The Lone Warrior

by Denise Rossetti

  A flash of pain crossed the other woman’s face. Mehcredi cursed her stupid tongue. “Gods, sorry,” she said quickly. “I shouldn’t—”

  “I was a slave,” said Amae flatly.

  “I was an assassin.” Mehcredi squeezed her eyes shut. Godsdammit, would she never learn?

  “Really? ” Amae’s face lit with interest. An assessing look raked Mehcredi from top to toe. “Hmm. We should talk, you and I. Spar, perhaps.”

  “Can’t. I’m leaving tomorrow,” said Mehcredi, unable to prevent the misery from leaking out.

  “Pity.” Amae studied her face. “If you’ve come to say good-bye, his room is last on the right.”

  Mehcredi swallowed. “Thank you.”

  Ducking her head, she moved on, but the other woman took her arm in a gentle grip. “I don’t know what’s between you and Welderyn, but you are important to my brother. You could even be good for him.”

  Amae dropped her hand and stepped back. “ ’Cestors keep you, assassin,” she said formally. “Know that you are always welcome in my house.”

  Mehcredi had to swallow again. “Thank you. That, ah, that means a lot.”

  “Mehcredi?”

  She turned on the landing. “Yes?”

  Amae shot her an impish grin, an expression that had nothing of Walker in it. “He was always deep, even when we were children. Don’t give up.”

  Their eyes met. “I won’t,” said Mehcredi gravely. “I promise.”

  38

  Walker’s door was unlocked, so she let herself in and lit a fire. The first flames were racing over the kindling when the door swung silently open. She hadn’t heard a thing.

  She rose, dusting her hands. “You must teach me to walk like a Shar.”

  “No.”

  Long legs braced, the swordmaster stood motionless, studying her, his dark eyes fathomless, unknowable. Mehcredi watched the strong tanned fingers of one hand furl into a fist, then relax. He was so armored, so formidable—heart and soul, mind and body. The complete warrior.

  Her throat dry, she searched for the comforting glow she’d felt on the way back from the farm, the knowledge that what she did was right. When it didn’t come, she plowed on anyway, her heart knocking against her ribs.

  “I came to say—” When she stopped to wet her lips, his gaze fastened on her mouth and something clenched hard inside him, she felt it. Gods, yes! Encouraged, she forced the words out. “I came to say g-good-bye.”

  Immediately, he pinned her with a glare. “No, you’re going back to Caracole with us. Noblelady Izanami wants a live-in bodyguard for her daughters. I’ll recommend you.”

  Mehcredi shook her head, hope fluttering to life in her breast. “John Lammas and his brothers have grain wagons leaving for Ged tomorrow. It’s all arranged.” She managed a smile. “He’ll even pay me.”

  “Is that what you want?” Walker stalked over to the bed, seized his pack and reefed it open. “Here.” With a contemptuous flick of the wrist, he tossed her a small leather bag.

  Mehcredi snagged it out of the air before it landed in the fire. “What—?” When she hefted it in her hand, it clinked. “Godsdammit!” Revolted, she flung it away from her. “What do you think I am?” Breathing hard, she gave him her back.

  “Mehcredi.” A long pause. A featherlight touch on her hair. “I’m sorry. This is the rest of Meck’s money, earned fair and square.” Firm hands grasped her shoulders and turned her around. Walker’s smile was wry. “Did it never dawn on you to wonder what happened to your wages?”

  “N-no.”

  “Of course not.” He pressed the bag into her hands. “It’s yours. Take it.”

  He stepped back, removing the warmth of his body, the scent, the presence, that was his alone, leaving her bereft. “You see?” he said. “You don’t need to go to Ged. Another couple of days and we’ll leave for Caracole. Home.”

  She lifted her gaze. “What about Amae?”

  When he smiled, it reached his eyes. “She and Rhio are following, once they arrange for someone to take over the tavern. Just for a few weeks, then they’ll return to Holdercroft. Amae wants the local midwife to deliver the baby. Their future is here.” His eyes had softened to that rare rich shade like chocolat. “I’ll be back for the birth though, to sing the baby’s Song with my sister.”

  “That sounds . . . nice.”

  Mehcredi gathered her courage, leaving a horrible greasy space where her stomach used to be. It would have been easier to fling herself headlong from the high-pitched roof or face a hundred djinns. This was her life she gambled, her love—her everything.

  “I’m still going to Ged.”

  “Listen, Mehcredi—”

  “No! You listen!” She poked him in the chest for emphasis, then wheeled about to take a couple of hasty strides. “You can’t have it both ways, Walker. Am I in your life or out of it?”

  He pressed his lips together, color flushing up under the bronze of his cheeks.

  Mehcredi let the silence stretch. The fire crackled and popped in the grate. “That’s what I thought,” she said at last. “I can’t go on like this. It hurts too much . . . Every time I turn around, you’re right there and I . . .”

  She had the sensation the walls were closing in, the small cozy chamber fogged with grief and yearning. Hers? His? She couldn’t untangle the knot.

  Roughly, she cleared her throat. “I don’t know a pretty way to put it.” Squaring her shoulders, she looked him full in the face. “You lied to me.”

  Walker’s features went stiff with offense. “Indeed? When?”

  “You said you didn’t want me.”

  She waited, but he didn’t speak. “But you do. With the soul-link, even I can tell that.”

  He shrugged. “I’m only a man, Mehcredi. You’re so very willing and really quite lovely.” He favored her with a wolfish smile. “Enthusiastic.”

  She swallowed the hurt. “You doubt me. You think I don’t know my own mind.”

  His expression softened very slightly. “I don’t see how you can, not yet.”

  “Exactly. Not yet. So I’m going to fix that, once and for all.” She put her hands on her hips. “Walker—Welderyn—I don’t worship you. I don’t think you’re perfect.” She gave a vulgar snort. “Godsdammit, you’re not even close. But I . . .” For a moment, she faltered. “I need you like I need air to breathe. I can’t explain it, I have no idea why, but—”

  “I do. It’s because—”

  “No, you do not!” Mehcredi made a chopping motion with one hand. “You didn’t make me, Walker. How dare you say you did?” The anger helped, she realized. It gave her strength, pushed her past her own boundaries. Gratefully, she gathered it around her like armor, used it to shore up her resolve.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. “I didn’t mean it quite the way it sounded, but you can’t deny—”

  “Yes, yes, I know. You taught me everything. So fucking what?” The growl that rumbled in her throat startled her. A wild tygre could have done no better. “I’m leaving though, just the way you want, you stupid bastard.”

  “Stop that.” Walker grabbed her hands in a punishing grip. Oh. She’d been thumping his chest for emphasis.

  “Let’s see how we do, shall we?” she panted. “Because I’ll be back.” She rose on her toes to thrust her face into his. “I want your promise you won’t run.”

  His eyes opened wide with shock and offense. “Run?”

  The expression lasted for no more than a split second, but Mehcredi hugged it to herself with glee. Got you!

  “You think I’m a coward?” he snarled.

  “I don’t know.” A smile ghosted over her lips. “Are you? Swear on your Ancestors that you’ll face me.”

  “No problem.” He spoke a sentence in Shar, one that included her name.

  “Translation?”

  “I swear, on the bones of my Ancestors and on my Song, I will meet with Mehcredi of Lonefell when she returns.” An
aching pause. “If she returns.”

  “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “Who knows what you will learn, who you will meet? There are men out there with clean hands and good hearts, just don’t . . . don’t take the first one who offers.”

  “I mean what I say. I will always mean it.” Mehcredi stared, drinking him in, imprinting the proud features on her memory—the slashing cheekbones and imperious nose, the enigmatic long-lidded eyes. Those impossible lashes. As for his mouth—No, it wasn’t possible for her to look at those firm lips without aching. Or his beautiful strong hands, or the set of his shoulders, or . . . or . . .

  Not a single keepsake—beyond the alien stone he’d left inside her. She should have snipped a lock of his hair while he was sleeping. Mehcredi bit the inside of her cheek. Gods, she’d gone beyond besotted to mawkish.

  Enough. Another second and she’d crumble.

  Reaching behind her, she gripped the doorknob with trembling fingers and eased the door open. “Until next time,” she said, tilting her chin and looking him steadily in the eye.

  Then she ruined it. “Take c-care.”

  “Wait. I want—” His voice cracked. Before she could move, he’d swooped, pulled her back into the room and cradled her face between his palms. “No, you take care. Men can be—Don’t believe everything—Oh, gods.”

  Walker hauled her up and took her mouth like a conqueror, angling her head for the best fit, exploring every recess of her mouth as if memorizing the heat, the wet, the texture. The soul-link burgeoned and the kiss exploded into a fiery darkness so intense it hurt. Mehcredi clung, moaning. She no longer knew where she began and he ended, she no longer cared.

  Walker growled something and ripped his mouth away from hers. The world spun. The next moment, she was standing, shaking in the passageway, panting, her fingers pressed to her lips. The door still vibrated in her face, the slam echoing in the dark building.

  After an eon, Mehcredi regained her breath. Slowly, trailing her fingertips along the wall, she stumbled back to the chamber she shared with Rose. Thankfully, there was no sign of the other woman save for a gown thrown across one of beds and her elusive perfume.

  Zem and Topher Lammas would be bringing their wagons through Holdercroft in the hour before dawn. She might as well get ready now. There’d be little enough sleep as it was. The distress was so pervasive, so overwhelming, it was like a living thing gnawing at her vitals. She could no longer distinguish between Walker’s feelings and her own. It was all awful. Moving like an old woman, she pulled off her shirt. By the Sister, she was fighting for her life, all over again. For her own sanity, she had to believe she was doing right. Gods, what if—? No, she refused to think it.

  Tomorrow she’d be all day in the saddle. Might as well be comfortable. Mehcredi reached for the breastband, her lips curving with bittersweet memories. Glancing down as she shrugged into it, she froze.

  What the—?

  She angled her body toward the lamp, squinting. The merest whisper of a shadow showed beneath the pearly skin of her left breast.

  Her lungs seized. The Mark. Barely there, so faint she had to peer in order to make it out. Wonderingly, she traced the swirling pattern with the tip of her finger and her nipple stiffened with a rush. Clutching the breastband, she sank back onto the bed, her head spinning.

  She’d wanted a keepsake, hadn’t she? A talisman she could look at every day.

  A shaky smile bloomed on her lips.

  When Rose came in a few hours later, Mehcredi was lying under the covers fully dressed, pretending to be asleep. It was still fully dark when she heard the distant creak of wheels, the jingle of tack. Shivering in the raw air, she threw the blankets back and crept to the door, pack in hand.

  Rose sat up in bed. “Mehcredi.”

  She turned, caught the flash of Rose’s smile in the gloom. “Yes?”

  Rose held out her arms. “Come here.”

  Surprising herself, Mehcredi dropped the pack, crossed the room and bent to give the other woman an awkward hug.

  Soft lips brushed her cheek. “Good luck, my dear.”

  Mehcredi straightened. “Tell the others I said good-bye . . . and thanks.”

  “I will.” Rose settled back into the pillows. “The Sister keep you until we meet again.”

  “And you.” A last look and Mehcredi closed the door softly behind her. Padding down the stairs, her head high, she went to meet her destiny.

  FIVE MONTHS LATER

  Walker reined his mount on the final approach to Holdercroft, something in him easing as he gazed across the open fields, golden with grain, to the village basking in the sun. He rubbed the heel of his hand over his heart, a gesture that had become habitual. Idly, he wondered if the child would have a Shar’s black hair and eyes. But truly, it hardly mattered. His lips softened into an almost-smile. A new life to be celebrated, a new Song to be sung.

  He nudged the horse with his heels, imagining Amae’s face when he rode in, three weeks early. He hadn’t been able to wait. ’Cestors’ bones, he wouldn’t miss the arrival of his nephew—or his niece—for the world. To be honest, he felt better today than at any time since the winter morning he’d stood at a tavern window and watched Mehcredi ride away into an icy dawn, out of his life. No, he had better things to think of than his assassin.

  He snorted. And hadn’t he told himself that a thousand, a hundred thousand, times? She lived. In fact, as far as he could tell from the distant glow of the soul-link, she thrived. Which was exactly what he’d intended when he’d made the bargain with his gods. Resolutely, he wrenched his thoughts away from visions of Mehcredi in another man’s arms. He could never see the fellow’s face, but he was young and tall and strong, and he’d better love her the way she deserved or—

  Shit, not again!

  Swearing under his breath, he dropped his hand from the sore spot on his chest. He knew full well there was nothing wrong with him physically. Only last week, he’d taken on Dai and Pounder together in an exhibition bout for his students and thrashed them both. On Yachi’s recommendation, the queen had retained him to run advanced training for her guards. His House of Swords was turning a tidy profit.

  His Magick was stronger than ever, honed by duels with Erik and Cenda, while Deiter looked on and swigged from a jug and barked instructions. A drunk he might be, but Walker had to admit the old bastard knew his stuff. Slowly, he was welding them into a unit, even devising strategies to include Gray’s shadow sorcery and Prue’s weird nullifying effect. Walker rolled his shoulders, feeling testy. Prue’s non-Magick worked, but he didn’t have to enjoy the sensations. A pity, because he was very fond of the little null witch. She had guts, Prue.

  Gray had a background as a mercenary. He was ambidextrous, deadly with a short sword, plenty of potential there. Erik, on the other hand—Walker shook his head, his braids swinging. Fortunately, the big man was purely murderous with a quarterstaff and bruising with his fists.

  Who’d have thought it? He was part of a godsbedamned team.

  He wished the Necromancer joy of the icebergs. The Quintus had been nothing if not efficient. Every month, the Technomage sent Deiter reports inscribed on sheets of transplas. During the winter freeze, the djinn had slowly coalesced, repairing itself piece by piece. But after reading the most recent report, Deiter had thrown the transplas at the wall and gone on a week’s bender. The djinn had vanished. The Technomages could find no trace of it, yet there had been no attacks, not even on Lonefell.

  For a moment, Walker allowed himself the luxury of brooding. One day, if he accepted he was one of the Sides of Deiter’s godsbedamned Pentacle—one day, he’d watch the Necromancer die, an inch at a time. In the process he’d destroy the man’s demon. Xotclic. It was worthy work, and as near as he could come to completing his vengeance.

  Ch’qui rolled off the waving expanse of grain in almost tangible waves. Walker lifted his face, breathing it in, letting the rage flow through him and away with a warrior’s
discipline. Pity he couldn’t do as well with soothing the nagging ache. If it hadn’t been for his garden, he would have lost his mind, he was sure of it. The emptiness, the godsbedamned misery wasn’t acute—like a lump of cold dead flesh weighing him down—but it was constant, exacerbated by the fucking soul-link. He missed her, lovelorn as a boy with his first girl, that’s all there was to it. Knowing he was being stupid, that he shouldn’t need her, that what he’d done was necessary and right—none of it made any difference.

  Every night, he woke from dreams of her. The darkly erotic ones were bad enough—her strong creamy body wrapped around him, her legs high on his hips, her throaty voice urging him on as he drove into wet satin heat, harder and harder, striving to bury himself inside her, make them one, indivisible. Gods, the ecstatic rush as his balls clenched and he spurted. She’d cry out, throwing her head back to expose the long beautiful line of her throat. And then he’d wake, sticky and disorientated, the cold jolt of disappointment as fresh the hundredth time as it was the first.

  But the nightmares stripped all the courage from him. They drove him insane. In them, she was trapped, helpless and he couldn’t find her, couldn’t reach her, only hear her cries of agony, her hopeless sobs as she called his name, over and over and over . . .

  Working in his garden helped—a little. And the nea-kata, but that was all. He set his teeth, breathed deep—and discovered he was rubbing his chest again. He’d never been a vain man, but he could no longer bear to meet his own eyes in a mirror. He looked . . . ill, haunted.’Cestors be thanked, he didn’t need to shave more than once a week, if that.

  Lifting his face to the gentle breeze, he gazed out at the distant blue of the mountains. Ged, the second-largest city in the Queendom lay beyond the range. Like John, the younger Lammas brothers were tall, dark and well set up. Either of them would be a good match for her, Zem sunny and outgoing, Topher more reserved. Which had she chosen? Neither? Both? Of course, the pickings would be better in Ged, plenty of—

  Grinding his teeth, he clattered into the market square of Holdercroft and headed for the tavern.