“Cow?” Both men looked perplexed.
“Cow.” Crap. What other names for cows were there? “Cattle? Bull? Steer? Holstein?”
“Kine? The Kine are gone, M’Lady, as are all the old species. Those that had been changed by the hand of man did not survive the cataclysm. Only the old races survived.”
Cataclysm. Old races. Like Elves. Marylin stared at those pointed ears. No. She would not, could not believe this was real. She needed to wake up. She needed to wake up now. Maybe now was the time to panic. Yeah. Panic was a real possibility.
“We have other meat,” the one who claimed to be her husband offered, his voice attempting to soothe her. “Do no’ fear. Ye will no’ go hungry here, my love.” Roanen lifted his chin, and Shammall immediately disappeared beneath the hide that covered the doorway.
Marylin turned her attention back to Roanen. Her panic subsided. It was so hard to stay detached when a man looked at you like that. Would it hurt if she touched him? He wasn’t real, after all. None of this was real. “That’s hard on your knees. Sit beside me here and tell me everything.”
He sat carefully, not quite touching her, hesitant, as if afraid she might break. “Ayailla, I—we—I am sorry, my love. We—we lost the baby. It could no’ be helped. For a time I thought we had lost thee as well. Nafésti, their High Priestess, is very powerful. We were lucky to escape with our lives, any of us. I—the Mage brought ye back for me. I—I should not have asked it of him, I know, nor of ye, but I had no desire to live without ye by my side. I know ‘tis forbidden, once the spirit has left the body, but there was no time sooner, no’ in the midst of battle, and I thought ye could no’ be too far away just yet. ‘Twas wrong of me, I know, and selfish, but I need ye here with me.”
Baby?
Tears formed along the lines of her lashes, threatening to spill over. Her dreams had turned dark and cruel. She blinked them away, trying to maintain some coherent thought. No dream went like this. But if it wasn’t a dream, if this Warrior was real, he must be insane. Or was she the crazy one for even thinking this might be real?
The only thing that made any sense was the one thing she couldn’t tell him. She was Marylin. She needed to be Marylin. But she couldn’t be. Not now. He needed her to be Ayailla. Roanen was at the edge of his sanity, of that she was sure. She didn’t have to be a member of the Psych Department to figure that out. A wrong word from her would destroy him. Her heart would have to have been made of stone not to be moved by the man’s grief. They would deal with who she was and what had happened to Ayailla and the baby some other time. For now, there was healing to be done, and that, at least, was something Marylin understood. She opened her arms to the huge bear of a man, offering what comfort she could.
The tears she’d sensed in him broke free to trail unobstructed down his cheeks as he collapsed against her, sobs shaking his frame. She wound her arms around him as best she could, though the battle accoutrements were a bit in the way. She wanted to tell him everything would be all right, there would be other babies, but that was a lie she could not manage. She was not Ayailla. If this wasn’t a dream, if Mage’s and Summoning and Elves really existed, then whatever the Mage had done had gone horribly wrong. She was not supposed to be here, wherever here was, she was not Ayailla, and she was much too old for babies. The thought of the babies she’d never borne lent her a grief of her own. Their tears mingled until she could not tell them apart.
Was it wrong to let Roanen think, even for these few minutes, that his wife had come back to him? Was she hurting him even more by not telling him who she was and that there was, perhaps, a good reason why what he had done was forbidden?
Right now she wanted to be Ayailla. She wanted this to be real. More than anything, she wanted to be the woman this man loved enough to have mourned her so desperately that he was willing to follow her past the limits of time and even death itself.
She was going crazy. This was a dream, a nightmare brought on by overindulgence in Amaretto. She was going to wake up with one mother of a hangover, alone once again. Damn it. Even the man in her dreams was in love with someone she wasn’t, someone she could never be. She had to wake up, before she let herself become the woman Roanen needed. Before she lost her heart to a fantasy man who didn’t exist, and if he did exist, would not, could not see her for who she was.
Damn it, if he’d only loved her like that, she would have embraced the fantasy with all her heart. What was it Gray had said? We’re too good for this reality! We would have to go to an alternate universe, back in time, another planet or something, to find people who are good enough for us…
This wasn’t fair! Gray was right. She deserved a man who would love her the way Roanen had loved Ayailla. She was ready. Whatever alternative reality this was, she was ready to lose herself in this dream. What was there to a name? She could be Ayailla. Could play the part well enough to comfort him now when he needed her the most.
Would it matter so much that he had loved another before? He might notice the differences, and if he asked, she might try to explain that she had once been someone else, in another time, another place. Surely a man who loved like this would forgive her such a simple deception. He had summoned her, after all. Would it be so wrong to let him think she was who he wanted her to be? Was it so wrong to take what she needed from a man who seemed more than willing to give?
But she’d seen his face when he told her about the child they’d lost. He wanted babies. She couldn’t give him that. She wasn’t Ayailla, and it would do her no good to pretend she was. Just about the time she gave herself up to this fantasy, everyone would realize the truth, and she’d be alone again, heartbroken once more, trapped in a reality even worse than her own.
No. She couldn’t do that to herself or this fantasy man. Whether he was real or just a figment of too much Amaretto, he deserved better. She deserved better. She wanted what he had to offer, but not like this. Not with a man who only loved her because he thought she was someone else.
She had to tell him.
Just not right this minute.
The curtain-door opened as the Mage Shammall reentered the room. He would be able to see Roanen had been crying. Marylin wished she had a damp cloth to wipe the big man’s face. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than a scrap of toweling appeared on her fingertips. Fuck. Not cold water! That was for headaches, damn it. Warm! Soothing, not a frickin’ iceberg. As if in apology, the cloth quickly adjusted to body temperature.
Whoa. The Mage wasn’t even close. He couldn’t have done that.
Marylin’s hand shook as she raised it to wipe Roanen’s cheeks. “Can’t have you looking uncared for, can we? You look like you’re still wearing half the battlefield.”
Roanen smiled, turning his cheek against the fingers that held the cloth, nuzzling her hand for a moment before he turned to the Mage. “Have ye heard anything?”
“Nothing, M’Lord. The enemy seems to have melted into the ground. I fear they are but regrouping, readying a counterattack. As soon as I am able I will do reconnaissance.”
“No, Shammall. I can no’ ask that of ye. I know what this has cost thee. Ye must rest. Tomorrow will have to be soon enough.”
She hadn’t really looked at the Mage before. Not up close. Now that she was over the initial shock of—of whatever had happened to her—she wasn’t quite ready to believe in Mages and summoning yet—she realized he looked tired. His mask of indifference hid more than just his emotions from those around him. She had to look hard to see the fine lines of strain around his eyes, the stoic set of his shoulders that kept them from bowing with exhaustion.
Well, perhaps there was more than one reason whatever the Mage had done was forbidden.
Marylin sat up, bracing herself against the headboard, tugging at the edges of the hide. They could have at least fetched her a robe, or a nightgown, or something. At the thought, a long silken robe of deep burgundy enveloped her. All right. Marylin took a deep breath. It wasn’t the Mage. Som
ehow she had done that herself, with just her thoughts. Whatever dream this was, she was going to have to be careful what she wished for. Some thoughts could be downright dangerous if allowed to become reality.
Marylin glanced at the tray the Mage carried and had to suppress her laughter. Two pieces of bread, looking like a small loaf carved in half, with a slab of some sort of meat between them, and a mug of milk with a froth to it, as if its original container had been shaken hard before its contents had been poured into the mug. One taste had her setting the mug aside. It was white. But there the similarity to milk ended. Goats’ milk maybe? She would also have to be careful what she asked of the Mage.
She shook her head. She was falling into the habit of thinking of this world as reality all too easily. No. She could not allow that. Had to maintain some hold on her sanity. She leaned forward to place a light, affectionate kiss on Roanen’s cheek. “Would you give me a few minutes alone with the Mage, please, Roanen?”
Roanen glanced at the Mage, whose already fair face paled at the suggestion. Did Roanen look just a little guilty, like one brother running away while the other faced punishment? “Aye, M’Lady. As ye wish.”
Seated, she could almost forget how huge Roanen was, but as he moved to stand over her, bending down for a moment to press his lips to her cheek, she was once again amazed by the sheer massiveness of him. And yet one word from her, she was certain, would bring him to his knees.
She would not say the word. Not in front of him. Would not destroy the hope he clung to. To have loved as he had, and to have lost the woman he loved, only to see her brought back…she could not destroy that. Not with one killing blow.
For the Mage, however, she felt no such protective instinct. Marylin turned to glare at Shammall as the curtain fell shut. She gestured to the spot beside her which Roanen had just vacated. “Come here.”
In one stride, the Mage was beside her, kneeling as if in supplication, his hands extended, palms up, his hair a shield around his face as he bowed low enough to let its ends brush the dirt floor. “I live but to serve you, M’Lady.”
Holy fucking Christ. What was she? Some sort of a goddess? “Stop that, damn it!” she hissed. “Get up from there!”
Oh, good grief! Evidently that was the wrong thing to say. The Mage rocked back on his heels, tossing his hair over his shoulders as he raised his eyes to meet hers. Had she thought his face impassive? Nothing could be further from the truth. He couldn’t have looked more remorseful. The strain of whatever he had done was catching up to him. Another moment and he, too, would be sobbing in her arms. “Forgive me, M’Lady. I have failed you twice over this day. Whatever your judgment, I shall accept your punishment.”
Punishment? What sort of punishment might he be expecting to look so mortified? Would Ayailla have had him flogged? Marylin did her best to suppress the images that flew to her mind, remembering the robe and the washcloth. If what she thought became real, anger could be very, very dangerous in this reality. “I’m not angry with you, Shammall.” She said it out loud, in case the supplier of clothes was handy and listening. “I’m—do you know what you have done? Do you understand at all what’s happened?”
“I have failed you, M’Lady.”
He repeated it like a litany. Marylin sighed. “Fine. You have failed me. Only you haven’t. You have failed someone called Ayailla. I’m not Ayailla. I’m Marylin. I’m from the planet Earth in the twenty-first century. Wherever, whenever, this is, I don’t belong here. And that man out there thinks you’ve given him his wife back. But I’m not his wife, and when he figures that out it’s going to destroy him. He’s already lost his wife and his unborn child. You cannot allow him to face her loss twice. You have to fix this! Whatever you’ve done, you have to fix it now!”
The Mage raised his head, his eyes growing wider as he absorbed her meaning. “I—M’Lady, I—if what you say is true, I know not—I cannot—by the gods! What have I done?”
Humor pulled at her lips at the Mage’s obvious consternation. “You, Shammall, have fucked up big time.”
“Fucked up big time?” the Mage repeated incredulously. “Mother Earth forgive me. I know not what these words mean, but I can clearly understand the sentiment. What would you have me do, M’Lady?”
“Christ! Do? How should I know? I don’t know how you got me here, so how can I tell you how to put me back?”
“Put you back?” He blinked, slowly, staring at her as if she’d gone daft. “You wish to return to the realm of the dead, then, M’Lady?”
“Dead?”
“Aye.”
“I wasn’t dead, you idiot! I was a little tipsy, perhaps, but not dead! I was—”
“Dead.”
“No! I remember…” What did she remember? She’d been talking to Gray. He’d gone off. Left her there on the settee in front of the fire. Warm. Too warm. She’d downed the last of the Amaretto, looking for courage at the bottom of the bottle. Gone to find Gray, to tell him what she’d wanted to all those years ago. She remembered the ocean, the waves. Could she have—No. She’d been drunk, but not drunk enough to have accidentally killed herself. No. She’d gone back to her room. She’d dreamed of her lover. The one who looked suspiciously like Roanen.
“I can’t be dead. A little drunk, maybe. But not dead. The last thing I remember was the waves washing over my feet. The storm had passed and the moonlight was shimmering over the waves. It was so beautiful… I must have passed out once I got back to my room.”
“I left my body behind, Mistress, and went in search of Ayailla among the newly departed in the spirit world. I sent forth the summoning, a projection of Lord Lindall’s message, among the spirits there. Most could not see or hear my message. They were too lost in their own cares. One spirit, and one alone, answered. Your spirit answered my call. I did not question your right to come with me. You looked like Ayailla, or as much like her as a woman with no body could. I did not drag you here against your will. Your spirit came to me. You answered the summoning.”
No. She wasn’t dead. He was lying. He was—he had tricked her somehow. Or Roanen had. Unless… “What—” Marylin swallowed hard and tried again. “What was the message? Roanen’s Summoning?”
The Mage closed his eyes and lowered his head, his hand finding hers, brushing her with the tips of long, sensitive fingers. She felt, more than heard, the image the Mage shared.
It was dark. The mists slowly parted to reveal a dark figure, a man, dressed in chain maille that had seen too much battle, kneeling beside a body that might have been hers. The man raising his head to look directly at her, eyes filled with despair.
Come back to me, my love. I need you.
The plea shook her. She hadn’t head his voice, not precisely. Rather it was as if she could feel his words in her head.
Come back to me.
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she reached into the mist. “Roanen,” Ayailla whispered. The vision faded, leaving her wanting, reaching for him. “Any time, anywhere, any way I could, I’d have answered his summoning.”
Chapter Two
“Where are we? When are we? What happened?”
“Where would be Earth, M’Lady, though not the Earth you knew. When would be 2456, in the way you count the years. Earth as you knew her was changed by the Great Cataclysm. She grew hot for a time, very hot. The poles melted. The waters rose. After the Cataclysm the ice came. The ice saved us, else there would be no habitable lands left. Those races who survived once again populate the oldest lands, lands that were their homes long ago. Specifically the place where we are now is called the Northlands, part of what was once known as Europe, at the Pass of Saint Greg—George.”
The Mage actually blushed as he stumbled over the name. Once again Marylin wondered who Ayailla had been, and why these men feared her so.
“I am sorry, M’Lady, but I can no more undo what we have done than I could turn back the hands of time. The only release I could give you would be to free your spirit by ending this
body’s life once more. Should you make that choice I would willingly accompany you rather than face the end I would suffer at Lord Lindall’s hands.”
“We cannot lie to Roanen. Nor will I steal another woman’s love. He deserves more. She deserves more!”
“Lord Lindall deserved to die in battle at Ayailla’s side, M’Lady, as the fates decreed. Lady Ayailla gave her life to save his. Even if I could, I would not take that away from her. To do so would make her death meaningless.”
“Can you not simply swap us back? Find Ayailla and exchange us so Roanen might never fully understand what has happened?”
“M’Lady, do you not understand? There is nothing to exchange. You answered my summons. Only one spirit could have done so. You are Ayailla.”
“I am Marylin! Marylin!” she shrieked. Damn the man! No wonder Ayailla had thought to have him flogged! Marylin raised her hand as if to strike him, but as she moved lightning flew from her fingertips. The room filled with the smell of burning hair and singed cloth. The Mage moved, but not fast enough. The fire spread quickly from his hastily discarded robe to the carpets covering the floor, then to the tent itself.
“Ayeeee!” Marylin shrieked as the room went up in flames around her. She raised her hands to the gods in fists of fury. “Why! Why have you done this to me?” Thunder cracked and angry gray clouds opened, sending a downpour to drench the flames where the tent had stood moments before. “I am Marylin! Marylin!”
* * * * *
Roanen stared at the smoldering ruins of his tent and the woman kneeling in its midst, rain running in rivulets down her face, her beautiful burgundy gown singed and smudged with mud and ashes. “That went well.”
Shammall merely nodded, passing a hand over the burns in his smoldering robe to repair the damage. “About as well as could be expected. It may take her some time to adjust, M’Lord.”
“Aye. Speaking of time, I’m thinking this might be a good time for ye to do that reconnaissance, Mage. The farther ye are away for now, the better.”
Threshold Volume 2 Page 3
