by Renee Wildes
“That is not your concern, faerie,” Tark sneered.
“We’re not doing this again.” Ren glared at the recovered warrior. “Everyone in this room has proven themselves a friend and I declare this a council of peace.” He turned to Pryseis. “We vote on a replacement. Why?”
She held up the crystal butterfly. “Because I want to give them this, to keep as a symbol of unity and fellowship. Think about it. Elves and humans aligned, elves and dwarves aligned, faeries and trolls aligned, now faeries and elves align as well. ’Tis a world community now. Why not join it?” It wasn’t the most eloquent speech she’d ever made, but ’twas the best she could do with the impossible goblin syllables. Her cheeks ached, and she was so tired of spitting!
“We shall consider your words,” Ren said.
“”Let’s go,” Tark ordered. “We have much to discuss.”
“Dax, Brannan, follow me.” Pryseis helped Benilo up and led the way back to their tent, dropping the flaps behind them for privacy. She smiled as Dax’s stomach gurgled. “One of the things they won’t be trading is food, unless you like grubs and maggots in porridge. You’re better off eating travel food a bit longer.”
She turned to Benilo. “How’s your head feel?”
“Better.” He turned the fired-clay cup in his hands. “The herbs taste unfamiliar, but there is no doubt they work.”
Pryseis nodded. “The same is true for whatever they put on my torn wing to stop the pain. So for certain they can trade medicinal recipes. And weaving. The mats and the baskets were well done. I liked the subtle patterns done by changing the different types of grass—different shading and textures.”
“What about weapons?” Brannan worried.
Dax growled.
Benilo managed a smile. “I think seeing Dax and me walking around has convinced our hosts the poison does not work other than for short-term incapacitation. There was mention of destroying the poison and the arrows.”
“Cowards!” Dax snarled like an underfed bear.
Pryseis rummaged in his pack for a travel strip and handed it to him. “Here—eat this.”
He grimaced, but complied with no enthusiasm.
Brannan shook his head. “The poison works. If not for healing, Dax would have died. Earth and metal destroyer. Only air is immune. I believe the Lady removed the poison by removing the earth in your soul.”
“Nay. I took a life. She took my powers as punishment. A spirit healer is all about balance, of all the elements. I have naught but one left—air. I am healer no longer.”
“Balanced are healers. Imbalanced are mages.” Brannan looked solemn. “What are you going to do, mage?”
Pryseis felt her mate flinch at the word.
Benilo answered, “I cannot return to my old life. I can no longer support my mate with elemental energy to replace hers. Pryseis must return to the pool. I go with her.”
She shuddered. Return to the horror of Analahamme? A life of ostracism, isolation and silence? She’d rather die. Benilo laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. The Light in his soul brushed hers. She focused on that warmth, needing his reassurance.
“You do not return alone,” Dax rumbled. “I go with you.”
“And I.” Benilo leaned forward to brush her hair aside, to plant a tender kiss on the back of her neck. She shivered in reaction. “I shall never leave you, elingrena. My Own. My Heart.”
“You must return and tell my brother of what all has transpired,” Brannan reproved.
“How is it—” Benilo looked his former apprentice over, “—you have thus far been able to elude his seeking?”
Brannan flushed. “Dragon potion.”
“Snooping in Queen Dara’s private library again?” Benilo sighed. “Last time you got caught, you had to polish the senior cadets’ parade boots for a month. Shall you never learn?”
“This time I did not get caught.”
Benilo pulled Pryseis back against him and brushed a soft kiss against her hair. “My King?” echoed in her mind.
“Are you all right?”
A male voice, ringing with authority and compassion. Empath.
“Brannan and Dax are here, safe and whole. The goblins have released us.”
“The nightmares are over,” Pryseis added. “These people are free.”
She sensed the elven king’s start of surprise. “So Dara was right. I greet you, elingrena of Benilo.”
“My Lord.” She wasn’t calling him her king just yet, with so much undecided.
“The one who caused the damage is dead, by my hand,” Benilo confessed.
“I see the Lady has seen fit to carry out your sentence, mage.” King Loren paused. “I accept your resignation from the ministry, and Brannan shall be reassigned upon his return. We have been unable to reach him. Relay to my brother our displeasure. Now what of you?”
“Displeasure” felt like the ultimate understatement, when every word vibrated with suppressed fury.
“I ken not what my future holds,” Benilo confessed. “I just ken the needs of Pryseis must come first. We must return to Crystal Mountain. There, we shall review our choices.”
“I shall send Anika and Pahn. Until then, Benilo.” King Loren withdrew.
Benilo glared at Brannan. “You brother is perturbed at you. You are to return to Poshnari-Unai upon the morrow.”
“What of you?” Dax asked Pryseis.
She shivered and rubbed her arms. “I need to return to the pool. I was granted a new seven-sunrise, but no longer.” Would the council hold to the Analahamme declaration?
Benilo wrapped her more securely in the fern-scented warmth of his arms. “I am sorry, elingrena. This is all my fault.” His guilt gnawed at her.
Unexpected anger rose. “Nay. This is not your fault. I was banished afore I ever met you. You ken how you felt when I shared energy with Mog? Well, how can I steal such from you? ’Tis the same thing. I live or die by the sun and the pool. Whether or not the council welcomes me home, I must return. I kenned that afore I even left.” She straightened her shoulders. “You made your choice to save Mog, and I applaud your decision and actions. These people are better off without Quark. I’m sorry your goddess didn’t see it the same way.”
The hollowness in his eyes reflected the coolness in his soul. Without the emotion of fire and water, she felt him struggling with the pure dispassionate intellect that remained. It was up to her to refresh his memory afore he lost it. She turned to Dax and Brannan. “Would you excuse us? We have some things to discuss.”
Brannan’s face shone with unexpected sympathy. “Aye. Call if you need anything.” He left the tent without fanfare.
Dax hesitated. “I’m sorry for how things turned out. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”
“We all had our roles to play. It could have turned out no other way.” Pryseis felt her smile wobble, and her throat tightened. “I’m sure Jem and Tik can find room for you to rest. We’ll figure it all out tomorrow. Try not to strangle Brannan afore then, no matter how rude he gets.”
Dax shook his head. “He has every right to be angry. I just wish I didn’t feel like a murderer.”
“It was war,” Benilo stated. “He shall realize that soon enough.”
Dax nodded and left in Brannan’s wake.
Pryseis took a deep breath. “Well, aren’t we a pair of sorry souls tonight?” She dropped the cloak and curled up against him, wrapped her arms around his neck so she could scoot into his lap. Benilo held her with a ferocity borne of desperation.
“I would free you from this vow, if I could,” he told her.
“Well, I wouldn’t go,” she retorted. “One thing you’ll learn about my kin is we’re stubborn. We don’t take orders well. Just ask any of the council. So you just try to order me away and see where that gets you.”
“I could leave you—”
She shook her head. “Dax is the best tracker in the Shadowlands. Try it and see how far you get. Face it, my love, you’re stuck with me.” S
he cupped his face in her hands, forced him to meet her gaze, willed him to believe. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
He took her mouth like a starving man at a banquet. Pryseis poured herself into the kiss, hoping the fire in her soul would ignite his. “One heart, one soul,” she wished with all her might. A wish. A hope. If any of her sisters were listening—
She held him close, teasing his tongue with hers into a dance of dark sensuality and need. His hands traced circles over her skin, skimming every curve and hollow. His lips followed where his fingers led, brushing her hair aside and turning her to rain a trail of fire around her neck to her back. She shivered with sensation as he reached around to cup her breasts, teasing her nipples into aching points of fire and ice. His teeth scraped her sensitive nape, and she squirmed as he held her down, kissed his way down her spine. She tried to turn, to reach some part of him, but he wouldn’t let her.
“Nay, beauty,” he whispered in her mind. “Let me feel you burn. Let yourself go. Give yourself over to me. Trust me.”
“I do. Always and forever.” She should have protested the restraint, but it was arousing to lose themselves in each other. Naught existed outside of sensation. Her whole body writhed under his touch. His hands slid over the curve of her backside, his fingers delving deep to coax her response. She bit back a whimper, pillowing her head on her arms and spreading her legs to grant him greater access. Her body burned, pulsing with emptiness, with hunger. “Please…” she pleaded.
She tasted her cream on his tongue, felt his rigid restraint as he flicked the hidden pearl peeking out betwixt her heated, swollen folds. Her entire body jerked in response, and she rocked back, seeking more. Lursa, she needed him in her, now.
Benilo pulled away, and she wanted to scream with frustration at the loss. His mind merged with hers, and she shuddered at the desperate edge to his need. He stroked himself along her folds, teasing them both. The anticipation was excruciating. Frustrating. Her body sucked at his, caressing him in wet, fluttering heat. And then he roared in her mind as he buried himself within her.
She screamed silently as she shattered around him. From this position, he filled her completely, teasing new pleasure points. Pryseis rocked back, grinding her bottom against him as he drew back and thrust deeper into her. A shock of almost painful pleasure. He reached around to tease her breasts, swirling his thumbs around just the tips of her nipples. He stilled, and her body tightened anew with heightened tension. Tiny little thrusts, building her need to a fevered pitch. Pryseis held her breath, her mind spinning as she quivered at the edge of the precipice…and tumbled over. Again.
Benilo’s control snapped. She felt herself pulsing around him, sucking him into herself. So hot, so tight. He thrust harder, faster, a burning slide of exquisite torment. His blood boiled in her veins as he pounded into her. She squeezed around him, teasing his length until with a flash of light he burst within her. He shook with the force of it, and awareness dimmed for a moment as he collapsed on her, bearing her to the floor.
Pryseis gasped for breath, stunned at the force of this joining. Benilo panted over her, and she shuddered as his breath tickled her too-sensitized skin. He rolled away, turning her around until she sprawled across his chest. His hands rubbed small firm circles into the muscles of her back, soothing what he’d just aroused.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
A blissful lethargy seeped into her. She never wanted to move again. “Aye. Never been better. That was…” Words failed her. Astounding? Breathtaking? Life altering?
He grinned. “It just gets better with time.”
“I’ll never survive.” She relaxed into him and bit her lip as she thought on tomorrow. “So, we prepare to leave tomorrow. Brannan returns to your people, and Dax comes with us. If Anika and Pahn are joining us at Crystal Mountain, we should try to take that staff with us and return it to Pahn and the dwarves. It belongs to them. I wonder how they lost it.”
“After all it has done to their people, I cannot imagine the goblins wanting anything to do with it,” Benilo agreed. “We should speak to Ren and see what they wish to do about the staff, the amulet and their future.”
Chapter Eleven
Dax tried to ignore the glare Brannan fired his way, from his seat near the hot spring. That look seared holes in his skin. The loamy scent of goblin intensified as Mog crept close, holding out a skewer with three roasted bats.
“I thought you might be hungry,” the lad said.
Shame at his earlier uncharitable thoughts, when he’d tried to dissuade Pryseis from helping, shadowed Dax’s mind. He inclined his head at Mog. “Thank you.” Three bats equaled a squirrel, but the thoughtful sharing gesture touched him. “I’m glad you’re better.”
“Me too.” Mog shuddered as he glanced over his thin shoulder to where the rune-carved staff rested against the wall in the sorcerer’s—Quark’s—area. Several of the elders sat around the council mat, speaking of things to come. Quark’s body was nowhere to be seen.
Dax followed his gaze. “Where’s the body?”
“The spirit flees when the body dies. What’s left, the empty shell, is discarded in the Chasm.” Mog indicated one of the side tunnels. “Back there is a bottomless pit, where the dead are tossed afore they can foul the living.”
Tossing away the dead without ceremony, like so much litter, rankled. But who was he to judge? Different culture, different ways. Wasn’t Pryseis always preaching acceptance? Tolerance? Time to start living the principle. Dax took a bite of bat. Not much flavor beyond charred, but meat was meat. Better than grub porridge.
Mog’s gaze traveled to Brannan, who glared Dax with disgust. “Why’s he so mad at you?”
“I slew his brother in battle.”
Mog blinked. “Oh. But if you hadn’t killed him, he would have killed you.”
“Brannan probably wishes he had.”
“But then Pryseis would be sad.” Mog’s voice was tight with unshed tears. He sounded as if he choked on the words. “Uncle Tark killed my father, even though he didn’t mean to. I miss my father, but should I stay mad at Uncle Tark forever?”
Sometimes children saw things with a clarity adults lacked. “Mayhaps not. Mayhaps someone should say that to Brannan.” Dax had meant it half in jest, but to his surprise, Mog rose.
“Mayhaps someone should.” The goblin lad took a deep breath, squared his too-thin shoulders and started across the chamber to where Brannan sat. The elf. The enemy.
Dax wasn’t the only one to notice. Every goblin in the room stared at Mog, who plunked down next to the healer and took his hand. Whatever he said had the elf’s full attention. They spoke for long moments, in quiet tones that made the actual words indistinguishable. But Dax saw Brannan start, as if in surprise, and swore the elf’s face flushed. Brannan’s gaze met his, the rage and accusation tempered with sadness. Mog kept talking, and Brannan put an arm around the goblin lad’s scrawny, hunched shoulders. Dax noticed a kind of glow cross the elf’s features, similar to when Benilo had healed him. A moment when the Light revealed Itself. Mog’s grey complexion and sharp features darkened in contrast.
He finished his food in silence.
Mog and Brannan rose and approached. “Talk,” Mog ordered and left them to face each other. Troll and elf. Enemies. Dax and Brannan, companions on a rescue mission. Once tenuous friends. Now? Dax motioned for Brannan to sit.
The elven healer did so, tossing his blond hair over his shoulder. “I miss my brother. I miss my mother. She died because he died, and he died because of you. You’ve taken from my kin what we can never get back.”
Dax flinched. “Have you ever been in battle? Seen battle? During…or after?”
Brannan shook his head. “I am not considered advanced enough yet to intern at the house of healing. I have but seen the slain, brought back from the battlefields. Markale…and Deane.”
Then he did not comprehend the “kill or be killed” instinct that prevailed in the heat of battl
e, when every breath might be your last. The exhaustion of a long march, the hunger and thirst of rationing, the chafing of armor and the heaviness of weapons, the strain of listening and watching for the enemy in every shadow of every rock and tree. And then the battle itself. The confusion of conflicting orders. The screams of the dying and the wounded. The feel and taste of blood, and other things, spraying across your face. Trying to stay on your feet as the still-warm fallen threatened to trip up the yet-living. Trying to hold the line as everyone around you either fell or fled. And then coming face-to-face with an enemy just as young and confused and scared and desperate as you. The moment when horror became numbness, when every enemy slain was met with a sense of relief that they were slower than you, that against all the odds you still stood, still breathed.
“You can never ken,” Dax growled.
“Then make me ken,” Brannan said. “Help me ken these stupid wars that rob families of their sons and nations of their future.”
That explanation was beyond Dax. “I can’t. I was but a simple soldier. We follow the orders of others who follow the orders of others. They drag us from our beds afore dawn, to march ’til we drop with half the food and water we need. Cold, hungry, thirsty, tired. Taunted night and day with tales of what would happen to us should the enemy capture us alive. Stories of atrocities and torture to give grown men nightmares, let alone the youths that make up the majority of the standard infantry. Death in battle was preferable to being skinned alive, burned alive, tied to four horses and being pulled apart whilst the enemy laughed and diced for your weapons.”
Brannan paled. “But we do not do things like that!”
“But that’s what we’re told,” Dax argued. “We’d all seen friends and brothers trampled by your horses, severed heads rolling down hills. It takes little imagination for tired minds to take the horror one step further.”
The elven healer shuddered. “Why? Why would they say such terrible things?”
The prince really had led a sheltered life, for all his losses. “To turn other men into the enemy,” Dax replied. “They didn’t want anyone seeing faces, wondering if the men and lads we slew might have families to mourn them, if their wounds hurt as much as ours did, if they were as hungry and tired and cold as we were, if they too just…wanted…to go home.”
