Return to Shanhasson

by Joely Sue Burkhart

  The crack widened in her frozen lake.

  Ruthlessly, she spun away and feinted at his face, just as Gregar would have done, and tossed the blade to her left hand. Well familiar with the move, Varne countered easily.

  Deliberately, she pretended slowness with her left hand, leaving her side completely open.

  Dharman’s bond exploded like Vulkar’s Mountain, nearly destroying her concentration entirely. She actually feared he might ignore the rules of the challenge and intervene.

  :I’ll never forgive you,: she warned. :This is my fight.:

  Yet there was no need for any concern. She knew Varne saw the opening; any warrior worth his salt would have seen it and taken the opportunity to mark her flesh, especially a warrior raised from birth to honor blood sacrifice. Small wounds, blood only, meant more honor, yet he made no move to strike her unprotected flank.

  He saw her as having no honor. So why would he even consider giving her a small wound to honor her?

  Cold fury sliced through her as vicious as the ivory rahke in her hand. He did nothing but stand there, chest heaving, bleeding, and still hating her.

  “Damn you to the Three Hells,” she whispered. “You can’t do it.”

  Implacable, he stared back at her, his face rock hard with a faint sneer on his face.

  With a low, vicious snarl, she attacked with every ounce of skill Gregar and the Blood had drilled into her over the years. She spared no blow. She held nothing back. She maimed this warrior who stood by and did nothing while Vulkar killed her love. She wanted his blood to fill the frozen lake of her heart. Maybe then it would melt. Maybe then she could feel something, anything, again other than this horrible empty grief.

  Varne fell to his knees, dropped his rahke, and smiled.

  So smug, so arrogant, even in his death he would be honored by Khul’lanna who butchered him with her grief. She threw her head back and howled as the White Dragon had done. If she had claws she would rend this fool, tearing him limb from limb. As I did to Gregar.

  “I should have known Gregar would assist you.”

  Shaken, she clamped her mouth shut, her scream still echoing in her mind. :I’m sorry, my Shadowed Blood.:

  Gregar didn’t respond.

  “Why—” Wincing, she cleared her throat. Her vocal chords felt like she’d swallowed jagged ice. “Why would you say that? Gregar’s not here. He hasn’t been back since the dragon took me.”

  The shock on Varne’s face was matched by her Blood. Dharman blazed through her mind, a quick, hot flame flying through her body. He searches for Shadow.

  Unsurprised, she let Dharman grip her bond and hold her firm while he flowed through her like molten honey.

  “You flickered with Shadow,” Varne whispered. “Like Gregar used to do when he wore his Shadow of Death.” He wheezed a harsh bark of laughter. “I guess I should have allowed you to keep the black rahke after all.”

  Without hesitation, she reached out and grabbed a handful of Varne’s hair. She jerked his head back, bearing his throat.

  :Khul’lanna.: Dharman touched the frozen lake within her, trying to warm her and break the ice holding her pinned. :Let Jorah do this small task for you. He welcomes the opportunity to serve you.:

  :Varne’s mine.: Cold and distant, she looked down at the warrior waiting for her rahke. She listened in her mind, waiting for Gregar’s voice from beyond, the cold blanket of his presence against her back, the dance of his ghostly rahke up her neck. Nothing, absolutely nothing whispered to her.

  Maybe he’s gone too.

  The thought should have sent her heart wailing at loss, but she felt nothing except the vast frozen shores of the lake in her mind. Varne thought to die with honor as Khul had done; instead, she would make him live with dishonor.

  She drew the rahke down Varne’s left cheek. “Live, and remember your failure every single day.” She cut his other cheek the same way, so deeply that white gleamed through the torn flesh of his face. “Live, and remember the honor you once had.”

  He made a small, choked sound, regret, grief, she wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. The sound didn’t, couldn’t touch her. She shoved him and he sprawled on his back in the brown dead grass. Thick, wet snow fell, dulling her senses and covering the world. She could leave him like this and he’d die, buried in snow, but was that what she wanted?

  She laughed, and the avalanche inside her shifted ominously. Carefully, she sent some of that holy water, however frozen, into the downed warrior. She watched numbly as the wounds she’d given him Healed, leaving behind jagged white scars he’d carry the rest of his long, miserable life.

  “What are you now, nearest Blood of my dead Khul? What do you have now?”

  Kae’Shaman lit the pyre. Khul’s other Blood reverently pushed it into the Silver Lake and within moments, Rhaekhar’s body was blanketed with smoldering snow.

  The towering blizzard shifted again, tearing loose in her chest. Her world blurred white, dizzying white, and so very cold. “Na’lanna. What do I have now?”

  Dharman caught her, lifting her into his arms and carrying her away, somewhere, she didn’t care. “You have us, Khul’lanna.”

  “Don’t call me that.” She winced at the sharpness in her voice. Ice was so cold, so sharp. She could leave scars on her Blood and not even know it. “I’m Khul’lanna no more.”

  Gingerbread filled her nose, the thick pelt of auburn hair sliding into her face. “Then you have us, na’Qwen.”

  “The twins—”

  “They went with Alea and Drendon,” Dharman assured. “They're safe.”

  The Blood lowered her to cushions. She knew without opening her eyes that this was Rhaekhar’s tent. She smelled him everywhere. Even in her Blood’s arms she could still smell her warrior. Pain tore at her again, convulsing her fingers into claws, her teeth aching with the strain of not screaming and railing at the unfairness of her loss.

  Dharman pressed his forehead to hers. “You will always have us.”

  “You could die; Sal could die. Don’t promise the impossible.”

  “I swear on your very life that neither Sal nor I shall ever leave you. When you die, we die, and not before. You’ll always be our na’lanna Qwen.”

  Ice burned in her veins. She gripped his arm, too hard, her nails digging into his flesh, but he didn’t complain. “Don’t call me that either. You don’t have the right.”

  “Are you my Queen? Aye. Do I love you more than life itself?”

  She meant to flatten her palm over his mouth to keep him from saying the last aye, but her hand connected sharply with his lips. She hadn’t meant to slap him; she merely wanted to stop the words, those burning, painful words.

  The strike of her palm on his face felt good. She actually felt it. Small heat flared in her skin, transferred from his body.

  She jerked her hand away and closed her fingers into a fist. She ached, pounded by the maelstrom of grief, rage, and despair. If Rhaekhar managed to appear as Gregar had done in her Dreams, she’d use that rahke on him until he dropped dead at her feet again. She’d punish him, as she’d punished Varne, as she’d torn Gregar in the Tenth Camp, until maybe, just maybe this awful pain would lessen and she could breathe again.

  But neither Rhaekhar nor Gregar were here. They’d never be here again.

  “I’m here, na’lanna Qwen. Use me.”

  She gritted her teeth and averted her face. Pound, kill, fight, such violence raged through her blood. How could she unleash such awful, dark emotion on the warriors sworn to protect her with their very life? What choice did they have? They couldn’t even defend themselves.

  No wonder Shadows had begun to cloak her. Maybe she was already doomed. Maybe that’s why she still lived and everyone she loved had died.

  Run, brightheart. Run to death. Run to me.

  Dread curdled her stomach, even as her muscles tensed and her heart raced, more than ready to begin the fight. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  Dharman a
nd Sal both released her and moved to kneel before her, their hands on their thighs, their young faces open and eager.

  “I know exactly what he requests,” Sal said. “I ask that you use me too.”

  Blowing snow scoured through her mind and blasted her heart with burning pain and rage. So this is what it feels like to be a White Dragon. No fire, but vicious, mindless need to kill and punish. She scrambled up with them, blowing hard, eyes clenched shut as she fought the need to simply tear them apart.

  “This isn’t your fault,” she ground out. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “It’s an honor to serve.” Dark anticipation rose in Dharman’s eyes. “Use me however you wish. There’s nothing you could do that will truly hurt us, as long as you never send us away. Do anything, na’lanna Qwen, anything at all. Share your pain with us. We are yours as no other could ever be.”

  She shuddered, arm aching to just rear back and…

  “Do you think the Black Dragon in your Dream could love you as much as we do?”

  She slammed her fist into his stomach. Her knuckles cracked against the hard slab of muscle, but she welcomed the pain. This was a good pain. It told her she was alive. She hadn’t frozen solid yet.

  Dharman didn’t even grunt. Raising her throbbing fist in his hand, he kissed her knuckles. Now, he made a low rumbling sound, whether pleasure or sympathy, she didn’t want to know.

  “A few more blows like that and your hand will be broken and swollen. It won’t hurt you so much if you use my face.” Like a horse, he nuzzled his cheek against her fist and wrist. “Or use the heel of your hand to spare your knuckles. Otherwise, you’ll finish much too soon.”

  “We don’t want that,” Sal drawled, shaking his red hair forward to hang in his eyes. “I want a turn.”

  She didn’t think; she slapped him so hard the noise exploded in the tent. Shaken, she stared at him, her mouth falling open with horror. Her palm burned. Lady, what had she done?

  “Don’t give it all to him just because you know he likes pain.” Dharman growled, drawing her attention to him. “I like pain, too, when it comes from your hand.”

  “I like anything you do.” Sal tipped his head back, shaking his hair away from his face so her handprint blazed clearly on his cheek. “Give us more. Hands, teeth, whatever you need.”

  Dharman shifted his weight forward, his eyes flashing in the tent. “Vulkar, especially your teeth. I want that most of all.”

  She hesitated, still struck dumb by what she’d done. How could she physically hurt them? Why did it have to feel so good compared to the frozen, empty wasteland inside her?

  “Use me, na’lanna. Use me!”

  With a low, vicious cry, she slapped him too, putting all her weight behind it so she nearly knocked him off his knees. She flew at him, pounding his chest and arms with her fists. He made no effort to shield himself or to stop her; in fact, he deliberately made himself vulnerable. He leaned into her blows, rocking back on his knees, only to rise up and offer his face and body again.

  Sal crept closer and closer, his eyes dark, shining with his need, and she hit him too. She slammed her fist into that adorable dimple. She tore at his auburn hair that tempted her so.

  With a ragged groan, he used his body to push at her, bumping and gliding against her until she seized his shoulders and dug her nails into him as a warning. Which was a futile attempt for one such as him. Holding her gaze, he deliberate pulled out of her grasp, raking bloody grooves down his arms.

  Blood only served to inflame a different need in her. The thick spicy scent made her mouth water. Her teeth ached in her mouth. She reached for him, but Dharman dragged her into his arms. His lip bled, swollen and cut from getting smashed against his teeth. Now she smashed his lips with hers. She gripped his flesh with her teeth and tugged, too hard, she knew, but he tasted so good, and his pain and enjoyment both seared some of the ice away through their bond.

  Sick and trembling, she tried to stop, but he gripped the back of her head and refused to let her go.

  His blood acted as a tonic, a warm, thick syrup that oozed across the frozen lake in her heart and began to melt it. Stained red, ice turned to slush. Blowing snows and punishing winds softened to rain, and she cried. She licked his mouth and chin, sucked on his lip, and gave him her tongue and her tears until she sagged in his arms.

  He shifted her around in his lap to Sal, keeping his arms around her, so she could try to kiss away some of the hurt she’d given him. The scratches on his shoulders weren’t deep, and the way he moaned deep in his throat and shifted against her told him he’d more than enjoyed it. He leaned into her and Dharman, curling around her, warm and heavy as Dharman lowered her to the floor.

  Quiet. The storm had blown out. She was stiff and utterly exhausted, but the Silver Lake pooled in her heart once more, shimmering red with their blood. The moon was hidden, but deep down, she knew it was still there. It would shine again someday, as Gregar’s rahke would shine.

  With Sal cuddled against her back, she stared into Dharman’s eyes and waited for him to finish it. Part of her ached to feel him inside her. She knew his heat and strength would help drive the frigid ice away entirely. Pressed between them, she knew how badly they wanted her.

  Rhaekhar and Gregar were both gone. Nothing remained to keep her Blood from their heart’s desire, and she was too tired and lost to deny them.

  “Let us guard your sleep. Let us hold you.” Dharman tucked her head up beneath his chin. “Until your tears are dry and you look upon us and see na’lanna as well as Blood, then this is all we ask.”

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  SHANNARI HAD BEEN RIGHT. The new Khul was declared before sunset the day after Rhaekhar’s death.

  She couldn’t fault either Drendon or Alea, though—they’d done everything in their power to make it as painless for her as possible. What they didn’t know was there was no need. Every bit of sympathy and pity they showed only froze the Silver Lake over with another sheet of ice.

  “Khul, Khul’lanna, thank you for meeting with me so quickly.”

  Alea shook her head, tears shimmering in her eyes. “You of all people should know that you don’t have to show us such formality.”

  Shannari smiled, but she knew it didn’t reach her eyes. “You hated me when I first came to the Plains with Rhaekhar but you always gave me the respect of my position as his mate. For my dear friends, I can do no less.”

  “We didn’t hate you.” Alea swiped the tears off her cheeks, but managed a small laugh. “That’s rather strong. Perhaps dislike, but only in the beginning.”

  Drendon’s normally boisterous cheer was cloaked in sorrow. “I never wanted this day to come.”

  Looking at him, Shannari couldn’t decide if he’d be a good Khul or not. In many ways, he was too transparent. Rhaekhar had known when to be himself, a warrior’s warrior that everyone admired, and when to be Khul, the grim implacable warrior who commanded all. Drendon would never have that calm, steady core of command.

  “I certainly don’t want you to feel as though you must leave us in a hurry.”

  “I must,” Shannari said, forcing her voice to remain light, although she couldn’t keep the numbing coldness from spreading through her veins. “Vulkar killed him to force me to return to Shanhasson, and if I don’t leave at first light, Kae’Shaman assures me the snows will be too deep in the north. I’ll never make it to Dalden Bay.”

  “Whatever you need,” Drendon said gruffly, squeezing his mate’s hand so hard Alea actually winced. “Anything, Shannari. We’ll always be your home away from that…that…”

  He hesitated, unable to find a word to describe her homeland without insulting her. She tried to smile, but her face was too stiff.

  “You’re still the Dark Mare’s daughter. You still carry Rhaekhar’s honor, and he carried more kae’valda than any warrior who ever walked the Plains.”

  She couldn’t help the bitterness that sliced through her as viciously as
a rahke. Because of his great, impressive honor, he hadn’t thought once to fight and protect himself. His honor had almost dragged her into the depths of Shadow. She hadn’t been able to hold back the laughter—great racking, painful sounds of pained irony—when Kae’Shaman had given her a large blue bead to add to the pile of trinkets from her dead warrior’s hair.

  Death by a sangral na’kindre was the largest bead of all. It certainly negated the long string of white beads from their claiming.

  “If you need us in your fight against the Endless Night, send a messenger,” Drendon continued. “The Nine Camps shall always be at your disposal.”

  Some of her concern chipped off and slid into the icy waters swirling inside her. She managed a grateful nod. “Thank you, Khul, sincerely. I’ll have command of the Shanhasson Guard, and Allandor at my back, but if things get as bad as we suspect, I won’t have nearly enough troops to command. And, well, they’re outlanders, not warriors.”

  He flashed a warrior smile and puffed up his chest. “Indeed, our warriors will gallop for your Shining Walls at your Call. We’ll continue to keep the network of messengers between us. Nothing has truly changed, Shannari.”

  Oh, but it had indeed. Her whole world had fallen apart, and it would only get harder. She forced herself to take a deep breath before continuing, but the words froze in her throat. She made a choked sound. Blindly, she reached for Dharman’s bond.

  Immediately, he enfolded her, his chest hot against her back, his arms strong and steady. She breathed hard, loudly, but she didn’t care. With these people, she trusted them to see her vulnerability without stabbing her in the back.

  “Vulkar may have taken Rhaekhar from you,” Alea said softly, reaching over to take her hand. “But your Lady gave you Blood to keep you safe and warm.”

  Shannari nodded jerkily, unable to meet the other woman’s gaze. “Dharman and Sal planned to challenge Rhaekhar as co-mates as soon as we arrived. They’d already discussed it. I feel…”