Through the Veil

by Walker, Shiloh

  The gate vanished abruptly. Under his breath, Morne muttered, “I have little doubt of that.”

  He turned his head just in time to see Kalen burst through the trees. Kalen saw Lee in Morne’s arms and closed the distance between them. He grabbed Lee, and Morne let him, falling away as Kalen buried his face in Lee’s disheveled hair. “What happened?” Kalen asked, his voice muffled.

  Morne lied. It was easy, after all. He had been doing it for years and years. “I’m not sure. I felt the Veil, and as I came to investigate, the Warlord lifted the gate. He was trying to coerce Lee into coming with him.”

  “Coerce, how?”

  He lifted his hands to the mask that hid his features. Instead of pushing the fabric down and away from his face, he pulled the mask away completely. As he carefully and precisely folded the material, he replied, “That is something you would have to ask your mate, Kalen. I do not know what she was thinking.” That much at least was truth. No matter what the Warlord had told Lee, she shouldn’t have been so willing to give up her freedom. Her life. She’d already given up much to help people she still didn’t truly know. Giving up more was a price no woman should have to pay.

  That she had been willing to do so only made her that much more confusing. Fool woman, he thought darkly. Looking up, he found Kalen staring at him with troubled, angry eyes. “Watch her well, my friend. I knew they would want her, but I did not foresee a Warlord lying in wait in the forest for her.”

  He hadn’t, and it was nothing short of a miracle that Morne had arrived before she had gone near enough to the gate that the Warlord could have reached out and grabbed her. Morne had been this close to failing. He didn’t allow for failure. It just wasn’t in his makeup. “Watch her well,” he repeated and then he turned on his heel and walked away. As the forest closed up behind him, he heard Kalen barking out orders.

  Lee wasn’t going to be going anywhere without an escort, and Morne only hoped that would deter her long enough for him to figure out what to do now. Keeping her from the Warlord was going to be damn hard when she was so damned eager to get herself captured.

  Kalen’s men closed ranks around him, weapons powered up and ready. As they left the area, there was a slight rustle off to the side. For a brief moment, a face appeared in the tangled vines and greenery. Eyes narrowed and a smile came and went. Then he retreated.

  “Bleeding hells.”

  Char stood at the outskirts, listening as his men prepared for tomorrow. There would be no more delays. No attempts to reason with his daughter and convince her there needn’t be any more deaths.

  He would let a thousand offworlders die, and a thousand of his own people, before he risked harm coming to her, and the longer she was outside of his protection, the bigger the risk. That ripe, wild power in her had called out to him like a beacon, and sooner or later, some of his men would sense it as well.

  If it was a man who was less than loyal to Char, then the Daisha would be in danger.

  He heard Arnon’s footsteps and turned his head, watching as his man approached. Arnon’s hairless scalp gleamed under the flickering light of the torches, and his dark eyes seemed more inscrutable than normal.

  “The men await tomorrow anxiously, my lord.”

  Char didn’t turn away from his study of the gate. It stood off in the distance, towering into the sky a few hundred lengths away from the camp. They couldn’t settle too closely to it. The gate’s powers were greedy, and lingering too close for long periods of time was a risk.

  The gate could completely drain those around him, and the camp would be little more than a huge, walking feast. Both Sirvani and Warlord served under Char, and a good many of the Sirvani had magick talents or healing talents as well as the ability to look through the Veil. Safer all around to keep his men a good distance away.

  He stood there staring at the gate and tried to battle the unease curling through him. It was more than just his fury over his interrupted attempt to bring his daughter to him, more than just his rage at the man who had dared to interrupt. Whoever the offworld bastard was, he was going to die very shortly.

  It was more than that, though. Death was all around him. It hung in the air, but Char couldn’t tell whose death he sensed. This close to the gate, its power seemed to cloud everything, even the ugly maw of death.

  Distracted, he forgot that Arnon still awaited an answer, until the Sirvani murmured quietly, “My lord?”

  Char glanced at Arnon. The Sirvani’s gaze was dark and unreadable, and he looked as calm as though he were discussing the weather, instead of the most important raid of their time. “You will maintain order while I am gone, Arnon.”

  “Indeed.” Arnon’s lids flickered and a small smile danced around his lips. “You would be interested to know that I received some news while you were away.”

  Any man other than Arnon and Char would have dismissed him. No news save that of his daughter or his uncle interested him. However, Arnon would know this. The man seemed to know everything. “What news?”

  The smile on Arnon’s face broadened. “From my cousin, Weyr.”

  Weyr was a healer—more importantly, he was one of the few healers that Taise would allow near him. He would allow no healing magicks, but he would tolerate the occasional tonic or elixir from a select few, provided the High Lord oversaw its preparation. Weyr was one of those select few. “And how fares Weyr this morn?”

  “Busy at the High Lord’s side. The most honored one has had a brain storm—minor, but there was a second one past midnight. He refused to send word, however.”

  Unsurprising. Stroked out and on his sickbed, the old man was likely more paranoid than ever before. “That is interesting news.” Char looked back to the gate one more time.

  The power was as intense as ever, but it was no longer the strong, steady pulse it had once been. Each time they raised the gate, it became more and more unstable, starting with gatestorms that lasted longer and longer.

  The gates were stable now, and they’d stay that way even when the Sirvani lowered them again. But the next time they rose, Char had a feeling it would be the last. The previous gatestorm had been the strongest Char had ever witnessed, spilling back from Ishtan into Anqar with brutal intensity.

  Time was running out. He glanced at Arnon and asked, “The Sirvani supporting the gate, how are they?”

  Arnon bowed his head. “Steady, Warlord.”

  “Make sure they are spelled often. If they feel weary, get another Sirvani in place. I do not want the gate to so much as flicker.” Maintaining the gates was an unimaginative but exhausting task. The Warlords themselves raised the gate, but maintaining the energy required far less skill and concentration, so that task fell to the Sirvani. While it didn’t require as much strength or such a connection with the gates, it was tiring as hell. As such, it was a chore that was divided equally between teams of Sirvani.

  This particular raid was turning into the longest one ever, and Char wouldn’t let the Sirvani lower the gate until it was completely done. When he returned with his daughter, he’d let them lower the gate. If it was raised again, Char would make damn sure he was far away when it happened, because it wasn’t going to be a pleasant event. Images of what happened at the Surachi Gate came to mind. No, Char wasn’t going to be in the middle of a disaster like that, not if he could help it.

  As if the gate sensed the direction of his thoughts, Char felt a nasty surge in its power. One of the Sirvani responded immediately, reaching out with a deft, unseen hand and drawing the power back inside the gate. A talented man, that one. Char made note of his face automatically.

  Then he skimmed a gaze over the encampment. Thousands of Sirvani and Warlords had turned out for this one. A force to be reckoned with. “I trust you have heard no dissent regarding my orders last night?”

  Arnon shrugged. “Not more than I expected. A few will always grumble when they are told no women are to be touched until they are presented to you.” He paused and then slowly added, “
However, have you considered explaining why?”

  Char snorted. “And risk word getting back to the High Lord? Or worse, some of my rivals? There are many who would sacrifice much to take my place, including the assassination of a Daisha.” Crimes against a Daisha were punished severely, as Daishan were too rare and too precious. But the protection of a Daisha fell to the father, or her mate, and if that Warlord failed to protect her, he was also punished. Char had paid dearly when his daughter had first gone missing, and over the years there had been subtle, and not so subtle, comments about his failure to protect his child. She had been long since assumed dead, and many voiced their disgruntlement that Taise had refused to replace Char as his successor.

  With the High Lord’s failing health, Char was in a precarious position. None must suspect that his daughter still lived. Not until Char had brought her home and taken her back into his protection. If any knew, her safety, her status, even her life were at risk.

  “I chose your most loyal men, my lord.” Arnon looked out over the masses gathered throughout the encampment. “Each squadron leader is a man I know and would trust implicitly. It’s a hard task before you. You do not even know where to start looking.” Arnon’s lids flickered and he opened his mouth, but closed it without saying anything.

  Char didn’t bother to correct Arnon’s mistaken assumption. None need know that Char has already seen his daughter. None need know that he had been just a few heartbeats from having her back under his protection.

  By the Veil, she was lovely. She had the look of her mother, though her hair and eyes had clearly come from the Anqarian blood flowing through her veins. Her mother’s temper as well, he mused as he recalled the way her temper flared and she sent power hurtling toward the gate.

  Better off she was going to be, once Char had her safely in her homeworld. Those offworld buffoons hadn’t taught her enough for her to realize just how dangerous her actions had been. Fear had frozen him for the briefest second, yet at the same time, he’d been oddly proud. His child showed no fear. She had known what he was, who he was, and what a danger he presented. He’d sensed the fear inside her, but she hadn’t let it show, nor had she let it control her.

  Pleased, he smiled. We did well with her, Neve. It saddened him, though, to realize that the fiery, brave woman he had taken as his mate had been dead all these years. He knew little of tender emotions, yet what little experience he had had come from his brief time with Neve. He knew she had felt little for him beyond reluctant desire, but it had bothered him only a bit.

  More, it bothered him to think that all these years, their daughter had been alone. Completely alone, with no blood relative to look after her, no father to protect her and no mother to love and cuddle her. Children needed that, and fate had robbed Char’s Daisha of that. Intolerable. Just intolerable.

  “Sire?”

  Char glanced up, a bit startled. For a moment, he had forgotten Arnon’s presence. The Sirvani watched him with shuttered eyes, but Arnon had been with Char long enough that the Warlord knew when something was on his mind. He sighed and murmured, “Speak your mind, Arnon. I respect your insight.” Char turned away from the encampment and retreated back into the lodge. The inside was lavishly draped with shisilks to protect them from the heat, sun and wind. It was marginally cooler, and he had a young body slave near the bed, fanning the air back and forth with a fan made of feathers from the flightless buisk bird. The gentle breeze blew his hair back from his face and cooled the sweat forming on his body. The body slave stared at her feet; she was clad in nothing more than thin silver bands at her neck and wrists. As if she felt his gaze, the body slave shivered slightly, and Char smiled as he scented both her hunger and her fear.

  He would have liked to know her name, her birth name, not the name she had been given when brought into Anqar. But the stubborn female refused to tell him. She refused to even speak.

  “Watch over this one while I am offworld, Arnon. She pleases me,” Char murmured softly. “Make sure she wants for nothing—and no man touches her.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  Char dropped down onto the low bed and closed his eyes, relishing the cool breeze as it drifted over his body. In preparation for the raid, he had left his royal robes at the High Lord’s manse and he wore battle gear. It was finely worked and every bit as elegant, in its own way, as his robes. The fine weave of the dumir tunic allowed air to circulate underneath, keeping him moderately comfortable even in the forsaken heat of the desert, yet it was solid and impenetrable to the typical weapon. Absently, he freed the toggle closures. “I am weary now, Arnon. I shall rest.”

  The faint light filtering in through the open tent flap struck her eyes with the same painful intensity of a thousand needles. Lee whimpered pitifully and turned her head away from the light. She tried to fling an arm across her eyes, but she couldn’t even move. What happened . . . ?

  The last clear thing she remembered was Kalen, being in the woods with him. He’d pressed her back against a tree—yeah, she could still feel the abraded flesh as she shifted on the bedding. But there was no way that had left her feeling like she’d been worked over with a lead pipe.

  “Here. Drink this.”

  She lifted her lashes. Without turning her head, she could see Dais’s heavily lined face and the mug he held, just out of the corner of her eye. She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. The second she did, Lee regretted it. Pain exploded through her head and she moaned. If she could have curled up in a tiny little ball and just faded away, she would have done so.

  “I imagine that head hurts. Morne left you the tea—don’t worry, it’s not the piss you had to drink last time. This is just a soother,” Dais murmured. “Come now, Lelia. Drink. The sooner you get that pain under control, the sooner you can rejoin Kalen.”

  “What happened?”

  Slowly, she pushed up on her elbow, and when her head didn’t explode, she reached for the mug. A quick sniff eased a little of the trepidation. Her head felt like it was about to throb itself right off her neck, and even if that crap tasted as bad as the garbage Morne had made her drink the last time, she didn’t care. So long as it eased the pain in her head.

  One sip had the headache easing back even before it hit her belly. By the time she had drunk half of it, she could open her eyes without pain shooting through her head. It didn’t taste too bad either, almost like root beer, but warm and spiced. It also settled the pitching in her gut, and she relaxed back in the bedroll with a relieved sigh as she emptied the mug and let Dais take it.

  “Man, that stuff is priceless,” she murmured, unaware how thick and slow her voice had become.

  “It does the job,” Dais said. His voice had a peculiar note to it, and she turned her head, peering at him.

  He had a peculiar expression on his face as well. Faces. Two faces—no, three. They wove together into one, separated into three, two . . . “Shit,” she mumbled. She tried to touch her forehead and ended up poking herself in the eye.

  “Best to be still. That tea was brewed from the kifer weed. It slows down reflexes, affects coordination.” Dais’s face continued to swim in and out of focus, but she heard the satisfaction in his voice. Loud and clear. “Within the next few minutes, you will be unconscious.”

  “Unconscious . . . for a headache?” She heard how slurred her words were. Something was wrong. She knew it, but it was like her brain was shutting down on her. “Why?”

  Dais laughed. “It’s not for the headache. It’s for convenience. My convenience, naturally. You’re less trouble when you aren’t awake.”

  “Less . . . trouble . . ,” Lee repeated. Wake up . . . She tried to throw off the sleep clouding her brain, but she just couldn’t. Wake up . . .

  Warning alarms were starting to scream inside her head, and even then she knew something was wrong. Very . . . very . . .

  “The men are ready.”

  Char glanced at Arnon as his servant slid inside. “Doesn’t it seem that sunset comes
very slow before a raid?”

  Arnon smiled. “I would have thought that you left that kind of nervous anticipation behind a long time ago, my lord.”

  The days before raids tended to be long and fraught with tension, tension that many Warlords and Sirvani burned off through sex or mock battles. Anything that might cloud the head wasn’t allowed—no drugs, no ale or any other intoxicants. They needed that physical outlet, but the higher-ranking Warlords traditionally kept to themselves in the hours right before a raid.

  Char’s body slave lay behind him sleeping, all but dead to the world, she was so exhausted. He’d wrapped that long, fiery red hair around his hands and made her scream until she was hoarse with it before he finally brought her to completion. He’d slid his hands up and down her slender back, holding her close, but just before he would have fallen to sleep, just like that, she stiffened and shoved away from him. She’d rolled herself into a tight ball on the far edge of the low-lying bed. When he had tried to cover her with a blanket, she’d shrugged it away.

  It had been years since he had taken a woman so resistant to him. In fact, Neve was the only woman that he could recall who had resisted him quite like this. Oh, most of the body slaves were resistant at first, but people usually resigned themselves to their fate after a time. Neve never did. If she had, she wouldn’t have run away from him, taking their child.

  This woman wasn’t going to resign herself to it either. Char stared at her, feeling oddly sad. Soon he would be bringing his daughter into this harsh new life, and although she would be no slave, Char couldn’t help but wonder if she would resist her new life as strongly as her mother had. As this woman now did.

  “You look troubled, my lord.”

  Char looked over his shoulder at Arnon. “Just preoccupied. I’ve spent more than twenty years now moving to this point.”

  “Your search for your daughter,” Arnon murmured.

  Char sighed. He had enough to think about without Arnon’s all too insightful viewpoints, but the Sirvani had served Char too long. He knew better than to discount Arnon’s thoughts. Weary, he asked, “What is on your mind, Arnon?”