VirtualDesire

by Ann Lawrence

  As the silk of his hair slipped through her fingers, she suffered from the proximity to him. She fumbled with the braids. The heat of his body reminded her of his embrace. The slow pulse at his throat drew her eyes. What had ever possessed her to think he would want her? she asked herself. Were his stories of vows just to soften the blow? To let her down gently? Make her think it was not just her ordinariness that made him refuse her?

  She finished as quickly as she could in order to be away from him. The task of delivering the concoction was now upon her. Her stomach danced. With a last wistful look back at Vad, she followed Ardra. Nestled in her arms was the leather pack, now heavy with the pottery bottles filled with Vad’s potion.

  “I wish you would tell me how to get back to him,” Gwen said.

  “I cannot,” Ardra said, her hand going immediately to her pendant and clutching it in a tight fist.

  So Vad might be willing to trust her, but Ardra certainly was not. Perhaps her feeling of dread was misplaced. Vad looked healthy enough despite the color of his turquoise. She forced herself to put her concern aside. She had a job to do.

  Ardra opened a door. Music from a stringed instrument could be heard in the distance. Gwen couldn’t have found the kitchen again if her life depended on it. That thought frightened her silly.

  The mournful sound of stringed instruments grew louder the farther along the final corridor they walked. Ardra whispered at her ear, “If something happens…wait by these steps.” She indicated a spiral staircase like one found in an old castle, complete with worn treads and dangling webs. Gwen shuddered as they climbed up and up, expecting at any time to meet a warrior with a sword on the way down. “I will bring Vad here as soon as the first symptoms of the potion occur,” Ardra continued.

  “Okay.” Gwen’s heart beat faster when Ardra pressed a finger to her lips and then peeked through a tiny hole in a heavy woolen tapestry that covered an arch at the top of the steps. With a silent gesture, they slipped past it.

  “Oh.” Gwen almost gasped aloud. They were in a huge stone hall. Banners of amber and black hung from smoke-stained wooden beams. A hearth, as tall as a man and wide enough to hold a Sequoia log, dominated one end. Here and there along the long side walls were arches like the tapestry-covered one they’d just come through. Some were entrances to alcoves with covered benches; others were draped with tapestries. A theme of ice and snow dominated the beautiful stitchery. From her courses in college she could tell that some were ancient, others fairly new, but all were the work of years of diligence.

  But gorgeous as the lush tapestries were, the atmosphere was funereal. Despite the long tables draped with white linen, the gleaming silver goblets and plate at each place, the faces of the serving women and men were long.

  “Remain near. I will ask my father when the wine will be served.”

  Gwen nodded and almost called Ardra back. She felt so alone, so near to danger. Whatever had possessed her to offer to dump the potion in the wine? Had she offered unselfishly or because she wanted to win Vad’s approval?

  And why was his approval so important? He wanted a Tolemac woman with a biblical number of “begats” behind her name. An Ocean City widow hadn’t a chance.

  A tug on her tunic made her look down. The gods are smiling on me, she thought as she looked into a grubby face surrounded by a tangle of golden hair. “Well, hello there,” Gwen said to the youngest of the maidens.

  “You have strange hair.” The child’s gaze took in the top of Gwen’s head.

  “Oh? At least mine is clean and neat. Would you like me to tidy yours?”

  “Men do not tidy hair!” The childish peal of laughter rang through the silent rooms.

  Whoops. She had forgotten her male attire. “The women appear to be very busy; ‘tis why I offered,” she said as an excuse.

  “Silly man,” the little girl said. Gwen glanced quickly around to see who might be watching them. Only a few serving women now moved about the tables, adjusting cutlery. They paid no heed to Gwen and the girl. Gwen needed to hide the bottles of potion. The little girl complicated the effort. She also prattled constantly.

  “Where are we going?” she asked when Gwen hurried lo a storeroom that Ardra’s map had indicated held stored apples. Trying to maintain an attitude of purposefulness, she placed the basket on a shelf and rearranged a few others to conceal it. She polished an apple and offered it to the child.

  “I have work to do now. Come along if you like, but do not talk so much. Have you no one to see you are garbed in a clean gown?”

  “I am clean!” the child said, spitting half-chewed apple in all directions as she spoke. “You are impertinent. I shall have you whipped!”

  Great. An imperious brat. “No, you will look at the front of your gown and see that I am quite correct. Come. When my work is done, I will help you wash up.”

  Without another word, Gwen hooked the little girl’s hand and hurried her to the alcove through which Ardra had disappeared.

  There was little excuse to linger in the great hall, but linger she must until Ardra returned. Gwen imagined being caught. Would Narfrom demand she be tossed over the fortress walls, a rope around her neck as punishment, just as he had the serving boy?

  She heard strident male voices raised in argument. Before she could duck her head, two men tossed aside a tapestry and strode into the hall. They wore long robes cinched about the waist with belts embroidered with Celtic knotwork in gold and silver. One man’s robes were the rich green of spring grass, his hair a loose silvery white mane about his shoulders. The other man’s robe was as golden as his amber eyes. His singularly ugly face was framed by thinning blond hair held back in a wispy ponytail.

  “Gwen Marlowe!” the ugly man said, his eyes wide upon her.

  “Gary…Gary Morfran,” Gwen said, her heart kicking into overdrive.

  A vicious, angry expression crossed the man’s face. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?” He took Gwen’s arm, shoved the child away, and dragged Gwen though the alcove and up a set of steep steps. His grip was iron hard, his breath harsh and hot on her neck. “Say my name again and I’ll slit your throat.”

  The older man followed them, sputtering questions in their wake. Gary whipped a door open and threw Gwen in. She fell to her knees.

  Why, oh, why hadn’t she recognized the name?

  Narfrom.

  Morfran. A knight of King Arthur’s court, another survivor of Arthur’s final battle. Why hadn’t she made the connection between the names as quickly as she had with Vad’s?

  “It appears we have caught an interloper,” Narfrom said to the older man.

  Gwen sat back on her heels, dazed, her hands and knees smarting.

  Gary Morfran of her world—Narfrom in this—stood before the older man who was clearly Ardra’s father. Ruonail looked much like his daughter, though his hair was white. In the harsher light of this chamber, she could see his amber eyes were dull, and his skin paper thin and dry.

  Narfrom, in contrast, looked in peak condition. He was not as tall as the Tolemac or Selaw men, but radiated an uncanny power that was almost tangible. He wore the heavy robes of a man of wealth, and Gwen had no doubt that under his sleeve she’d find arm rings— false ones, put there to deceive.

  “This is a woman, you say?” Ruonail came close to her and inspected her from head to toe.

  Wordlessly Narfrom grabbed Gwen by the collar with one hand and ripped open the front of her tunic with the other. He groped at the tight wrappings over her breasts and tore them loose. Gwen could only twist in his grasp. Screaming was not an option. The stranglehold on her collar guaranteed she had no air to breathe, let alone speak.

  “Aye,” Ruonail said softly. He raised a hand and gripped Gwen’s chin to inspect her face. “A woman. It is there for all to see, should they look.”

  Narfrom transferred his hold to her upper arms. The cold air of the chamber tightened her nipples. There was no greater feeling of vulnerability than being half-na
ked before two threatening men.

  “Why are you masquerading as a man in my fortress?” Ruonail asked, his eyes sweeping her form.

  She clamped her teeth on her lips. What could she possibly say?

  Ruonail’s fingers tightened. He tipped her face up. “Narfrom, can you persuade this woman to give an accounting of herself? This bodes ill for our plans.”

  “Nothing will happen to our plans,” Narfrom said to Ruonail. “Come with me,” Narfrom said by her ear, and jerked her half off her feet.

  “Don’t do this,” she cried.

  Ruonail whipped around, his rich green robes swirling about him. “She speaks as you were once wont to do. Is she one of your people? Is she party to your secrets?”

  “Aye, she is of my people, but an outcast, a pleasure slave who gave little pleasure, I would imagine.” He wrapped his arm about her neck, cutting off her air supply again and any protest she might lodge. “I will soon have her story out of her.”

  She opened her mouth to scream; only a croak came out. Narfrom did not give Ruonail any further chance to speak, nor Gwen for that matter. He dragged her from the chamber. A few steps along the corridor, he opened a door, struggling a moment with her as she tried desperately to break his hard grip. She kicked back on his shins and scraped her nails along his hands.

  Narfrom swore and flung her to the floor. In but another moment, he snapped an iron manacle on her wrist.

  “Sit up.” He pulled her up by her torn tunic. The chamber was small and bare save for the bed—and two iron manacles attached by chains to the wall behind it.

  One was already in use around her wrist; the other was wrapped around the wrist of a wide-eyed girl. Her bright blue eyes were close-set beneath unruly blonde brows. Her long hair was so tightly braided it made Gwen wince anew just to look at her.

  “Let me go.” Gwen twisted in his grip. She fought him, but he was strong. One backhanded slap and she fell across the bed.

  Narfrom stood up and straightened his long robes. “Get in the corner,” he ordered the girl, pointing. She scrambled off the bed and crouched in the dimly lit corner at the limits of her chain. He leaned over Gwen’s body and jammed a hand beneath her chin, stretching her neck, leaning his palm on her throat.

  She clawed at his hand, but he merely grinned. When she fell still, he eased his hold. “Now tell me how you got here.”

  “Through the game booth.”

  He nodded. “Did you come alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long have you known how to travel here?”

  “I didn’t know. It was an accident.” She studied his face. “You’re wearing contacts, aren’t you? You’ve dyed your hair, too.”

  He grinned. “I’m the perfect Selaw seer, am I not?”

  “Is that what your costume indicates? You’re a seer? What are you predicting? The end of their world?”

  His laughter rang through the room. “My, we are irritable, aren’t we?” He spread a hand over her breast. She froze. “Now that shut you up, didn’t it?” Slowly he slid his hand from her breast to her throat, wrapping his hand around it. “I could kill you and no one would care. Life is cheap here, and I find that concept quite exhilarating.”

  “You’re sick.”

  His words frightened her less than the cold, reptilian expression on his face—one she remembered well. The last time she’d seen Gary Morfran, it had been at a virtual reality seminar in London. He’d been wearing a Seville Row suit and accepting an award for the many advances he’d made to the business with his Tolemac Wars hardware.

  He was the premier hardware engineer in the business. They’d spoken for over an hour at the dinner afterward, discussing the future of Tolemac Wars. Now she understood his curiosity when she’d said she knew the game’s creator. Of course Gary Morfran would want to know all he could about the man who’d drawn this world.

  Morfran was an unattractive man—not an ugliness of features, but of expression. He’d given her the shivers then, and he gave her the shivers now.

  “When was the last time we met?” he asked. “Ah, yes. London. I thought you were…what is that word you Yanks use? Perky?”

  “Perk you.”

  He threw back his head and roared with laughter, then just as suddenly sobered. “I want to know how you did it. Did the game creator show you how to get into the game?”

  “Let me go and I’ll tell you.”

  “Not a chance.” He did ease his pressure on her throat a bit, and she sucked in a deep breath. “Now, I want every detail, and quickly. I’ve other places to be and other things to do.”

  “I can’t really tell you anything. I was playing around in the game booth and I woke up here.”

  “Here?”

  She knew instantly she’d made some error. “Well, not here. On some mountain somewhere.” Was that vague enough? What if she was giving him some key to wreaking more havoc?

  “Nilrem’s mountain.” He nodded. “Go on.”

  “That’s it.”

  “That’s not bloody all of it. How’d you get to the fortress?”

  “Oh. I just walked, and then I found this settlement of Selaw. They were pretty suspicious of me, but then Ardra came along and said she needed to buy some slaves to get home, and they were perfectly happy to sell me…”

  A sudden, bright flash of lightning illuminated the room in stark black and white; thunder cracked almost immediately. The scent of a smoky fire filled the air.

  “What were you doing in this part of the fortress?”

  “Looking for Ardra.”

  He seemed satisfied with the answer. “Does Ardra know you’re a woman?”

  What should she say? “I-I-I don’t know. She looks at me funny sometimes, but hasn’t accused me of cross-dressing yet.”

  He grinned. “Perhaps you will be entertaining after all.”

  “Will you let me up? Jeez. I could be on your side, you know.”

  “My sjde? Are there sides?” As if in answer, another roll of thunder sounded outside.

  “Sure, your side and everyone else’s.” She smiled, waiting for his reaction, and her stomach clenched.

  In a sweep of his amber robes, Gary released her. He pulled on her chain until she had to crawl to the foot of the bed.

  “Did you invent the game gear just to travel to Tolemac?” she asked.

  “Tolemac? I have never been so privileged as to make it to Tolemac. This,” he swept his hand out to encompass the stone walls with their narrow arrow slits, “is the closest I’ve come.”

  “Then did you invent the gear to travel here?” She pulled the tattered edges of her tunic together across her chest.

  “No, that I cannot claim.” He strode to the girl who still huddled silently in the corner. “But as I have stated in many of my seminars, there are advantages to using what providence places in your lap.” The girl cowered away as he stroked the back of his fingers down her cheek.

  Why did he speak so freely before the girl? A terrible, stomach-churning thought came to Gwen—perhaps he spoke so freely because he knew his words were destined to remain in this room forever. Maybe he intended to kill one or both of them. Or maybe, he planned on just cutting out their tongues.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Vad could not remain still. He wandered in and out of the stone corridors until he knew many of them by heart. Every now and then he had to lean against the wall as a wave of dizziness overcame him. Heat and cold alternately shook his body. He had thought the heat was just from his proximity to Gwen, but now he knew the truth of her words—he was ill.

  The Selaw must have tipped their arrows with a slow poison. He laughed. If they had chosen a quick one, he would be dead. His laughter mocked him as it echoed along the damp stone walls surrounding him.

  What a failure he was, a man without honor, about to go into battle against an unknown foe without his sword. He touched the hilt of his dagger. There was no need to look at the stone handle. He knew the color was dimming, gr
aying, along with his strength.

  He found the thundering falls in a grotto so huge, he could not see the sides or ceiling, only the river running through it and ending in a sudden drop into blackness. The bottomless pit.

  The scant light of his torch gave little illumination to inspect the grotto as he stood among the dripstones, not translucent with color here, but glossy black rocks, crusted with ice where the water spray coated them. The chamber was cold. And yet there was a peace here amid the roar of the water and the sparkles of frost. He felt no evil, no sense of danger.

  Quickly, conscious he was wasting time and his strength, he retraced his steps to the pool. He readied his bow, selecting the straightest of arrows, impatient for Ardra’s return and news of the potion’s effect. When no other preparations were necessary, he sat with his back to the rocky wall and leaned his head back. He closed his eyes.

  Fever coursed through his body, and he prayed he would be strong enough to make it to Tolemac when the last maiden was released. Silently he repeated the names of the ancient gods, their consorts, their powers, the seasons, the days of each season, the names of the present councilors, the names of the past ones. Anything to keep the fever from possessing his mind.

  A scent of summer flowers interrupted his recitation. He opened his eyes. Gwen stood before him. She knelt and touched her lips to his.

  “I want you,” she whispered. He touched her shoulder and it was bare. When had she removed her Selaw garb? Her smooth, cool hands soothed his brow, drew his head to rest on the soft cushion of her breast. His body was ready for her. The caress of her tongue on his throat swept his doubts away. She skimmed her fingers down his chest and plucked at the lacing over his manhood. He groaned.

  “Vad?”

  He was startled awake and shot to his feet. Ardra stood before him, a torch held high—not Gwen. The sense of loss was intense. His head ached. So did his loins. “Is the potion delivered?” he asked to cover his confusion.