by Renee Wildes
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Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520
Macon GA 31201
Duality
Copyright © 2008 by Renee Wildes
ISBN: 978-1-60504-216-9
Edited by Linda Ingmanson
Cover by Anne Cain
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: October 2008
www.samhainpublishing.com
Duality
Renee Wildes
Dedication
To Grandma Jeanne, who first called me a writer when I was six, and Grandma Marlene, who wore out those pom-poms cheering me on.
It takes a village. Whoever said that was right on. Thanks to the critters of Central WI Writers Group, especially Toni and Becky, who knew Dara before there was a scene, much less a book!
Thanks to my “hero” Todd, who picked up a lot of the slack so I could write with a full-time job, and my kids for keeping me grounded.
A very special thanks to my editor Linda for making this project all it could be, and to Anne for the gorgeous cover!
Chapter One
Rufus Quickblade hadn’t returned from warning the king.
Dara rose from her sleeping mat and slipped outside. Fiery Mount Aege towered above all, a silent menace in the northwest. An unnatural stillness hovered in the leaden dawn. No birds chirped from the bare branches of trees. No small animals scurried through the fallen leaves on the forest floor. She peered through cold, curling autumn fog, shivering as thunder rumbled closer. The clarion call of trumpets pierced the silence, followed by the shriek of a wounded charger.
Her stomach lurched. That thunder’s not thunder at all. Nor was it—thank the Lady Goddess—the Fyre Mountain. ’Twas the rolling charge of heavy cavalry. Dara closed her eyes and sense-cast toward the distant sound. The ground trembled under pounding hooves tearing up rain-softened sod. Weapons clashed. Blood red violence shimmered in the air. Men hacked at one another. Friends fell screaming beneath blades and arrows. Smelling bloodlust and fear, she sought the invaders’ heraldry.
Lady Goddess, show me.
A black boar on a red background, the standard of Count Jalad of bordering Westmarche. She opened her eyes, returning to the here and now. “Rufus was right about the Boars’ invasion.”
With much to do and little time for the doing, she ran back in and changed into her woodsman’s disguise and a hat to hide her hair. Dara grabbed her medicine bags and strapped on her knives. She wouldn’t face the killing grounds unarmed.
Getting caught by the other side didn’t bear thinking. She knew the tales. Should the worst happen and she be captured by Westmarche Boars, she’d slit her own throat in a last act of defiance, afore they got a chance to rape or torture her.
Death afore dishonor.
Outside, she slipped through the swirling mists. Dark death energies crawled over her skin. The closer to the battle she drew, the stronger the sensation. She tasted the coppery tang of blood on the air, heard the groans of the fallen and the yells of those desperate to avoid similar fates. A riderless charger careened past her, an arrow half-buried in the cantle of its blood splashed saddle.
Dara slowed, cautious. Step, pause, search for sound or scent and step again.
She cursed fate. Women weren’t permitted warrior training in Arcadia, were punished if they expressed the desire to do so. But countrymen and neighbors were dying and she wanted to do some punishing of her own. Rage boiled a red haze over her eyes, obscuring her vision. A battle lust Rufus had despaired of ever teaching her to control.
“Clear mind, still heart, clear eye, steady hand,” the aging warrior had intoned during their secret training sessions. Over and over, for years, until she’d screamed at her adoptive father to stop. Then he’d demonstrated the technique by pounding her into the dust. But try as she might, she couldn’t slip into battle-trance. She just wanted to slash and tear.
Dara focused on wavering forms of tree trunks in the veiling fog until her physical sight cleared. Her mind stripped away the fury, and she sense-cast again for blood-still-living. Waiting until the battle shifted farther westward, moving away from her and thus making it safe to emerge from the shelter of the tree line, she prayed to find survivors. Lady, show me where to go.
Stepping onto the battlefield, she almost tripped over a young axeman crawling toward her with a crushed leg. King Hengist’s golden eagle, on a shredded midnight blue background, covered his torso and marked him as a friend. “I’m a healer. I’m no enemy of Riverhead, I swear by Queen Moira. Let me help.”
He looked up from the mud with eyes full of pain. “Aron, son of Gavin-Baker, from White Pines.”
The neighboring hamlet, an hour’s brisk walk from Safehold Keep. “What did this?” She sliced material from mangled flesh.
“Mace. Would’ve finished me if that blond foreigner hadn’t ridden into him. Saved me life—”
“Ssh,” Dara soothed, frowning at the jagged shards of bone sticking out through the torn flesh. With rest and proper care, he’d mend to dance at the next village wedding. “I can splint it, and ’twill heal, but ’twill hurt to do so.”
“Worse’n this?” He clenched his jaw. “Do what ye must.”
She closed her eyes and held her hands alongside the gaping wound, seeing in her mind how and where the bone had shattered. Outright healing would take too much. She must conserve her strength. Who knew how many she’d be called on to aid? She opened her eyes and looked into his. “You must sleep for this. I’ve dreamwine. Tastes awful, but ’twill relax the muscles for me to work.”
He shuddered, then nodded. “Ye’re right. Give it o’er.” He took two large swallows from the wineskin, grimacing as he handed it back. Within minutes his eyes glazed over and closed as he went limp.
Dara felt the muscles slacken. Without anyone to aid her in a job that took two strong men, she thanked the Goddess for a natural strength beyond that of most men as she pulled Aron’s lower leg into position. His memory of her aid would be dreamwine-addled when he awoke.
She wrapped his leg in linen strips and wooden bracing “borrowed” from the shafts of some nearby arrows that had missed living targets, then sewed the hideous wound closed with layers of botsi silk thread. She painted the leg with twice-boiled tea made from crushed relag root to keep the wound from going putrid and padded it with wool and more linen bandaging.
“Rest easy ’til friends take you home.” She made a sign of blessing over him. “Lady, guard him from Jalad’s Boars.”
She followed the wounded boy’s blood trail farther into the battlefield. So many bodies sprawled on the spongy ground.
“Help me.” A stout man with a bristling grey beard raised a hand to her. His boiled-leather Eagle breastplate was impaled by two long black arrows. His round wooden shield lay cracked in two.
Heart lurching, she was aside him in an instant. “Conn-Blacksmith, did you not remember to duck?” She brushed the hair from his forehead.
“Nay, but I took th’ bastard with me.” He gestured toward the bl
oodied corpse of a giant Boar, crumpled in a heap a few yards away.
“You’ll not be going the same way.”
He frowned at her appearance. “’Tis dangerous. Hide in Safehold.”
“I’m a disobedient child.” She closed her eyes and placed her fingertips on the arrow shafts. The leather had slowed their entry. Both had missed anything vital, but the barbs prevented easy removal. For anyone but her.
Lady, help me. She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder for witnesses. She gathered energy from deep within for the forbidden magic. Hold his mind in Your hand. Let him remember naught. Dark fire crackled along the shafts. She imagined the arrowheads shrinking, smoothing out. Sweat broke out across her forehead from the effort, but she dare not lose focus. Finally she was done. Now they should pull out easily enough.
She swayed as she returned to the here and now. Behind her eyes, a headache began its inevitable and relentless buildup. “You’re lucky, Conn. They missed killing you.”
He blinked as if awakening from a nap. “Tula shall be glad not t’ be a widow.”
“Aye, though there’ll be enough of them.” She pulled out her dreamwine. “Take a sip or two.”
“Nay.” He stayed her hand. “I’d have all me wits out here. Boars may still be about.”
Dara frowned. He was as invincible as a hamstrung stag, but she’d honor his wishes. “Can you bear it?”
Conn clenched his jaw and nodded. “Get on with it.” He glared into her eyes as she eased the first shaft back. A vein throbbed in his temple, but his fierce gaze never wavered. They both took a deep breath afore the removal of the second.
He frowned at the now-blunted arrowheads. “Cheap armorers… Curse th’ Boars fer breathin’.” He groaned as she removed his breastplate and tunic and packed the wounds with shaved waxroot to stop the bleeding. Then she poured relag tea over them and wrapped the wounds with wool and linen.
“You’re a brave man, Conn. Rest. Help will come soon.” She made a sign of protection over him. Lady, guard him with the lad. Hold him for the Eagle. Shield him from the Boar. “Conn, what happened to Rufus?”
He shook his head, regret in his eyes. “’Twas no way t’ keep track of aught but colors. Me guess? With King Hengist, chasing that greedy bastard Jalad back t’ Westmarche.”
“Thank you, Conn. I’ll see you again. Hang on.” Dara ignored her headache and kept going. She sense-cast for the Eagle and followed the pull. So many wounded, from White Pines, Rainbow Falls and the other Riverhead villages. No one had seen Rufus after the initial clash.
She wished she could sense-cast for a particular person. That Rufus lay dead or dying maddened her, but she wouldn’t forsake others on account of one. Lady, am I twice-orphaned or nay?
A clue came from a young Rainbow Falls archer with sword-slashed ribs, sprawled against the half-rotted trunk of a fallen black oak. “Saw him fall.” He pointed. “Th’ Boars were goin’ t’ ride him down, but th’ northern riever on a big bay mare charged straight through them an’ kept them away.”
Dara bound his ribs. “A northern riever?”
The lad nodded. “Aye. Big, blond, demon with a sword.”
Well, blond hair marked the mysterious warrior as a northerner. Everyone in these lands had hair and eyes in shades of brown. Except Dara. Her family was also branded outlander, by their flame-colored tresses. She double-checked to ensure her own hair was still tucked under her hat. No point in standing out like a beacon.
Dara headed in the direction the lad had pointed. “Rufus. Rot your eyes, answer me if you can.”
“Here…”
Sense-sight overlapped physical sight in a dizzying shimmer. She followed the trail through the mist.
Rufus lay unnaturally still, legs at an impossible angle. Sickly yellow energy flickered around him, leaking sullen red and a growing blackness.
Dara knelt aside him. “What’ve you done?”
His eyes opened. “Axe in th’ back. Feel naught. Can’t move. Sense th’ shadow of th’ crone. But King Hengist got me message in time.” He sighed. “I’m glad fer th’ chance t’ say goodbye.”
Her heart seized on denial. She sense-cast again, hoping he was wrong, hoping for a way. Even if she burned herself out ’twas beyond her skill. The wound was mortal. Returning to the here-and-now broke her heart. The headache dug its claws in further. Even normal vision took intense concentration. “What can I do?”
He swallowed. “Foreign lad saved me. They cut his charger out from under him o’er there t’ me left. He favored his right side, fought left-handed with th’ air of settlin’ on second strength. Find him. Save him if ye can.”
“I will.”
Rufus pinned her with a sharp look. “Do ye not wonder there are no Boar survivors?”
Dara had been too busy to notice, but now he mentioned it… “Aye.”
“They slew their own as they retreated. Why?”
In other circumstances, this would have seemed yet another lesson. But Dara read the urgency in his gaze. “Secrets. Secrets they’d not want revealed under questioning.”
“Aye. I fear Jalad’s secrets. If th’ world ends head east as far as ye can. Help beyond yer wildest imaginin’ lies that direction.” He closed his eyes, opened them again. “Don’t grieve. I’ll sic Fanny’s ghost on ye…when I see her.”
“You can’t leave me alone.”
“Don’t leave me fer th’ wolves or th’ Boars t’ finish off.”
The horror of his words penetrated her grief. She stared at him in shock. His form wavered in a haze of tears. “I can’t do that. Rufus, please—”
“I can’t do it meself. Some things don’t heal. I’d die quick o’er slow.”
“Nay.” She hugged his broken body close, sobbing against his blood-matted hair. “You can’t ask this of me.”
“I’ve kept yer secrets. I taught ye t’ be strong…an’ do what’s right. Ye owe me yer life. One final favor. Then we’re e’en.”
“We’ll never be even.” Her voice broke.
His eyes were fierce, unafraid. “Ye can’t say no.”
She raged against the inevitable. Her shoulders sagged. “I love you,” she whispered.
His eyes shimmered. “An’ I you, little warrior.”
She drew a blade. It pierced his heart with the merest whisper of sound, even as it shattered hers.
He sighed, and his eyes closed one final time.
Heedless, edged with madness and despair, her scream tore across the battlefield in huge waves of fury. Around her, power shockwaves flattened everything in a circle the width of ten charger gallop strides. The inhuman shriek hammered across the landscape until she’d neither breath nor voice left.
Dara collapsed onto Rufus’ body, sick and shaking. First her grandmother. Then her mother. Then Fanny. Now Rufus. She was alone in a world gone mad. I’ll kill them all. What do I do now?
Rufus’ words came back. “The foreign lad… Find him… Save him if ye can.”
Every enemy within hearing range would investigate her screams. Dara looked around. She had to regain control. Sorcery was banned. She’d seen many sent to the fires of the One Truth.
She staggered to the dead bay. No sign of the blond rider. She tried to sense-cast for Other, hoping for a clue. To her surprise, the faintest shimmer of power flickered ahead in the woods. Whoever it was must be too hurt or too much a stranger not to know what the use of power led to.
She scented blood on the breeze. Pain-from-outside sliced through the mist and crashed over her with a shocking force that dropped her to her knees. She struggled to filter it out, latching onto the projection.
On the Lady Goddess, she would not lose another life.
***
Loren ta Cedric lay crumpled beneath a healing hazel tree, struggled to breathe through endless waves of pain. Dark emotive magic had flared on the battlefield and he must be ready if whatever-it-was headed his direction. “Dracken rue!” Curse mortal horses, armor and weapons. Were Han
i`ena here he would not be in this mess.
“How bad this time?” a voice asked from far away. Of course Cedric ta Pari knew his son’s pain. The crown of Cymry allowed no less. “Do we ride?”
“Nay.” Grasping the amulet around his neck, his granna’s parting gift, Loren took a shallow breath. “Less than Boaden Meadows. It is well, Father. I shall heal.”
“Alani worries. Hurry home.”
Loren closed his eyes at the mention of the cool raven-haired beauty everyone expected him to wed upon his return. He wished not to disappoint Cedric, but eternity with a woman who did not support, let alone understand him was not at all appealing. He had more important issues to worry about than ambitious would-be princesses.
“Hengist still needs help. I stay.”
His father reluctantly withdrew.
Sifting “self” from pain, he began trance-healing. “Banisha verilli far. Gloria verilli far…” Breathing and pulse decreased. Blood flow slowed…slowed… Seeping wounds clotted together.
He summoned strength from pain and followed its path through his body, checking his injuries. He bled from half a dozen sword cuts. The worst was a deep laceration in his upper right thigh from an unhorsed Boar’s attempt to confiscate the bay mare. An arrow pierced his chest just below his right collarbone. He sighed. He would heal in time without scarring, but Lady it hurt.
He examined the grove with a warrior’s practiced eye. He did not like this exposed position in unsecured territory. A twig snapped. He focused on a young woodsman approaching from the battlefield. Grief and black rage hammered into Loren. The lad—but a boy, no beard growth—had to be half mad with it. Loss, emptiness, despair… The dark emotions threatened to drown Loren, and he fell out of trance to shield himself. Watching the other approach, he edged his sword closer.
The lad staggered toward him, not visibly injured, but with such gaping wounds to his soul Loren wondered at his ability to function at all.
“Been looking for you.” The lad eyed the bronze sword in Loren’s hand and spread his hands out in a conciliatory gesture. “Peace, friend. I’m a Safehold healer.” He took in Loren’s position at a glance. “So you know of hazel healing magic. You’re no follower of the One Truth.”
