by Speer, Flora
The Secret Heart
By
Flora Speer
Smashwords Edition
Published by Flora Speer At Smashwords
Copyright © 2015 by Flora Speer
Cover Design Copyright 2015,
By http//:DigitalDonna.com
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I’ll follow my secret heart…
No matter what price is paid…
Sir Noel Coward
English composer
For the valiant heart, nothing is impossible.
Motto of Jacques Coeur
Financier to King Charles VII
Of France
Prologue
Midnight
Calean City, Sapaudia
Early Spring
In a private chamber high in one of the castle towers the spy from the Dominion and the Sapaudian lord stared at the servant who had just delivered news that neither man wanted to hear.
“‘Intends to flee?’“ the spy repeated.
“That stupid girl,” the lord muttered. To the servant he said, “You may go. If you reveal a word of this information to anyone else, your life is forfeit.”
“I understand, my lord.” The servant bowed and made a hasty exit.
“I thought you said the girl was under your control,” the spy snarled.
“Before the night is over she will be completely and permanently controlled,” the lord promised. Seeing the hard look the spy cast upon him he added, “Never doubt it.”
“What do you intend?” the spy demanded.
“If she should disappear, the search for her will provide a convenient excuse for me to move freely about the country,” the lord said, thinking quickly. “I can meet with anyone I choose and no one will question my motive. After all, that poor, lost girl must be found before she comes to harm.” A brief and thoroughly evil smile crossed his face. “You may report to Domini Gundiac that when his army begins to march through the mountain passes no obstacles will remain. Sapaudia will be defeated.”
“What about the bridges? I am specifically required to ask you about them,” the spy said.
“Both bridges will be repaired before the snows begin at year’s end. Since the northern bridge over the Nalo River lies within my ancestral lands, I can have the work done by my own people without King Henryk’s men noticing.”
“And the southern bridge?” the spy asked. “It’s the more important one because it can be used all year round.”
“I will see to it. You may tell Domini Gundiac that I give him my word.”
“Very well, then.” The spy offered a bow so slight that it suggested he wished he didn’t have to bow at all to the other man. “Until we meet on the field of battle.”
“Where we will fight side by side. And with my assistance, the Dominion will win.” The lord inclined his sleek, dark head in dismissal.
After the spy was gone, he thought for a moment. King Henryk of Sapaudia was no coward. Though he had no heir, Henryk could be depended upon to ignore the cautious warnings of his advisors. He would personally lead his army into battle, and he would not survive. The lord would see to it that he did not. Then, after the Dominion victory Sapaudia would need a new king. And who better to lead the conquered country than the man who had handed Sapaudia over to the Dominion?
That same lord would, of course, succeed Domini Gundiac as ruler of both nations when the sovereign of the Dominion succumbed to an incurable disease. The lord had a plan to make certain of that, too. Then, finally he’d be in a position to learn the truth about the legendary jewel that had enabled Gundiac’s grandfather to forge a nation out of a group of warring tribes. The energy of the Great Emerald of the East, combined with the lord’s own magical Power, would make him undisputed master of the two lands.
A rare expression of pleasure lit his sharp features, until he remembered the girl whose overwrought emotions could spoil his well-laid plans before they were properly begun. He yearned to strangle the unruly wench with his bare hands, except that she might prove useful later. He always liked to keep a weapon in reserve. And to keep his own hands clean.
Stalking to the chamber door, he flung it open, knowing he’d find his trusty man-at-arms standing guard just outside.
“Come in,” the lord said. “I have an assignment for you.”
Part I
The Quest
Chapter 1
Early Autumn.
The woman crawled out of the sea toward dawn. Clawing at the wet sand, she fought against the storm-swept pull of the waves that threatened to drag her back into the water. On her hands and knees she began to make her slow way up the beach, only to collapse when the short burst of energy was spent.
By then she was well past the line of broken shells and seaweed that marked the highest reach of the waves, so she knew she could safely stop. At the moment, that was all she knew. She had been acting on instinct, without deliberate thought, wanting only to survive. Her mind was blank, with neither hope nor fear to inspire her to continue moving. Somewhere deep in the core of her being she comprehended that the void was a blessing.
She lay facedown upon sand that was dry, but no warmer than the sea had been. And there, exhausted, she slept.
“Do as we agreed. Remember me. Never forget that I loved you.”
The whisper in her memory faded even as it wakened her. She opened her eyes to silvery light. All was quiet. Not even the cry of a gull disturbed the silence. The misty sun hung low in the sky, so she knew it was either evening, or early morning. She was so confused that she could not be sure which part of the day it was, or where she was. Of one thing she was certain, though; the dull ache in her stomach reminded her that it had been too long since she had last eaten. She needed to find food, and fresh water, too.
Twice she attempted to stand, and failed. On the third try, groaning at the effort it took but refusing to give up, she made it to her feet. Fighting dizziness and her shaky legs, she squared her shoulders and started to walk. She was aware that her stumbling footsteps formed more of a wavering line in the sand than the straight, determined path she intended, but she kept going because she knew the only direction open to her was away from the sea and the danger that lay there.
As the impression of terrible danger flickered across her consciousness, she experienced a chill stronger and deeper than the cool air alone could impart. Looking down, she realized with a dim sense of surprise that she was wearing only a sleeveless linen shift that reached to her ankles. The fabric was damp, and it was stiff with salt and sand. Her feet were bare, as were her wrists and fingers, and her earlobes and throat when she touched them.
“No jewelry.” She frowned, as much at the cracked, husky sound of her own voice as in wonder at the lack of gold or silver ornaments, though she did recall standing numb and terrified as her few remaining pieces of jewelry and her clothing were stripped from her by rough hands.
“Ye won’t need these, not where yer goin’,” a harsh male voice echoed within her mind.
Shaking her head in an attempt to dislodge the dreadful memory, she continued to walk away from the water. On her right a high cliff of grey rocks tumbled straight into the sea, offering no way off the beach in that direction. Behind the cliffs reared the jagged heights of the Nalo Mountains that marked the eastern boundary of Sapaudia.
She could see how the cliff ended suddenly, as if a huge knife had sliced through the solid rock. The curving beach to her left was edged with sand dunes, where long, waving grasses grew. Inland, a few trees in the distance lured her onward. Fixing her gaze on the tallest tree, she headed for it.
“You made a promise and you will not break it,” she whispered to encourage herself. “It’s only a short distance. Where you see trees, there may be a stream, too, and perhaps bushes with berries, or an apple tree.”
The thought of a crisp, juicy apple quickened her steps until a peculiar sensation shimmered along her spine. She had experienced the same sensation enough times to know what it meant. Someone was watching her. She halted, tore her gaze from the tree she was using as a guide, and turned her head.
A man stood at the crest of a high dune just to her right. Perhaps he appeared so tall and so sinister because she was looking up at him. A black cloak covered him from shoulder to calf. Black hair crowned the head he held at an arrogant angle, as if he habitually regarded the world with his chin high and his elegantly arched, aristocratic nose in the air. For a long moment he stared at her without moving, while she fought to control the unreasoning terror that swept over her.
Had he been sent to kill her? She told herself it could not be. Everyone who wanted her dead must think she already was. But then, perhaps he had been sent to make certain of her death, to search for her lifeless body on the beach. In any case, she was too weak to create the illusion that she was someone else. She’d have to deal with him in her own face and form.
When the man finally moved she could see the knight’s sword beneath his cloak and she caught a glimpse of the shorter blade, the knife that was meant for cutting meat and for eating, but that she knew all too well was sharp enough and long enough for murder, if murder was his intent.
She stood immobilized by fear as he came down the steep slope of the dune with unfaltering steps and crossed the sand to confront her. By the time he reached her, she realized that he was every bit as tall as she had first thought. He towered over her, grim-faced and threatening, and she knew there was no point in trying to escape from him.
She didn’t recognize him, but that meant nothing. The important question was whether he recognized her. Uncertainty about his intentions made her knees quake. Then she decided if he meant to kill her, he’d have to do it while he looked directly into her eyes. And she would fight him with all the courage she could muster. She straightened her spine and squared her shoulders as she silently vowed to make her death as difficult for him to accomplish as she possibly could. She owed that much to her beloved—
“Woman,” said the dark-haired man, interrupting her dire thoughts, “what are you doing here on the beach, alone and unclothed?”
“Who are you, sir?” She put out both hands to fend him off. When he responded to her gesture by reaching toward her, she stumbled back a step. Her feet slipped in the sand, so she nearly fell. “No, don’t touch me,” she cried, suddenly, painfully aware that she was all but naked before him, and that there were far worse threats than immediate death by sword thrust. Or, by the vicious stab of an eating knife.
“I only meant to steady you,” the man said, lifting both arms out from his sides with his hands open in a movement plainly meant to show he’d do her no harm. “I am Sir Roarke of Alton. Let me help you, for you are obviously in need of aid. Who has done this to you?”
“Done what?” Though she longed to turn and flee from him, good sense prevailed over fear, so she stayed where she was. After all, where could she run on that very wide and open beach? Weakened as she was by hunger and imprisonment, how could she possibly escape so large and formidable a man?
An onslaught of painful images swirled through her mind, leaving her thoughts so befogged for a few moments that she couldn’t make sense of what was happening, or of what had happened, or of why she was so terrified of the future.
Perhaps she feared the future because she wasn’t supposed to have one. That wild, not entirely unreasonable thought occurred when the man before her pushed back the edge of his cloak, allowing her a clearer look at his broadsword and his knife. She assumed the movement was intended as intimidation.
She refused to swoon, or to show him how frightened she was. Drawing herself up to her full height, which was a good half a head shorter than Sir Roarke, she faced him boldly, though she was increasingly aware of her unclothed state, and of his piercing dark eyes that seemed to see all of her secrets. She wished he’d stop looking at her in that intense, searching way. She wondered if he was a bully, cruel and violent. If he was, she knew only one way to deal with such a man.
“What do you want of me?” she demanded with all the hauteur she could command while unclothed and in her bare feet, with what little magical ability she possessed unusable because of her physical weakness.
“Only to help you.” His gaze on her face seemed to her to become even sharper before he asked her, “Will you tell me your name?”
“My name?” She caught her breath, understanding the danger that lay in the simple question and knowing she dared provide only one answer. “I – I don’t know.”
“Do you mean you cannot remember?”
“No.” Please, dear Lord of the Blue Heaven, Great God Sebazious, let him not believe he recognized her.
“Did you hit your head?” he asked. “I’ve known men who were injured in battle, who couldn’t recall their own names or what day it was until they recovered from a head injury.”
“My head does hurt,” she said, clutching at the excuse. In fact, she did have a headache, though she was sure it was from lack of food, rather than from any serious injury. So far as she could tell, the only physical hurts she’d taken during her reckless escape were broken fingernails and a few scratches on her hands and knees, and they would soon heal. The damage inflicted upon her heart and soul did not show, though the scars would last forever.
“From your appearance,” Sir Roarke told her, still inspecting her with shrewd eyes, “I conclude that you were washed ashore during last night’s storm. How did you come to be in the sea? Did you fall overboard?”
“I don’t know,” she said again, though she did remember throwing herself from a ship, then fighting huge waves as she struggled to stay alive.
Despite her deliberate plunge to an almost certain watery death, she wanted to live. She wanted justice – and a very personal revenge. The desire burned deep in what was left of her once-tender heart. But she wasn’t going to tell Sir Roarke about the unquenchable need that kept her upright in defiance of her growing lightheadedness.
The man was a stranger to her. She couldn’t be sure he was sincere about wanting to help her, and she didn’t know where his loyalties lay. Let him believe she knew nothing, remembered nothing of her recent past. If she asserted a complete lack of memory whenever he asked a question, she might achieve a modicum of safety that would last until her head stopped aching, so she could think more clearly and decide what she ought to do first and where she ought to go.
What she intended, the quest that drove her, was nearly impossible for a woman to accomplish. Yet, surely, there was someone she could trust, to whom she could appeal for help. Perhaps, a priest of Sebazious, or a mage? But no; a priest would want gold, which she didn’t have, and a mage would only use his Power to probe the dangerous memories she wanted to keep hidden until her quest was complete.
Her somewhat confused attempt to decide upon her next move was interrupted by the sound of a man’s shout. The voice came from the direction of the dune where Sir Roarke had perched when she first saw him. She wondered how many men were with him. Possibly, a whole troop of men-at-arms. Noblemen seldom went anywhere alone.
“Hallooo! Roarke, where are you?”
“Here, on the beach,” he called back. His hands w
ere working at the clasp of his long cloak. In a swift movement he swung the heavy wool off his shoulders and around the woman before she could protest. “You will want to be covered,” he said.
“Thank you.” She stood unmoving, refusing to be affected by his masculine nearness while he refastened the silver clasp at her throat and then tugged the edges of the cloak close around her so she was completely enveloped in the dark folds. When she drew in her breath a tangy, spicy scent assailed her nose, telling her that Sir Roarke’s clothing was routinely stored with keshan shavings and dried, sweet gallinum to keep the moths away.
One long-fingered hand rested on her shoulder for an instant, and his dark eyes met hers. A slight frown creased his brow. She thought he was going to speak, perhaps to issue a warning of some kind, but the man who had called from the sand dune joined them.
He was almost as tall as Sir Roarke, though more heavily built, with sandy hair and bright blue eyes that at the moment were filled with disbelief. The fine wool of his blue tunic and the quality of his sword and knife all proclaimed him a knight, and a wealthy one, too. But she didn’t need his clothing and weapons to tell her so. She recognized him at once.
“Dear Heavenly Blue Sky above us!” he exclaimed, gaping at her. “Chantal, is it really you? How thin and pale you are. Have you been ill? Is that why you did not search for me, as I have been searching for you?”
“Let the questions wait, Garit,” Sir Roarke said firmly. “The lady is somewhat confused. I found her staggering along the beach.”
“But – but—” The newcomer put out one hand, then withdrew it as if he feared to touch her. “Chantal, my dearest lady, don’t you know me?”
