“Had we another Shaman, Ayailla could have been put into stasis until she was healed,” Roanen explained. “But the war has depleted our numbers. We had but Ayailla and Shammall on our side. Shammall could no’ get to her in time.”
The Mage looked dead on his feet, ready to pass out from exhaustion. She should let him go, but she had to know. Had to understand the rest. “The Misuse of Magic?”
Shammall blushed, bringing a slight color to his pale cheeks. “I could have called her back, M’Lady, even though her spirit had slipped away from her body, had I but reached her sooner. I tried. I—the enemy was too strong. They knew what I was about. Nafésti herself made it her mission to keep me from Ayailla’s body. I was not strong enough to defeat her. Only after our Warriors had pushed the enemy back through the gap could I go to Ayailla. And when I called her, she was already too far away. She could not come back.”
“Perhaps,” Marylin thought aloud as she chewed her lip, “She did not want to come back.”
A look like fear crossed the pale one’s face, but whatever he had thought to say got lost as he crumpled slowly to the ground.
* * * * *
Marylin could feel the Mage’s exhaustion, like a palpable thing, a cloak laid over the slight shadow that was his body. As if from a great ways away she watched herself gather the tall, pale body into her arms. Was this real? Or was she once again part of the dreaming?
Whatever he had done, there was no true evil in the Mage. She sensed he would give his life for her if the need arose. Whatever, wherever this reality, it was the Mage’s reality too. Ayailla would have known how to help him, heal him. If only she could remember, could find more of Ayailla within herself.
Perhaps she was all there was left of Ayailla. In any case, she was here, she was now, and she would have to figure this out on her own. She sensed the Mage was not injured, but only drained. A thought occurred to her—a silly thought. Marylin had to suppress a giggle as she bent over the crumpled form. Kiss it and make it better? So childish. But it was worth a try. She laid her lips against the Mage’s temple, thoughts of comfort and ease flowing through her mind.
The laughter died on her lips. She could feel the energy flow to him. Easy, easy now. Remember the tent. She needed to heal him, not cook him. Cool, healing thoughts, like a gentle breeze in the spring.
The Mage stirred under her touch, dragging in a deep breath. Color began to return to his face. Marylin pulled back enough to watch the Mage wake up, though she let her fingers frame his temples. She could still feel the energy flowing through her fingertips, a low, steady stream. His eyes fluttered open. Funny. She’d not noticed the color before. Deep lavender.
“M’Lady! You must not! I cannot allow you to drain yourself so.”
Marylin laughed at that. “What have you to say about it, Mage? When you’re strong enough to fight me, you will not need what I give you any more.”
As if to prove her words, Shammall raised his hand, wrapping his fingers around her wrist, but he could not break her touch. He had the strength of a small kitten. Marylin let the smile turn to laughter on her lips. “Teach me, Mage. There is power in me. Teach me how to harness this power. Teach me how to heal, without burning down the tent again. Give me something more than instinct to guide my hands.”
Shammall’s gaze flicked to Roanen, who stood slightly back, his face a mask of concern. Roanen nodded slightly. “‘Tis time. We need thy skills, Mel~amin. Shammall is no’ a healer. In truth we need ye greatly.”
“Let me guide you,” Shammall whispered. “Close your eyes, and come with me to the dreaming.” His hold on her wrist loosened, his fingers sliding down to cover hers. She linked her fingers with his, closing her eyes, concentrating on the feel of the magic within her. “Can you see the lamp?”
Pure, raw energy. She saw flames, like the tent, but Shammall pulled back instantly. She tried again. Smaller, flickering flames this time. A lantern appeared, an old glass globe lantern filled with scented blue oil, its light dimming, then growing brighter. Yes. That was what the Mage was trying to teach her. The lamp was symbolic. Her energy touching the Mage’s. She was the fuel, he was the flame. She reached into the dreaming, her fingertips ever so gently adjusting the small knurled brass knob that raised and lowered the wick. Higher, higher, until the flames gave off a pure, radiant light.
Marylin felt the Mage tremble beneath her touch where her other hand still rested on his temple. Fear? He feared her? But why?
But she knew. The tent. If she turned the wick up too far, and the flames began to smoke, would she do him harm, rather than healing? No. That wasn’t what he feared. He was concentrating on the scented blue oil, watching the level go down. Ahhh. Leave the lamp burning too long, and it would burn itself out. Run out of fuel. What would happen to her then?
“You worry too much, Mage,” she chided, turning the lamp down low. She leaned in to kiss his forehead again as she opened her eyes. “Sleep now. You must sleep for your spirit to heal.”
The lines of worry and strain eased from his face as his eyes slid closed. Roanen picked the Mage up as if he were no more than a child and laid him out on their bed. Marylin pulled one of the hides up to cover him, tucking him in as if he’d been their child. In truth, he looked very young just at that moment. He could be no more than twenty.
A child. Their child. There were things she must tell Roanen. She took his arm to lead him from the tent, but instead he gathered her close, dwarfing her once again with the sheer bulk of his body. Dear God he was huge. A tremor ran through her as she surrendered to his kiss, the warm mating of lips and twining of arms and melding of heart and soul.
A thought nagged at her, one that would not go away. He had stopped her for a reason. Roanen sought to protect her. From what? What would she see beyond the tent? Was this world incomplete? Would they cease to exist outside the doors? She laid her hand along his cheek, the gesture a caress as much as a distancing. “What are you keeping from me, Roanen?”
“I love ye,” he whispered as he turned to kiss her fingers.
What was he not telling her? What would he want to hide from her? She ran through what she knew of this world in her mind. There had been a great battle, and Ayailla had been killed. Images flooded back to her, so hard she staggered. Wounded and dying everywhere. Men writhing in agony as the Sorceress’ bolts cut them down. Pieces fell into place. The Mage was not a healer. Ayailla was. In truth we need ye greatly.
Without Ayailla, there was no one to care for the wounded. How long had the Warriors suffered, while she lay abed? Roanen needed her, yet he feared for her. Did he think she was not ready? “Take me to them. Now.”
When he didn’t move, Marylin pulled away, knowing he followed as she placed a shaking hand on the hide that curtained the doorway. More images flashed through her head. Blood. So much blood, on a snow covered field. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the curtain aside.
The cold struck her with a force like a fist. Almost without thought she draped herself in a cloak of fine woven wool, stout leather boots protecting her feet. She would study their fashions later. For now, she needed to stay warm. Shielding her eyes from the glare of the rising sun, she raised her eyes to the world beyond the doorway.
White. They lived in a sea of white. Their world was carpeted by snow. A desert in winter. Beyond the perimeter of the camp, nothing moved. Fires dotted the snow. Men huddled next to the fires, their bodies broken and bleeding and begging for sleep. Hundreds of men. Maybe a thousand or more. Here and there a woman moved among them, bathing wounds and offering a canteen. “My God,” she whispered.
“Ayailla, I—” Roanen stopped, abruptly, mid-sentence. “I am sorry, M’Lady. Marylin. I will learn.”
Marylin closed her eyes, remembering the image she’d seen on the bed. “Marylin is dead. These men have no need for Marylin. They need Ayailla here. In truth they need more than one Ayailla, but as we have but one of me, I shall have to do.”
“Ye give so of th
yself, without thought or concern for thy own well being. I would no’ have ye let the lamp burn too low, my love.”
“Then lend me your strength if I need it. But I will not have men suffer and die if I can save them. These men know not Marylin. They know Ayailla. They trust her. They depend on her. Guide me, Roanen. But do not try to stop me.”
His touch turned from soft to firm, an arm under hers, guiding her through the trodden snow. She moved slowly among the men, touching, feeling, learning their pain, healing the worst with a touch.
“Thank ye, M’Lady,” and “We missed ye, M’Lady,” and “‘Tis good to have ye back, M’Lady,” blended together until the morning had no start, no ending, only a sea of faces, hurting, hoping, healing. Too slow. Too slow. At this rate it would take her hours, even days, to reach them all. She reached out, laying her hands on the shoulders of the man to either side of her. Yes. She could manage two at once. And if two, why not more? “Join hands,” she instructed. About the fire, the men reached out to link their energies together.
“Seven gods we learned to name. Earth our Mother guides us all. Wind and Rain are ever her spokesmen. Wolf and Bear and Cat and Falcon are our totem spirits.”
Roanen’s voice led the choir, his chant low and deep, like a monk’s liturgy. The chant shifted, the rhythm as familiar as life itself, and Marylin found herself repeating the words.
Eight diamonds form the star.
One for The Wind, the breath of life.
Two for Water, that lends us sustenance.
Three for The Wolf, Endurance and Faithfulness.
Four for The Bear, Courage and Strength.
Five for The Cat, Swift and Cunning.
Six for The Falcon, Freedom and Vision.
They come together in the centre,
Earth, Our Mother.
Energy spread out from her in a circle, amplified by the ring of hands. The women ceased their wandering, converging on her, lending their strength. From fire to fire she moved, as if in a trance, taking hands, letting the healing flow. So much pain. So many suffered. A dozen at a time was not enough. She called them to her, all who could reach, the circle growing ever broader. Pain. So much pain. So many wounded in spirit. Help me, Mother. Give me strength. She dropped to her knees, to be closer to the Earth. Still they came, some needing, others to add their strength to hers. Show me who I am, Mother, she begged. Heal me as I heal them.
Eight diamonds…two moons. How strange. She could see them both, still pale as the sun pushed back the night. An orbiting piece of space junk, her rational mind supplied. Its sitting at a LaGrange Point. L5 I think. Had she said the words aloud? How odd. Rather large piece of junk.
Enough!
Shammall’s voice, from a long way off. She must ask him about L5. Later. The circle was breaking. The lamp was growing dim. She needed to sleep.
* * * * *
“She is asleep?”
“I should not have allowed her to try such a thing. She was not ready. I had taught her only the basic rudiments of the magic. If she dies…”
Roanen pushed his ale aside to place a hand on the Mage’s shoulder. “She will no’ die, Shammall. She is strong. She gave of herself out of love. The gods will no’ let her die. Trust in the gods. Trust in thyself. Ye have done all ye can. Ye must rest now. Ye look as pale as the night mists that roll off of the tundra. Sleep while ye can. We move out in the morning.”
“Aye, M’Lord.” With a curt nod of his head, the fair Sidhe was off, headed for his own tent. Roanen offered up a prayer for him, for forgetfulness.
“‘Twas I who should have stopped her,” he told the goddess. “Let not the Mage suffer for my negligence, Mother. Guide my hand, I beg ye. Show me how to heal her, else I shall shatter, like pieces of a broken heart.”
“Go to her, Roanen. She needs you. Follow your heart.”
Roanen glanced at the tent. There were worse things than death. This might just be one of them. He downed the rest of his ale, then nodded his head at his page. The boy ran to his side, his small, sure fingers quick on the leather straps that secured shin guards and bracers and greaves. Roanen divested himself of his weapons as well, even the small boot knife he wore always ready at hand.
The boy looked up, a question in his eyes.
“No’ tonight, Garreth. I go to a different sort of battle this night.”
The boy’s eyes widened in fear. “Has the Lady turned Berserker, M’Lord?”
“I know not. But should she, I will no have weapons about where she might reach them.”
“Take the knife at least, M’Lord, for thy own defense.”
“No, boy. Listen, and listen well. No matter what happens to me, the Lady must live. Understand me? Ye will live to serve under the one she will bear, the Lady Evalayna. Evalayna is the child of prophecy, favored of the gods. Without Evalayna, the lands will fall to darkness. Understand me?”
The boy trembled, then threw back his shoulders bravely. “Aye, M’Lord. If by my life or my death I can protect the lady, it shall be done.”
“Spoken like a true Warrior,” Roanen praised. He patted the boy on the shoulder before he stole off to his bed.
* * * * *
A soft whoosh of air across his face awakened Roanen instantly, had him reaching for his knife.
It was not there. He’d left his weapons with Garreth.
Then he remembered why.
He reached out cautiously in the darkness, but found the place beside him empty. “Marylin?” he whispered.
Nothing. Nothing but the sound of his own frightened breathing. “Ayailla?”
Mayhap she had needed to relieve herself. Mayhap—
Whoosh.
He rolled in time to miss the impact of the teeth as they grabbed for his throat, warned by the movement of air as she lunged at him.
For he knew it was Ayailla. Gods forgive him. She had turned. There was no fate worse for Clan Wolf. She’d so exhausted herself as to let her humanity slip away. With a thought, he shifted, his sharp wolf senses hunting for her in the darkness.
There. He’d know her scent anywhere. Her low throaty growl was all the warning he had as she charged again, her fangs glistening in the pale light. He feigned, his teeth reaching for her shoulder, only to turn at the last moment and roll out of the way.
He could not kill her. Not now. Not after all he’d sacrificed to bring her back. There had to be a way to reach her. To make her remember. He called to her softly, the mournful call of a Wolf who’d lost his mate. She stiffened, listening, hesitating a moment before she lunged again. Then she was on him, teeth snapping, claws raking, her intent deadly and vicious.
They rolled together, her hind legs clawing, trying to rip at his guts. He fought her in earnest now. If he lost, if she escaped, the others would kill her. The pack could not afford a Berserker on the loose. They tumbled and rolled, teeth tearing loose patches of hide, blood making them slippery. At last he feigned injury as she raked her fangs over his forearm, yelping in terror as he rolled to his side. She lunged for his exposed throat. With a twist he had her, his teeth firmly anchored in her ruff, his paws hooked over her shoulders, pinning her flat.
She whimpered under him, her body suddenly going soft, her posture acquiescent.
He was not such a fool. There was nothing in Ayailla or Marylin that would ever give up so easily. If he released her she would battle him to the death. But how could he reach her? He had to find the woman in this maddened creature.
As he shifted his weight over her, his cock brushed her opening, growing instantly hard. By the gods his body had bad timing. He shifted again, trying to think of anything but sex.
Beneath him he felt the crazed she-wolf tremble. She sniffed at him, turning her head as far as she could with her neck caught in his hold. “Mate,” he told her. “Remember me, Love. Remember us. I am thy mate.”
She stretched under him, tentatively, until his cock rubbed her again. His body’s reaction was inevitable. He tensed, his cock
shooting towards her, ready to mount her in earnest. With a small mewling noise she pushed up with her hips, shifting her tail out of the way.
It was all the invitation his willing cock needed. With all the savagery of the Wolf he named himself, he thrust into her, her tight, wet sheath bidding him welcome. Powerful muscles captured him, pulling him in farther with wave after wave of undulating spasms. He jerked his hips over her, pounding into her in a rhythm no man could match. Hard and hot and angry and frightened for both of them, he buried himself within her time and again. Nothing could match this. Tight, tight, so tight he fought her for escape with each stroke.
“Mate?” she whimpered, calling him back.
“Mate,” he assured her, slowing his attack, remembering why he was there. He buried himself deep within her, forcing himself to hold steady. “My mate. My love.”
She twisted beneath him, as far as she could, her eyes, wet with wolf tears, turning toward his. Her voice came as a whimper, both frightened and hopeful. “My mate?”
“Thine. Forever and always,” he agreed, loving the sound of his name in Wolf tongue. The wolf tried to push him, to tease him to resume their mating, but the man who owned the wolf’s body ruled now.
Beneath him she shifted, ever so slowly, as if she fought to remember the body of the woman. Sliding out of her, Roanen shifted, his hands taking tight hold where his paws had been. He was not such a besotted fool as to trust her. Not yet.
Carefully, cautiously, he shifted his grip, letting her face up from where it smashed against the silk pillows, rolling her until he could look into her eyes. He held her with his body weight, his hands locked over hers, pinning her to the bed, lest she attack once again, while he used his voice to calm her. “Ye are safe, my love. No one will harm ye. I am here.”
Wild, dilated eyes shifted their focus in rhythm to her heavy, labored breathing.
“I am here, my love. Trust me. I am Roanen, and I love ye.”
She squirmed under him, her hands fisting and releasing as her hips thrust up against him, whether in ardor or attempting escape he was not sure. One leg slipped loose, her foot sliding up his leg to shove his hips down hard against her, grinding his cock against her mons.
Threshold Volume 2 Page 7
