She mounted the steps.

  The scent of the forest mingled with the spice the higher she climbed. The air grew cooler, the way more narrow. Her shoulders brushed the walls. She knew that a staircase such as this was often the one used by masons to carry materials to the higher levels as a fortress was built. But this passage was not closed off as the ones in her fortress were, nor dusty with disuse.

  Nay, the scent of fecund earth and plants grew stronger the higher she went, twisting into the upper reaches of the hall. The exotic scent filled her head.

  Another door, this one with an ordinary iron latch, opened quietly on well-oiled hinges and gave entry to the upper reaches of the fortress.

  When she lifted the meager light of the candle up high, she gasped. Here, in this hidden space, was the rest of Cidre’s tree. Far overhead, almost disappearing in the black shadows, was the flat roof of the fortress, the roof whose lines could be seen from the hill on approach. And here, confined and twisted, bent down in ponderous majesty, did the mighty branches end.

  Here were the leaves, big as her hand, some even as large as meat platters. Flowered vines wrapped around the majestic arms. The scent of moist earth drew her forward in wonder. With the candle held high, she walked across the attic floor, which was deep with loam formed from generations of leaves falling and decaying. How did the monolithic tree survive without sunlight?

  She touched a bright white flower that gleamed in the light. Nestled in the petals were two red centers as shiny as gems. She held the flower close and breathed deeply of its scent. Herein was the source of the exotic smell.

  She wove her way between the branches that erupted from the earth and the lovely entwining vines that looped over limbs and draped the air in every open space.

  Closer to the heart of the tree, her candle lighted only a small circle of the darkness, a circle she carried with her, a warm circle in the cool and lovely space. She thought of the labyrinth beneath her fortress and thought that Cidre had her own here above her hall.

  Ardra stood still. She was at the heart of the tree. Was it her imagination that she could hear its throbbing beat? A rustling sound drew her around the thick central trunk.

  Lien reclined there on a twist of matted branches. He had put off his pilgrim robe and wore only breeches and boots. His breeches hugged his lean limbs. She could not tear her gaze from his spread thighs.

  “Lien,” she said, her mouth dry, as dry as it had been the first time he had touched her with passion.

  Smaller branches, still thick and smooth, supported his arms like a throne might. She stood by his feet, her heartbeat echoing in her ears.

  He smiled. How tempting his lips looked. She remembered how they felt on every part of her body.

  “Come here, Ardra,” he said. His voice held the husky quality of passion.

  “I cannot, Lien. You have made a pilgrim vow. You do not want me. And I have offered myself to Samoht.”

  “Come here,” he whispered.

  Her candle hissed and flickered in a stir of air that rustled the leaves and lifted her hair.

  Though the air was almost cold in the attic forest, sweat dripped down Lien’s brow. She watched a single drop trace the hard line of his jaw, follow the long, smooth skin of his neck, and course between the honed muscles of his chest. It moved slowly, so very, very slowly, before it disappeared into the line of dark hair at his waist. She took a shuddering breath along with a step back.

  She tipped some wax on a broad branch and set her candle down.

  “Come here, Ardra,” he repeated.

  She stepped between his feet. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “How could you choose the pilgrim way? I can never touch you again.”

  “Come here.” He lifted his hand to her.

  “I can never touch you again,” she repeated.

  A vine slipped from a branch. It dropped across his upper arm and wrapped around it to conceal the snake design there.

  Suddenly he was naked, though he had not moved.

  Her throat was as dry as the Scorched Plain. Her head pounded. The cloying greenery and flower scents were as tangible as a taste. She closed her eyes. Opened them. He was still naked—and aroused.

  Another vine shifted and dropped onto his hip, and she gasped as it teased his groin, ran down his thigh, and wrapped around him just above his knee.

  “Lien. Move, Lien.” When he merely stared at her, she wondered if she had said the words aloud.

  “Lien. Move. Now.” She stepped within the embrace of his thighs and pulled at his arm, but she was too weak—and he too strong. The vines shifted and slithered around him. “Now, Lien. Now. Please move.” She grabbed his hand. A vine dropped on her wrist and whipped around her arm and his.

  “Lien!” she cried, but he only stared at her.

  Vines looped around her arm, hips, and waist.

  His eyes were glazed, staring, the centers so huge they resembled Cidre’s Black Eye.

  “Lien, help me!” She slapped his face with her free hand.

  Bark scraped her palm.

  He was gone. Vanished in one heartbeat.

  “Nay,” she cried, too late to break away from the tree. The vines tightened about her waist. More vines dropped upon her, entwining her as they had appeared to entwine him. The slick vines pulled her closer and closer to the trunk. Its bark grazed her cheek.

  Finally, the rustle of foliage fell silent. Her candle hissed and died.

  Ardra wept. She would die here. Lost in the darkness, her fate unknown to anyone. And surely ‘twas her enchantment with Lien that had drawn her into this cold embrace.

  Lien knew the shackles weren’t for mattress games. Venrali might agree to a little bondage, but the chains Lien coiled back into Cidre’s box were a serious set of tools for holding someone hostage.

  They were not a game.

  He opened a door he found behind a tapestry depicting the Tangled Wood. It was a private privy. Like the more public one he used, it was a simple wooden seat on a stone box with a chute to the deep, silent recesses of the earth. Some clever ventilation system kept the room smelling pretty innocuous.

  Scented dishes of oil burned in wall niches. A table held cloths, soaps, a basin, and a pitcher of water for cleanliness. He poked around some bottles filled with flowery scents but doubted Cidre would keep the vial where Venrali might use it.

  He returned to the hall, but there was still no Ardra.

  Venrali and Samoht continued their argument, Einalem and Cidre their nursing duties. Ralen moved among his men.

  Ollach offered Ralen a goblet of wine, and Lien noticed that Ralen’s good hand shook as he drank while his broken arm was now splinted and tightly wrapped in clean bandages.

  A serving woman passed with a tray of folded material.

  “May I have one?” Lien asked, snagging a length of cloth.

  She shrugged and continued on. Lien folded the linen, which he assumed someone was going to cut into bandages, and walked over to Ralen.

  “This might make your arm more comfortable.” He didn’t wait for permission but slid the sling under Ralen’s injured arm.

  “Where’s Ardra?” Lien spoke softly so only the w
arrior could hear. “I can’t find her.”

  Ralen scanned the hall while Lien tied the sling over his shoulder. “I have not seen her, but Samoht has not moved.”

  “Yeah. But he has a bevy of guards at his command.”

  “Granted.”

  Lien left Ralen and decided to search the kitchen next. Ardra wasn’t stirring soup and hadn’t been through there, according to one cook. He went down to the storerooms, snagging an apple, then headed deeper into the depths of the fortress, peeking in various rooms. Most were simply for storage.

  In one room he found a young girl sitting alone. Although this area of the fortress seemed reserved for sacks of grain and hanging slabs of smoked meat, hers was fitted up as a bedroom. He knew her in an instant. It was the beautiful young woman Cidre had spirited away on their first night at the fortress—Ywri. Lien thought of her hidden here for the length of their visit.

  She was stitching on a length of cloth, a candle by her side, even though if she’d gone upstairs, she could have worked in bright sunlight.

  When he pushed her door back, she stood up and stared at him, her mouth slightly open. She was beautiful. Her breasts were very large, her waist tiny, her hair coiled and twisted with multicolored ribbons. She was all dressed up with no place to go.

  Her eyes were as vacant as a deer’s caught in headlights.

  “Hi.” He smiled to reassure her he was harmless. “I’m looking for Ardra. Have you seen her?”

  “Ardra? The one with the golden eyes? Her face is dirty.” Her voice was low and soft.

  “That’s her.”

  The young woman smiled. “I have seen her. She went into the herbarium. I have a new gown.” She held her green skirt out with both hands and turned for his inspection.

  “It’s very pretty,” he said.

  “My name is Ywri. It means pretty.”

  “I have to go now,” Lien said.

  She sat down, picked up her sewing, and began to hum. Slowly Lien backed out of the room.

  The lower levels of the fortress were deserted. Lien went straight to the herbarium.

  “Ardra?” he said and pulled open the door to Cidre’s special place. Immediately he smelled rotting foliage. It was a thick, cloying scent in the small room and originated from behind a cupboard door. When he pulled it open, he gagged. Before him was a dark, narrow staircase, filled with the fetid smell. Cold air swirled down the steps.

  A heat pulsed through his arm. It coiled on his tattoo. He went back into the herbarium and grabbed a candle.

  When he stepped into the cupboard, a gust of noxious air blew the small flame out. He retreated a moment, then went back into the passageway and took down a torch. It smoked and hissed at his ear while he climbed the narrow steps. The rotting odor grew more powerful. His heart began to pound. He drew up the loose neck of his robe and covered his mouth and nose.

  At the top of the steps, a small door stood open. A white animal, almost a rat but not quite, ran past him and down the steps.

  Blood pounded in his temples.

  He coughed and pushed past the door. The light of his torch lit only a tiny corner of what he suspected was an attic the size of Cidre’s hall. It was filled with the rest of Cidre’s tree. It burst from a floor covered in muddy soil, and then crowded the attic with tortuously twisted branches. Vines draped over every available space. He had to duck to prevent them from touching his skin.

  The rotting scent was nearly unbearable as he moved cautiously through the maze of limbs and vines.

  The white flowers hanging on the vines were spotted brown and black, dripping slime on the muddy ground. Small rodents scurried away from his boots.

  “Ardra,” he called. His tattoo pulsed like Ardra’s heartbeat. He forced himself deeper into the attic.

  He found the heart of the tree where the limbs sprouted in twisting profusion. A moan came to him over the rustle of leaves.

  “Ardra.” He stared a moment. She looked as if she had been spun into a dark green web. Her head sagged to the side. He touched her throat. Her pulse throbbed. “Thank God,” he whispered.

  He tore at the vines with his fingers. They resisted every effort. When she groaned, he realized that every time he pulled on a vine, it tightened up as if punishing her for his actions. He set the tip of the torch’s flame to one thick vine.

  It recoiled and shifted. He ruthlessly held the torch to the thicker vines. They slithered back like snakes, releasing her. Ardra sagged against the tree. He wrapped one arm around her waist and took her weight against his shoulder.

  Finally only one vine, a thick one about her ankle, shackled her to the tree. He was afraid to lay her down in the slimy mud or bring the torch too close to her foot. He jerked off her slipper and made a hard pull. Her small foot slipped from the vine’s possession.

  He stumbled back. He scooped her and the torch into his arms and hurried toward the staircase.

  The leaves rustled and splattered them with the rotting-flower slime. His rash throbbed and pulsed with every step.

  Ardra looped her arms about his neck. He feared the tree would stop them from reaching the steps as vines slipped from branches and the rotting flowers rained slime down on them.

  He waved the torch back and forth, singeing vines, then burst through the door and half slid down the steps. In the herbarium, he paused to close the door.

  Ardra murmured his name the instant they left the herbarium. He carried her through the kitchen, now filled with workers tending pots. Though they stared, no one tried to stop him as he burst from their domain and out into the gardens.

  When the cold air hit them, she opened her eyes. “Lien. I cannot have you.”

  “I know,” he said softly.

  “I have offered myself to Samoht.” Her eyes fluttered shut.

  Sweet God. Samoht.

  Without stopping, he carried Ardra to the lake and into it. He walked straight ahead until only her head was above the water. He dunked her beneath the cold, clear water and said a fervent prayer of thanks when she came up spluttering and gasping for air.

  He took her face in his hands and kissed her hard. Then he remembered what he wore and what she had done. He set her away.

  “Lien?” She stumbled on her skirt and went under. He hauled her upright and helped her slosh back to the pebble beach. They stood there in water to their knees, chests heaving, staring at one another.

  “What took you to the attic?” he asked.

  She smoothed her wet hair from her face. “You were there. Sitting among the branches. When I…went close…you were gone.”

  “What possessed you to enter such a rotting, vile place?” He shook her by the shoulders.

  She tipped her head. “Rotting? It was beautiful. Filled with the white flowers,” she pointed to the vines draping the outer walls of Cidre’s fortress, “and the sweet scent of perfume.”

  “Ardra. When I found you, you were lashed to a rotting tree. The flowers were rotting, the vines, the place reeked of slime. You were—”

  “Cidre.” She turned away and splashed water on her face. “Deleh gave me a drink of milk and honey. She said Cidre put something in it to give me strength.”

  “So it wasn’t magic. You were drugged to see what Cidre wanted you to see. I’m sure that if she wanted me in her attic, she’d make sure I had something to help me enjoy the experience, too.”

  Ardra walked toward him. Her dress was heavier than Einalem’s had been back at the stream, but wet, this woman beat Einalem hands down. She was as slim as a wand, her breasts firm mounds which he knew fit in his palms as if created for him. He ruthlessly pushed the intrusive thoughts aside.

  “You said some stuff when I carried you out of there.” His tongue felt too large for his mouth. “Is it true?”

  “What?” She gathered her hair and wrung out the water.

  “That you’ve offered yourself to Samoht.”

  She splashed water on her face but did not look at him, and he knew her words had n
ot been the ramblings of an semiconscious woman.

  “I had to do it,” she said.

  “No, you did not.”

  “There are no more choices, Lien. And he has not agreed. He is weighing my worth.”

  Lien gripped her arms. “Weighing your worth? Fuck him. You’re worth a hundred of him. Ardra, don’t do this.”

  She jerked out of his embrace. “You lost the right to tell me what to do when you put on that robe. You can protect me if you feel the need, but that’s all.”

  He got a grip on his anger. They stood together in the cold water, hot emotions sizzling between them, and he was powerless to do anything about it. “I know this sounds crazy, but I don’t want Cidre to know that she succeeded in getting you trapped in the attic, or that I took you out. I don’t know why, but I want to keep her guessing. There’s a young woman who saw me—”

  “Ywri. Lovely, but simple?” She held out her wet skirts with a scowl. Water lapped their knees. “She saw me too.”

  “I asked after you, and she’s the one who directed me.” Their eyes met. “Ardra, I know you’re thinking what I’m thinking.”

  “Aye,” she whispered. She dropped her hem and put out her hand as if harsh words hadn’t come between them.

  He entwined his fingers with hers. “She’s innocent, Ardra. Beautiful. A man wouldn’t expect her to do anything deceitful.”

  “She might offer a drink…food, and a man might take it.”

  “Yes. He might.”

  “And if she offered a kiss after?”

  “We have to talk to Nilrem.”

  Lien tugged Ardra through the water toward the pebbly beach.

  “Lien! What are you doing?” Ollach stood near the shore like a disapproving nanny.

  Lien dropped Ardra’s hand, bent down, and splashed water on his face. “Say we had dragon venom on us. Say it was burning your skin.”

  “And if no one believes us?” Ardra did as he had, washing her face and neck.

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “We have that same expression here. We say we will jump that fence when we get to it.” She stumbled on her long skirt.

  He took her elbow. “Ardra, where do you get those little expressions?”