Return to Shanhasson

by Joely Sue Burkhart

  “How long must I wait? How many years must I cry, lost and alone, until I see them again?”

  THE ROAD IS LONG, MY CHILD, BUT THIS I PROMISE YOU. YOU SHALL NEVER BE ALONE. YOUR HEART SHINES, ILLUMINATING YOUR PATH. LOVE SHALL ALWAYS SUSTAIN YOU.

  The muted notes rose higher, so painful and sweet to hear. She heard her daughters’ laughter, innocence and joy, grief and sorrow, in those notes. The strident warning whinny of her mare, Wind, and her low, familiar whicker. The frantic shouts from her Blood at the thought of losing her, as well as their whispered endearments when they thought she slept.

  Then she heard another sound, a wailing cry, lost and cold in the night. A baby.

  She strained her ears, trying to tell whether the baby was real or simply part of the vision. Mists swirled above the Shining Walls, coalescing into sweeping wings. A beast hovered over Shanhasson with two red baleful eyes.

  Clutched in its claws, a baby screamed louder.

  The dragon leaped into the sky and tossed the shape carelessly toward her. The child tumbled slowly, spinning and whirling in the currents of mists and moonlight. A boy, she thought, with dark hair not unlike hers, but his skin was baked a dark nutty brown. Fists and feet waving in the sky, he fell, and she couldn’t help but catch him.

  “There, shhh, now, you’re safe,” she crooned, cradling the child in her arms.

  He clutched her hair in his tiny fists. He rooted against her neck, hungry for his mother’s milk, and she felt the answering response in her breasts.

  Stunned, she jerked her gaze up to the full moon. “You want me to have a son?”

  Shadows thickened in the mist. Hungry, malevolent, they always stalked her. She gripped the child close to her heart and raced through a wet, dank forest tangled with vines and ferns. She stumbled through briars, heedless of the thorns tearing her flesh. I must protect him.

  Nightmare images flickered through her mind. Growling, sleek massive cats hunted the child, their dark striped coats blending with the trees and shadows. Wolves howled in the mountains. Dragons screamed in the sky, belching flame to scour away the sheltering forests. Massive shapes swam beneath the water, snapping jaws and slamming scaled tails to crush their tiny ship. Wherever she took him, Shadow would always seek him.

  Shadow always laid in wait for her and her children.

  Only behind the Shining Walls will he be safe.

  * * *

  “NA’LANNA QWEN? ARE YOU WELL?”

  Dharman’s voice broke the Dream. Stiff and chilled, she pushed upright, groggy with sleep. A weak winter sun broke the horizon. Frost coated the dormant roses winding up the stone columns.

  Shivering, she let him wrap her in a furred cloak, but she couldn’t let go of the vision. Her arms still ached with the weight of the baby. A son. Hers, but who was the father?

  Her mates were dead. Her Blood… No. Not them. They served a different purpose, although they would never be parted from her.

  She closed her eyes, trying to cement the details in her mind, but the Dream dispersed, burned away like mist by the morning sun. In the distance, she still heard the hauntingly sweet notes of the flute.

  Clutching her Blood’s neck, she breathed his sweet honeycake scent, but it was Rhaekhar’s baking bread that she yearned to smell. Tears filled her eyes.

  It’s a long road, my heart, but if you wait for me, I’ll join you as soon as I can.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  SITTING ON THE EDGE OF HER BED, SHANNARI GAZED NUMBLY ABOUT THE ROOM. After the hard trip to the Plains and back again in such a short span of time, she’d expected to sleep well last night. Instead, she’d done nothing but toss and turn. Sal and Dharman were lucky she hadn’t knocked them to the floor with her restless sleep.

  She couldn’t quite believe she was back. For good.

  Shanhasson would be her permanent home now. No brief visits, laughing at Rhaekhar’s growls at the nervous outlander servants or challenging him to another bath and oiled massage. While he’d enjoyed the fluffy mattress enough to drag one across the Plains for years, there was very little else he’d valued in these Green Lands.

  “Except you, na’lanna Qwen.” Dharman knelt at her feet. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t have to. His bond blazed in the darkest, loneliest, coldest realms of her heart, even when she tried as hard as possible to freeze it out. “He valued your love most of all.”

  Of course he did. That’s why he’s dead.

  She picked up the brush and began working on her hair, trying to pretend as though her hand didn’t tremble. The tears trickling down her cheeks were surely from the pain in her scalp. Her hair truly was a mess.

  Rhaekhar had always loved brushing her hair. His gentleness that very first night had made an impression on her that she never forgot. The big, invincible Khul had conquered her army only to brush her hair more carefully than the best-trained maid. After Theo cut off all her hair, she should have left it short. Why grow it out just because her Khul liked it?

  How many times had he spread her hair out on their cushions and buried his face against in it?

  Gently, Dharman took the brush from her hand and climbed onto the bed to kneel behind her. “Allow me to do this small thing for you.”

  He took his time, smoothing his hand through her hair with long, sure strokes of the brush. Muscle by muscle, she relaxed beneath his strokes and the glacier threatening to bury her crept back from her heart.

  “Perhaps you should call him the Brush Blood instead of First.” Sal knelt so close he straddled her feet. Batting his eyes, he draped himself on her lap. “My hair is tangled, too.”

  With that dimple in his cheek, he was too adorable to refuse. She combed her fingers through his hair. He gave a satisfied little murmur and nestled his face on her thigh.

  “You’re practically purring. You’re like an oversized cat.”

  “If I’m the Brush Blood,” Dharman said, “then you’re the Lap Blood.”

  Dharman sounded rather terse. Concerned, she cracked open her awareness of his bond. Red glowed in the depths of her mind, the steady fire of his bond. He wasn’t jealous or upset, rather longing that he’d thought to put himself in her lap too.

  “I’ll be the Caffe Blood, too.” Sal turned his head enough to peek up at her through his hair. “When you would like another cup, na’lanna Qwen, I shall fetch it for you. It’s an honor to serve.”

  “The servants—” she began, but Sal shook his head and Dharman settled a palm on her shoulder.

  “We don’t trust them, na’lanna Qwen. They would have allowed the twins to be poisoned. Everyone knows it’s your favorite drink; we’ll prepare it for you ourselves.”

  “I don’t want you waiting on me hand and foot,” she grumbled.

  Sal slipped to the floor and cradled her foot against his bare chest, rubbing his thumbs in deep circles along her sole. “Hand, foot, or any other body part, we’re more than happy to wait upon you.”

  “Ask, na’lanna Qwen, and it shall be done without delay.” Dharman whispered against her ear.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she muttered. Standing, she moved away and began braiding her hair, much to Dharman’s chagrin.

  He gaped at her a moment, glanced down at Sal still sprawled on the floor, and then jumped off the bed. “I’ll brush it for you every day. There’s no need to braid it.”

  “It’s tidier this way.” She hid a smile at the desperation on his face. He’d accused her of letting Sal touch her casually and frequently without repercussion, which was a valid complaint. Now that Dharman had found a way to touch her as regularly, he thought she was taking away his excuse. “Notify my Council that I wish to see them.”

  Dharman flashed the command to Jahne at the door, who immediately stepped outside. “As you wish, it shall be done.”

  He looked so grim, his emotions walled off by the stone of his face. He was well used to coldness from her; she’d been trying to freeze him out for years. She wrapped the brightl
y colored green and blue belt about her waist, shifting it so the white and black rahkes hung balanced on each hip. The belt and sheathes had been her claiming gift from her co-mates, so it was only fitting that she’d tied their braids on each sheath.

  Dharman watched silently with her armor in hand. The skin was tight about his eyes, his mouth a flat slant. He wouldn’t ask, her First Blood, but he ached to do something, anything, to provide comfort and touch.

  She gave him a nod, and he helped slip the breastplate over her head. “This armor is not needed,” he said gruffly. “Not with nine warriors standing between you and any steel.”

  What he didn’t say was that he wanted her to wear him as her shield. If she’d let him wrap around her back every minute of every day, then no assassin would ever find its mark.

  Lightly, she reached up and cupped his cheek. “You can brush and braid my hair each day if you want.”

  His shoulders relaxed and he smiled. “It’s an honor—”

  A blast of blizzard wind roared through her. She silenced him with her fingers over his lips. “I don’t want you to do anything because of honor. Do you understand? I know you’re Blood, and you feel that you must protect me, but please, don’t…” Her voice broke. Appalled, she stiffened, trying not to cry. “I’m not merely kae’valda to wear so you can brag to the other warriors. If that’s all you want, some new bead to imagine in your hair…”

  He dipped his head closer and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her slowly, carefully, into his embrace as though he feared she might whip out a rahke and gut him for such audacity. “You hold my heart in the palm of your hand, na’lanna Qwen.”

  Not to be denied, Sal pressed against her back. They held her, letting the pain seep from her heart through their bonds. Straightening, she brushed her cheeks dry and lifted her chin. “The Council is waiting.”

  The Blood opened the door, several gliding down the hallway, Dharman at her back, Sal immediately in front of her. His hair looked more mussed than it had when she’d first woken up, likely from wallowing on her lap.

  He flashed a smile at her over his shoulder. “You can wallow me any time you want, na’lanna Qwen. However, I do have a request.”

  Dharman groaned. Shannari knew better than to ask, but Sal didn’t wait for permission.

  “I think you should begin wearing Green Land clothing.”

  She jerked to a halt so quickly Dharman ran into her. Immediately, his arms closed around her to steady her balance. She couldn’t help but feel the erection beneath his memsha. Normally he took every effort to hide his arousal from her, even in bed at night. Poor boys. She knew they must be suffering. They’d been patient, more than patient, but she just couldn’t take that step with them. Not yet. Not after Rhaekhar’s violent death.

  I may never forgive him for leaving me.

  “Why would you want her to wear such ridiculous clothing?” Dharman retorted. “I hate the armor for it tells me she doubts we can protect her. But if she were to wear anything else, why not Sha’Kae al’Dan clothing? At least she could drill and fight, then, instead of tripping over those floor-length heavy…” His voice fell off and he swallowed so hard she felt the impact against her back. “Oh.”

  Bracing herself, she asked, “Why, Sal?”

  He tilted his head. Blood-auburn hair slipped over his shoulder like a velvet mantle. Eyes smoldering, he quirked his mouth and used his most rumbling purred voice. “So I may hide beneath. Just think, na’lanna Qwen, of all the ways I could distract you beneath that heavy gown while your Council drones on and on.”

  Dharman’s erection pulsed against her, so hard and thick she could feel it through her leathers. Now it was her turn to swallow hard, her throat tight, her heart thumping frantically like a runaway horse. The skirts of the current gowns were ridiculously belled by hoops. Even a warrior of Sal’s width and height could fit beneath on his knees. If she were sitting in her chair, and he crawled beneath…

  Dharman’s hands convulsed on her waist and he gave a little involuntary nudge with his hips that made her heart gallop up in her throat. Her body responded. Her inner muscles tightened, a dull ache spreading through her midsection, the molten heat between her thighs readying for one these warriors to slide inside.

  Tears spilled from her eyes and a pitifully weak whimper escaped her mouth that shamed her. Her first instinct was to draw steel and whirl around and challenge the Blood at her back. No tenderness, no emotion, because to thaw the frozen Silver Lake within her would lead to a storm of tears and sorrow all over again. If she stayed cold and numb, then she couldn’t hurt.

  “Forgive me, forgive me.” Sal dropped at her feet and buried his face against her, clinging to her. “I didn’t mean to upset you, na’lanna Qwen. On my honor, I’ll never joke about your clothing again.”

  Dharman shifted, beginning to pull away. She knew he understood the true reason for her upset; as First Blood, he listened to her bond constantly. To reassure him, she hugged his forearm tighter to her, stilling his withdrawal.

  “I’ll be fine,” she whispered, smoothing Sal’s hair. “Someday.” She didn’t want to freeze solid again, not if it meant cutting them up with her icy heart. “Give me a little more time, all right? Maybe someday I’ll let you do exactly that.”

  Sal looked up at her and smiled, his eyes lighting up with hope. “Don’t forget the crotchless drawers.”

  * * *

  “WELCOME HOME, YOUR MAJESTY.” KING Challon inclined his head politely. “We’re pleased to have you back in Shanhasson so quickly.”

  At her feet on the left, Sal leaned against her leg, his right arm curled beneath her leg, his palm covering her knee. Jorah squatted on the other side but didn’t touch her. As usual, Dharman stood behind her, but he kept his hand on her shoulder, his bond wide open and so concentrated on her that she could almost feel the searing heat in her mind. Perhaps that’s why she heard his muffled curse, and Sal’s snort of derision. None of the outlanders about the table even batted an eye, so her Blood’s responses must have been in the bonds.

  Without Khul’s bond filling up her mind, theirs had begun to take over.

  She tightened her jaws and took a deep breath, readying her mind to stack another wall of ice between them and her, when she remembered the way they’d let her punish their bodies with her wounded fury. The way they held her each night, innocently and without sensual pressure. The way they took such unfailing, dedicated care of her every wish and thought before she could even ask.

  It hurt, more than she cared to admit, but she didn’t build another cold, gray wall. It was the least she could do for them.

  Sal nestled his head against her side and Dharman stepped closer, his fingers tightening on her shoulder.

  “I’m sure you’re very pleased,” she said aloud, letting her wry smile sharpen her words. “As High Queen of the Green Lands, I now claim Shanhasson as my permanent home. What business would you lay before me this day, gentlemen?”

  King Challon settled back in his chair and smiled, his hands steepled before him. “Our first recommendation is that you select a new husband. One who’s more acceptable to the nobility and can provide royals heirs more—”

  Jorah clamped his hand on hers, keeping the rahke in its sheath. Dharman vibrated against her back, and she was pretty sure Sal was snarling at the man. Her rage, or theirs? Did it matter?

  She held her breath and mentally counted to ten, twenty, deliberately relaxing each and every muscle in her body until she slumped in the formal and rigid chair in which her Council insisted she sit, a sign of royalty despite their schemes to dethrone her. Jorah’s fierce grip on her hand eased, but he didn’t release her. Sal crouched beside her, muscles bunching down his back as though he would leap upon the man and rip his throat out with his teeth.

  Dropping her hand on his head, she said lightly, “Interesting. Do you have anyone to put forward as a candidate?”

  Shock sliced through the Blood bonds and Dharman’s fingers dug
into her so hard she worried he might have dented her armor. :Trust me.:

  He relaxed his grip on her slightly, but his bond still rang like drawn steel in her mind.

  Challon glanced around the table, and she knew he was mentally running through which man was married and whom she might consider. He himself was too old, as was the King of Taza. Her father was obviously out of the question. Benton, the Steward of Far Illione, had been married for twenty or more years and had at least two sons. Which left young Royce, the new Duke of Pella, or King Phillip of Maston.

  Phillip knew exactly what sort of desires she had. He was so pale she feared he might faint. He leaned toward Challon and whispered urgently. One curt word from the older man and Phillip flushed and jerked away. She stared at him with a small smile on her face, waiting for him to look at her.

  Hands trembling on the table, he bowed his head. He couldn’t.

  “I must admit, Your Majesty, that I’m rather surprised at how amendable you appear to be to this suggestion,” King Challon said. “By all accounts, you loved the barbarian. You wed him against any and all custom of our lands, and the rumors…” He shrugged and spread his hands out apologetically.

  Her smile sharpened, her mouth aching with strain. She knew the nobles at court had gossiped about her and her barbarian horde of lovers. Most likely, she could lay blame for those rumors at this man’s feet. “Why would I object to a reasonable request made by my Council?”

  :You would let one of these…these…curs touch you?: Dharman growled incredulously in her mind.

  She didn’t have a hand left to touch him, but she kept her mind and bond open to him in reassurance.

  “There are, however, a few requirements these candidates must fulfill before I’d even begin to consider them as my king.”

  Deliberately, she settled more fully against the back of the chair, rubbing her cheek on Dharman's hand on her shoulder until he slid his forearm around her neck in as much an embrace as the chair allowed. She knew he bristled with fury like an indignant herd stallion, and Sal still growled and bared his teeth like a caged tiger. Jorah was silent, but he shone brighter, his golden hair and skin catching the light and reflecting it back until Royce, who sat nearest on the edge, winced and shielded his eyes. He hid his hands beneath the table, but not before she noted how much they shook.