Reluctant Concubine

by Dana Marton

  “Welcome back,” said the Guardian of the Cave. He appeared drawn, as if he had lost weight.

  The Guardian of the Gate squeezed my hand with a relieved sigh, his great carved staff in his other hand. He had shadows under his eyes, the line of his thin mouth strained. Even the young Guardian of the Scrolls had worry lines marring his forehead as he looked at me. Frowning like that, he looked so very much like his father, the sight tugged my lips into a weak smile.

  “How long have I been ill?”

  They exchanged somber glances, then the young Guardian of the Scrolls spoke at last. “Three full days. Had my father not given you what spirit he had left before he died, you would not have left the dungeons of Mernor alive, my lady.”

  I was relieved to hear no accusation in his voice over his father’s death. “The war?”

  “The enemy stands ready. They are but waiting for the Emperor’s orders,” Batumar said, entering.

  The Guardians withdrew silently as he strode to me. Tall and strong, a warrior from an ancient myth, he came, his face a map of new scars gained at Mernor. Fierce was his countenance, but he was precious in my sight.

  He kicked off his boots, lay upon the bed, and drew me to him. I went willingly into his strong arms that had carried me back from death. I soaked up his love, my body pressed tightly against his. A hardstorm could not have torn us apart.

  “You shall not heal anyone. Ever again,” he said into my hair in his strictest voice. “You shall not even think of it.”

  I held on to his solid strength as I looked up. “I have passed into death and returned. Do not think, my lord, that I shall grow frightened at the words of a Kadar.”

  A smile twitched at the corner of his lips, his dark gaze softening, filling with so much tenderness that my throat constricted. I lay my head back on his shoulder and closed my eyes, thanking the spirits that we were both yet alive.

  “I have a mother,” he said, his voice carrying surprise and some soft emotion.

  “Have you thought, my lord, that your god of war, Rorin himself, had forged you from sword metal?”

  He let out a bark of a laugh, then brushed my hair back from my temple. “My mother loves you most fiercely.”

  “Not half as fiercely as she loves you. The odes I had to listen to in Pleasure Hall about your great strength and handsomeness…”

  He chuckled. “Did you not agree with the odes?”

  “I agreed with every word,” I admitted.

  He looked very pleased as he moved to kiss me. When he finally pulled back, he caressed my face, and just watched me for the longest time before his eyes turned somber. “I could scarce believe my eyes when I saw you two in Mernor’s dungeon.”

  I preferred not to think about the dungeon, but I asked, “How came you to be captured by Woldrom?”

  A low growl escaped his throat, and I did not think he would answer, but he did.

  “I found Woldrom’s First Captain as soon as I came through the gate, for he had been charged with guarding the island. I questioned him at once about who had killed my brother. He admitted to the deed, even bragging.” The muscles in his shoulder stiffened under my head.

  “My own guard came through the Gate then.” Regret laced his voice. “We outnumbered the men on the island, for some had gone off to patrol the woods on the riverbank shortly before. I ordered my men to lower their weapons.”

  “But you could have overtaken them,” I whispered.

  “Honor demanded I fight the captain man-to-man.”

  “You won,” I said. I had seen him with a sword, not that I wished to remember it.

  “The captain turned the fight so I stood amidst his men. Then he gave a signal. They fell on me, but I fought them, ordering my own guard still to stand back. I cut them down, and I cut down their captain, but his larger force heard the clashing of swords and rushed back from their patrol.” Batumar’s chest rose as he drew a slow breath. “Ten of my most faithful guards were killed.”

  We lay in silence.

  “I upheld the honor of my House,” he said after a while. “And now I find I would rather lose even that than lose you again.” He brushed his lips over my hair.

  I raised my head to look into his battle-scarred face. He needed no further invitation to claim my lips.

  * * *

  In the morning, Lord Karnagh arrived through the Gate with many more men than he’d taken to Mernor, and many more tigers. By the next morning, my strength returned, and Batumar walked with me to the Forgotten City so I could once again examine the scrolls. Having seen the evil and destruction at Mernor, I knew at last that he had been right. There could be no peace with such an enemy. We must fight the Kerghi, or our people would perish.

  We went the long way up the side of the mountain. I could just barely talk Batumar out of carrying me the whole way. But I did feel recovered. What healing the Guardians had begun in me, my own body was now rapidly finishing.

  This high up, the chill of fall was already in the air. I did not mind. The walk and fresh air did me much good, a welcome change after spending so much time in bed of late.

  We found the Guardians in low spirits. The Guardian of the Scrolls sat in the same place his father used to sit, in the back, the same unhappy expression on his face. He had a solemn quality rarely possessed by a man so young. Maybe too young to shoulder the responsibility thrust upon him, I thought as I considered the Guardians’ strange customs.

  “Greetings, Lady Tera.” He stood, his face a careful mask. “Have you come to look at the scrolls?”

  “I have. With your kind help.” I smiled at him.

  Batumar sat by the fire with the Guardian of the Gate while the Guardian of the Cave opened the rock, and I followed the Guardian of the Scrolls into the tunnel. I waited when he hesitated at a crossroad. Then he strode forth, and led me through the countless passages until at last we reached the scrolls. As he would not enter the chamber, I walked in alone.

  This time, I carried a small blade, for whether the remaining scrolls would readily open or not, I needed their wisdom. I did not open the first scroll, as I knew the prophecy by heart. I reached for the second. As I tugged, the strip of hide holding it together detached easily.

  I held my breath as I unrolled the scroll. Oh, but when I read the words, I could have cried. Nothing but old stories, from the history of the First People all the way back to the creation of the world. What a cruel joke the spirits played, crushing the hopes of my heart.

  I lifted the third scroll, praying that this one at last would be useful to us. The binding held tight and would not give, so I pulled my blade, cut off the binding and unrolled the scroll.

  No words. No even a single picture. Not a mark.

  The coldness of the cave seeped inside me and squeezed my heart. We had been left to our fate by the spirits. As I followed the young Guardian back, frustration clenched my teeth.

  “I miss your father,” I said, the words coming to my lips unbidden.

  The young Guardian’s shoulders sagged, his father’s robe hanging on his lanky frame as he stopped and turned to me. He watched me for a moment, then gave a shuddering sigh. “Everybody does. The other Guardians use whatever excuse they can to stay away from me. I think looking at me reminds them of the friend they lost.” His lips twisted into a sour smile. “I am the only one who did not know my father well enough to miss him.”

  I could feel the pain in his heart as if it was my own. “He always spoke fondly of you.”

  His face lightened a small measure. “I wish I were more like him.”

  I nodded. “I never knew my true father, but all my life I wished I were more like my mother.”

  He looked at me with surprise, so I added, “My powers came to me late. I used to fear I did not inherit any at all.”

  “I feared the same.” He caught himself and fell silent.

  “You are not as fast yet as your father, but you found the scrolls.”

  “I do not feel them,” he said
miserably. “They call to me not. My father followed their voice. He could have found them with his eyes closed. I follow the carvings on the walls.”

  “Maybe it is so,” I said after some thought. “Maybe now that the scrolls have been opened, they do not need such a Guardian as your father was.”

  His face twisted into an expression of anguish. “But do you not see? That is even worse. The scrolls are the sole purpose of my life, as they were the sole purpose of the life of every man in my family before me.”

  “Some traditions are so old they seem to be as inevitable as the sunrise. But they are just traditions. Not unchangeable.”

  He shook his head.

  I said, “Maybe the scrolls call you not. Maybe something else does. The blood of the First People flows in the veins of the Guardians. I am certain you have some gift.” When a quick shift came into his eyes, I pushed. “What is it?”

  His answer took a long time coming. “I can see things.”

  “Are you a Seer, then?”

  He shook his head. “Not like a Seer. I see people not from the outside but within.”

  “Their innards?” I often saw that as I healed, blood vessels and bones, the source of the injury.

  “The things that are in their hearts.” He hesitated before he went on. “The first time I saw you, in your heart you thought I looked like my father, and you felt sad because your heart was so full of love for him and he was gone. And you thought I was angry.” He fell silent for moment. “I was. Because nobody ever had so much love in his heart for me.”

  “I am sure your father—”

  “He only met me when I came for my training. He felt fond of me, as you said. Impatient for me to take the weight from his shoulders.”

  “Your mother, then.”

  He looked away. “She did not want to be chosen. She loved another man and, after I was born, married him. They had other children, ones born out of love, not duty.”

  I watched his sad face, my mind filled with thoughts of callings and destinies and whether we had any power to direct our own lives or if we were like little sticks in a creek, carried by the current that was the will of the spirits.

  I put my hand on the Guardian’s arm. “I called your father ‘grandfather’. May I call you brother?”

  My heart filled with love for him, and he must have seen it, for he nodded. And then he turned to lead me out of the Sacred Cave, his shoulders no longer sagging.

  When Batumar saw me, he stood from the fire where he had been talking to the Guardian of the Gate who sat with his carved staff in hand, looking as drawn as he had when I had seen him the day before. I hoped that by healing me, the Guardians had not weakened their own spirits.

  I thanked them for all their help before I said my farewells. And then Batumar and I left for the fortress city.

  “I worry about the Guardian of the Gate. He seems unwell,” I said when we were a little farther on the path.

  Batumar matched his stride to mine. “He is holding the Gate.”

  “Is that why he will not let his staff out of his hand?”

  “I am not certain I understand what he does or how he does it. He can hold the Gate, he said, but the hold can be broken from the other side, although, not easily. He might be able to seal the Gate. But sealing a Gate is a dangerous endeavor. A sealed Gate may stay that way, never to be unsealed. And the sealing requires…” He shook his head. “In their legends, there is only one tale like that. The Guardian who sealed the Gate of Rabutin did not survived it. Their Gate has never been reopened.”

  I held the horror of that thought as we walked.

  “Have the scrolls revealed a way?” Batumar asked after a long stretch of silence.

  “Not today.” I sighed. “I fear we will have to fight the war.”

  He took my hand. “Then we will.”

  My heart clenched. “The scrolls…if they hold help for us, I cannot see it.”

  And then the rest of it tumbled forth, my disappointment in the vague prophecy of the first scroll and the old legends of the second, my frustration with the empty third.

  “I fear we cannot vanquish this enemy,” I confessed. “I fear what will become of our people. In my dreams, I see us like tiny grains of sand washed away by the high tide as the dark waves crash into the shore.”

  We were by then in the forest. He stopped to pull me into his arms.

  He held me for a long moment before reaching under my chin with a finger and tipping my head up so I would look into his eyes. “The Kerghi hordes are a powerful army,” he said. “Perhaps the most powerful in the world. For many years, they have conquered undefeated. And now they believe they cannot be defeated, and their enemies believe them unbeatable.”

  I nodded, understanding better than most the power of belief. I had seen many gravely injured who lived because they believed with every drop of blood in their bodies that they would live, while others with lesser injuries readily relinquished their spirits.

  Batumar continued. “If someone stood against the dark hordes and won a single battle, it would show the rest of the world that the Kerghi are not invincible.”

  I stilled. “And the defeat would show the Kerghi warriors that their army is not as strong as they believe.”

  He smiled at me. “One such battle could turn the tide. If our warriors believe they can win, they might. And they do believe because we have you. So you truly do have the power to end the war.”

  I was humbled as I held his dark gaze, for I knew that he believed in me with all his warrior’s heart.

  He brushed his lips gently over mine. As we walked on, we talked about the upcoming battle, and about the Guardians, and the coming siege.

  When we returned to the palace, I only went to Pleasure Hall for my bath, then at Batumar’s request, I hurried to him. As soon as I walked into his antechamber, he gathered me into his arms. He had bathed too, but had put his leggings back on. I lay my cheek against his warm skin. He carried me to his bed and lay down beside me.

  Then he shifted and placed his head on my chest, his ear directly over my heart. He found the exact spot so swiftly, I had the feeling he had listened to my heartbeat many a time while I had been fighting my way back to him from the darkness. When I ran my fingers over the thick locks of his hair, he sighed in contentment.

  “This war will be over someday,” he said. “Soon, if the spirits will it. And then we will know peace again.” He looked up with a playful glint in his eyes. “You and I are going to spend a lot of that peace between the furs.”

  I felt heat creep up my face, but I could not help smiling. As he stretched out next to me, I burrowed against his warmth, seeking something I could not name. I tilted my face to his, and my breath caught at the sudden hunger in his gaze. I placed my palm over his heart, finding his steady heartbeat as reassuring as he must have found mine.

  Even relaxed, he looked so fierce, every inch the warrior. But I knew his heart held much kindness. Did he love me as I loved him? I pressed my mouth against his. How warm his lips were under mine, how gentle the strong arms that came to encircle me.

  I soaked up his strength, letting the steady beating of his heart soothe me. His warmth and his scent enveloped me, and like a small animal in a nest, I burrowed into the safety of his embrace.

  He kissed me back softly in return, then said, “I had been raised for war. I have been taught from childhood that death in battle was glory. I have never been scared on the battlefield.” He brushed his lips over mine, lingered. “I have not known true fear until you came to Mernor.”

  Maybe that was as close as a warlord could come to admitting love, I thought, and smiled. I moved my hand across his chest, my fingers gliding over hills of muscles.

  He held still, allowing me to explore him without hindrance. Then, as my hand slid down his chest and across his hard stomach, he captured my wrist with a groan and placed my palm back over his heart, trapping my hand there with his own.

  “If the Kerghi will n
ot be the death of me, you surely will be,” he said against my lips before he took them, with an urgency this time.

  My body heated. I moaned in protest when he reined in his passion and pulled back.

  “You should rest,” he said in a rough whisper. “You should have spent the day in bed instead of walking to the Forgotten City. You are still recovering.”

  I held his hungry gaze. “And if I do not wish to rest?”

  He reclaimed my lips before the last word was out. And then he claimed the rest of me.

  * * *

  The following day, we lost the Gate.

  The Guardian’s hold had been broken. The five hundred Kadar warriors guarding the Gate—all the small plateau would hold—had been slain. It happened in the night, suddenly, without time to send word to Karamur for reinforcements.

  The first of the Kerghi were on our island, waiting for the rest of their troops to arrive. Our enemies had gathered, and like the night, their darkness spread over the land.

  Instead of attacking the seat of the Kadar high lord immediately, Woldrom sent a unit of soldiers across the island to scout any possible points of resistance. Some of these Kerghi soldiers were slain by Kadar warriors, others reached far south. Grim accounts of their deeds found their way to Karamur with the first wave of refugees. That first wave was mostly Kadar, but the Shahala followed right on their heels. The Kerghi wrought unspeakable destruction in some Shahala towns.

  To protect the Seela, the Guardians sealed the Forgotten City with the strongest wards they had, making it nearly impossible for any stranger to enter or even see the city, but that also meant that the Guardians could not leave to visit me.

  In Karamur, the villagers who lived outside the walls now moved inside, into a city that was already filled to the brink with Kadar and Shahala refugees.

  Our soldiers were preparing for the battle, while everyone else made sure the harvest was gathered in and safely stored for a prolonged siege. Everyone had chores, even the children. They patrolled the streets and reported any piles of hay and dry wood or waste that might catch on fire from fire arrows. Anything that might easily burn was carried to the cellars. Water pumps were going all day, and every available pail and tub filled up.