FREE SPIRIT

by JennaKay Francis

  So do I end it? she thought wearily. End it all here? There were worse ways to die. And worse places. But what if I’m already dead? Then what? Would nothing happen? She lifted the weapon before her. A simple thrust to the gut or a quick slice behind one ear would answer those questions. She drew a deep breath, then on impulse pricked her finger. A drop of bright red blood appeared, ran down her hand to drip on the blanket. Strange, she thought, there was so little pain. So little…. She lifted the dagger toward her throat, then started as a great roar came from below, a roar filled with panic and terror. A moment later Kittellan burst into the room, his face white, his blue eyes enormous. Diesa bolted to her feet, then crumpled in pain. The dagger clattered to the floor. Kittellan’s gaze swept from her to the dagger and back.

  "No, Diesa," he murmured. "Gods, no!" He crossed the room to her, gathered her in his arms and held her tight, trembling. "He killed the man, Diesa," he mumbled, burying his face in her hair. "Scanlon killed him with only a thought! He simply burst into flame. Right there in the dining hall. And when the flame was gone, so was he. Nothing was left, Diesa. No ashes, no bones. Nothing."

  Diesa felt a rush of warmth and sagged into Kittellan’s arms in a near faint. He picked her up and returned her to the bed. After a moment, the faint passed and she looked up at him. Some of the color had returned to his cheeks and the panic had left his eyes.

  "Where’s Scanlon now?" she asked.

  Kittellan shrugged. "I don’t know. After he did … he saw me and ordered me back here. I … I’m sorry I didn’t get your tea." He glanced at the dagger on the floor, rose and retrieved it. "Don’t ever think about taking your life, Diesa," he said as he re-sheathed the weapon. He stood staring at it, his back to her. "I … I need you, Diesa. I love you. I want you with me." He turned to face her and there were tears in his eyes. "I’ve never loved anyone before, not like this." He approached the bed and knelt beside it, taking Diesa’s hand. "Gods! Diesa, you’re bleeding!"

  Without asking why, he hurriedly fetched some bandaging material and gently wrapped her finger. When he was done, he pressed her hand against his cheek and sighed. "I can’t be your lover, Diesa, but I can be your love if you can accept that."

  Diesa smiled at him, overwhelmed with emotion. This angel, this beautiful demi-god, was asking for her love. Not in the carnal sense, but in a way much deeper. She pulled his hand to her lips and kissed it lightly. "I can accept that, Kitt," she whispered, then shuddered as a wave of searing pain rolled through her. Her grip on his hand tightened and she forced the words from her mouth. "You’d better get Scanlon."

  Kittellan reacted swiftly, not even questioning her. Diesa moaned and curled into a ball of agony. She hated to ask for Scanlon’s help, hated to think of him healing her once again. But Kittellan had asked her to stay. He needs me, she thought, a new warmth spreading through her. No one else has ever needed me or loved me without desiring more. It was that desire and her refusal to satisfy it that had driven both Kyran and De’el into other lover’s arms. And now, she thought, now my first time had not been with love at all. At least with Kyran or De’el it would have been special and warm. I should have said yes to them, Diesa thought wearily, closing her eyes. I should have said yes.

  ::And you think that would have made them stay?:: Scanlon’s question touched gently at her mind. She opened her eyes as he sat down beside her.

  She hated him being in her mind but more than that she hated not knowing when he was. "Free my magic, Scanlon," she ventured. "I need it."

  Scanlon looked at her for a long time. She burned under his gaze but defiantly returned it. Abruptly he rose and she gasped as her magic was released.

  "We will leave by noon," he said curtly, then turned to Kittellan. "Come with me. We have a purchase to make before then."

  "But, M’lord …" Kittellan started to protest, his eyes filled with worry.

  "Kittellan," Scanlon snapped. "Now!" He strode from the room and Kittellan quietly followed.

  Diesa grimaced, wondering what had roused his anger this time. With a sigh of confusion, she called up her magic. She had not used it for some time, but found it responded to her easily, efficiently. She stopped the bleeding, stayed the pain, and began the tissue renewal. It felt good to be in control again, to remember who she was. She threw off the blankets, rose and stood naked before the mirror. Diesa de Tyronmen, healer, dryad, Omerron princess.

  She smiled. She had not thought of that title for a long time. A very long time. She drew herself up to her full five feet. Of course, she had never been owned! And never could be! Scanlon was under a delusion if he thought differently.

  Then just as swiftly as the thoughts had come, they fled. Who was under a delusion here? Certainly not Scanlon. He had seen through her title as easily as everyone else. No one took it seriously, least of all her father, Prince Cevris. In fact, he had made no claim at all to her although her mother swore Diesa was his child. Even on her deathbed, she had not wavered from that story. The title had been bestowed with no holdings, no formality, no recordings. It had passed between the prince and Diesa’s mother only, with no witnesses, save a five-year old child. Her mother had asked, the prince had agreed, her mother had died. And that was that.

  Diesa shivered, fetched some clean clothes and dressed. She began to brush her hair out, then winced as the brush touched at the bruise her assailant had left. She started to heal it, then stopped, and continued with her brushing. She needed that pain. Needed it to remind her of the new rage she was building against Scanlon. For the one who had brought her here and allowed what had happened to her. She wondered why he hadn’t intervened, why he hadn’t known of the man’s attack even as it happened. He certainly seemed to know of everything else. Why hadn’t he stopped it? Why had he allowed her to be humiliated, abused?

  If I’d had my magic, it would have been different, she thought, glaring at her reflection. No man would dare to touch me then.

  She wasn’t sorry Scanlon had killed the man, only sorry she could not have done it herself.

  She repacked, picked up her cloak and pack, strapped on her dagger and left the room. Murmurs swept through the dining hall as she passed and though her cheeks flamed red, she held her head a little higher and quickly went outside.

  Although the sun was bright the air was cold and she took a deep breath to calm her pounding heart before starting for the stables. It was warm and musty inside and Pearl nickered a greeting, then shoved her nose against Diesa’s shoulder hard enough to make her lose her balance. She stumbled against the gate, it popped open and she fell flat on her back on the hard wooden floor. She stared up at Pearl in surprise. "So are you happy to see me or trying to kill me?" she whispered. Pearl snorted and lowered her head to snuffle at Diesa’s tunic.

  "An unbecoming position," a voice said, "unless you’re offering yourself as food."

  Diesa struggled to her feet, a smile on her face as Kittellan walked up.

  His face was concerned. "Are you well?"

  "Well, enough," she replied, then looked at the bow and quiver he held. "I see Scanlon is plying you with gifts now." Her smile faded. "Next, he’ll buy your soul."

  Kittellan shot her a look of warning and she whirled to see Scanlon standing not far behind her. He gave her a cold smile. "Why would I want Kittellan’s soul?" he asked. "I already have yours."

  Diesa clenched her jaw, anger flashing through her. She instinctively reached for her magic and this time found it.

  "I wouldn’t," Scanlon said quietly, his voice low and threatening. "I trust you’ve completed your healing?" She gave a brief nod, then cried out as he once more bound her magic.

  "Do I frighten you that much?" she seethed. "So much so that with your incredible elfin powers you must take my pathetically weak dryad magic from me?" She gasped at the jolt he sent her but would not break his stare. He was detached, distanced from her, as if a wall had been built between them—a wall she had thought she wanted but did not welcome.

&nb
sp; "M’lord?" Kittellan interrupted quietly. "It’s well past noon. You said—"

  "I know what I said," Scanlon snapped. "And I know what time it is! See to my horse, not my business."

  Kittellan stiffened in pain. "Yes, M’lord," he mumbled. He gave a brief bow and hurried away.

  Scanlon glared at Diesa. "I tire of this game, Diesa," he said fiercely. "We go south. In three day’s time, we will reach Estower. I will not intrude on your thoughts until then. There is a very active slave trade in Estower. I will tell you this now. Since you despise me so much, I will decide whether to keep you or sell you by the time we reach that township." He wheeled and stormed angrily from the stable.

  Diesa stared after him in disbelief. Sell her? Somehow, after what had happened with the athletic man that second night, she had thought her position with Scanlon was secure. Apparently she was wrong. The thought restored her anger and loathing of the elf.

  "Get your mount ready!" Kittellan whispered as he led the gelding and stallion past. "And for once, Diesa, still your tongue."

  Diesa cringed at Kittellan’s sharp words and in a blur of tears she readied Pearl and led the mare outside. Scanlon and Kittellan were already astride and it looked as if neither would offer her a hand up. She led Pearl to the fence, used it as a step and stretched out to mount. Pearl sidestepped eagerly, making the stretch more than Diesa intended and as she gained the horse’s back, she felt a pain rip through her abdomen. Quickly, she looked up but Scanlon and Kittellan had already turned away and started out of town. Diesa followed, hoping the pain would subside.

  Hours later, as they rode through a sparse, leafy wood, she began to bleed. She dropped out of line on the pretense of relieving herself and used compresses to try to stop the blood. She was successful enough to remount and continue without drawing undue attention. She was afraid to tell Scanlon what was happening and equally reluctant to approach Kittellan. His anger at her was unnerving and had served to wall her off in complete isolation. Scanlon rode next to him and the two spent a great deal of time deep in conversation. The few times the boy did look back at her, Diesa turned away, too embarrassed and hurt to meet his gaze.

  They camped outside that night and Diesa took care to settle down as far away from the other two as she could, even though it meant she would not benefit from the warmth of the fire. The amount of blood she was losing was not a lot but it was persistent. It was beginning to concern her. Still, she could not think how to approach Scanlon for help. It was not likely he would allow her to try healing herself this time. That meant he would heal her—again. And that was something she couldn’t bear to happen. Not now, not after what he had said. Shivering, she rolled into her blanket and tried to sleep through the pain.

  She made it through the night and the next day, but by the time they camped that night, she was weak and feverish. She all but collapsed into her blanket after somehow getting through meal preparation and cleanup. She lay shivering, staring blankly at the night sky. The man must have been diseased. She hadn’t thought of that. She had only healed her physical wounds, wounds that hadn’t taken kindly to a day and half on horseback. But there was nothing to do for it now. If the blood loss didn’t kill her, the disease would, and right now she could think of nothing better than death.

  Her gaze traveled to the fire. Scanlon and Kittellan were lounging beside it talking quietly. She wondered when Kittellan had ceased being a slave. Or perhaps he never had been. Perhaps it was all part of a cruel joke. Perhaps he and Scanlon were old friends, using her in some demented game. Whatever it was, it hurt. Especially with Kittellan, though she knew it was not entirely his fault. Scanlon kept him busy with talk, sword practice and archery, almost as if he strove to keep the boy from Diesa’s side. The few times Kittellan had managed to speak to her Scanlon had been close and they could not talk freely.

  The wind suddenly gusted, whipped ashes and embers from the fire, and sent them shooting skyward like tiny beacons. Beacons for help, Diesa thought. Help that would never come. She closed her eyes and fell into a restless, nightmare-driven sleep.

  She dreamt of long roads, slave trains and foul-smelling men. Of shackles and pain and beautiful young gods. Gods that threw fire and sucked up her life, then left her a blackened, soulless corpse. She woke next morning, trembling, sweaty and sick. She heard someone moving around and pried her eyes open. Kittellan was arranging wood for a fire. Scanlon was watching him.

  Diesa was struck by the elf’s countenance. He looked sad, lonely and lost. He caught her eye and, in a breath, his countenance changed. His face became set and impassive, his gray eyes cold and distant.

  "Kittellan," he said, "fetch some water from the stream for tea. Diesa, we’ll have a light breakfast. Later you may replenish our supplies with roots and berries. They should be plentiful here."

  Tears abruptly filled Diesa’s eyes and she swallowed hard to keep them in check. "M’lord," she rasped. "I … I need your help."

  Scanlon quickly rose, crossed the camp and crouched beside her. She felt his mind touch hers and a fierce scowl crossed his face. "Why did you wait so long to tell me?" he demanded.

  Diesa cringed at his harsh tone, tried to draw forth the anger that sustained her and could not. Instead, she found herself groveling like a good little slave as tears rolled down her face. "I’m sorry, M’lord. Truly sorry. I thought it would go away, that I would be all right. I didn’t want you to know of my failings."

  Kittellan had returned with the water and set the small kettle down, eyeing Diesa worriedly. He jumped when Scanlon spoke his name.

  "Kittellan! Bring me that water and a cloth." The elf looked back at Diesa. "Three times, Diesa," he murmured. "Do you have any soul left to give?"

  Diesa stared at him, aghast, not sure if she’d heard him correctly. Rage flew through her and was consumed by her fever. She broke into great, gasping sobs and pulled her blanket close. "I’ve none, M’lord," she managed. "Let the body die as well."

  Scanlon’s face softened as if he regretted the words. He took the cloth from Kittellan, dipped it into the cold water, wrung it out and gently wiped her face. "No one’s going to die, Diesa. Certainly not you, soul or no."

  "M’lord," Kittellan whispered, his fear evident in his face. "What’s wrong with her?"

  "The man who attacked her was less than gentle and most probably diseased. Diesa has been bleeding since yesterday. She now has a fever and a raging infection."

  "Can you heal her?" Kittellan asked, almost pleadingly.

  "Yes. But it will require your help. Destroying diseased tissue is painful. There’s not much I can do to help that. You will have to hold her. I have no desire to be blindsided by her as you were."

  Diesa’s sobs grew louder and she looked at Kittellan as if through a fog, the memory of their first day together as strong as if it had just happened. "I didn’t mean to hit you, Kitt!" she sobbed. "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry! I truly am a demon. You should both leave me here to die. I deserve no less."

  Kittellan shushed her and pulled her onto his lap, her back against his abdomen, her head cradled against his chest. He caught her arms and wrapped his own arms about her, laying his cheek in her hair. "Gods, she’s so hot," he murmured.

  "And no doubt half delirious," Scanlon replied. "Hold tight." He placed a hand low on her abdomen.

  Diesa trembled, feeling a warmth surge over her. At first it was comforting and pleasant but it quickly escalated in intensity, like standing too close to a fire. She squirmed, tried to back away and found she could not. Something held her, pinned her down. Panic set in as the heat grew stronger. It was the fire! The fire that had claimed Omerron. It was all about her! Flames leaping high into the air, trees glowing like giant torches, turning night into day, raining red hot embers down on her head.

  She was being consumed. Burned alive. She screamed, fought wildly against her bonds. Shackles! Shackles of cold, unforgiving iron. It is too tight! I can’t breathe! Listen to me! I can’t breathe! I’m dying
! Let me loose, let me go.

  Suddenly the restraints were gone and cool air rushed into her lungs, attacking the fever, driving it out, leaving her exhausted, weak and shaking. She looked up at Kittellan with a small, wan smile. "My handsome angel," she whispered, then looked to Scanlon who sat before her. She reached out for his hand. He gave it curiously. She held it before her, kissed the palm and fell into blackness.

  When next she woke, full afternoon sun was upon her face. She stretched, feeling weak but well. Her memory of what had happened was cloudy, yet she knew Scanlon had once more healed her. And she clearly remembered what he’d said about taking the rest of her soul. She grimaced and sat up.

  Kittellan looked over at her and smiled. He was turning a small spit over the fire and the breast of some animal was roasting, its juices sizzling onto the hot embers. "You look better," Kittellan said. "Are you?"

  Diesa nodded, glancing around. "Where’s Scanlon?"

  "He left this morning right after he healed you. Probably gone off to sulk. I think you surprised him."

  "Me? How?"

  "When you kissed him."

  Diesa gasped, her eyes going wide. "I didn’t!"

  "Oh, but you did," Kittellan told her. "You kissed his hand."

  Diesa trembled with sudden anger, though warmth spread over her cheeks. "I wouldn’t! Ever! You’re lying!"