by Renee Wildes
Loren knew the lad meant no harm. He caught pity and a desire to help. And truth-hidden. Not so worrisome. Who in these dark days had naught to hide?
The lad knelt aside him in the leaves and cradled Loren’s head in his lap as strong, slender fingers ran over his battered body with gentle, impersonal thoroughness. The sense-casting followed the arrow’s path and Loren’s soul shuddered at its touch. This human used the anathema of blood magic, not as the usual spells to dark powers, but as part of him, natural as breathing. The dark shimmering stole Loren’s breath as it coursed through him, and his seeming dissipated.
Without the seeming, the lad would see what he was. Not a man. Not human. Only Hengist knew him, King Hengist of Riverhead, his one real friend among Arcadian mortals. Followers of the ascending One Truth would roast him over an open fire as demon-born. No nonhumans were safe from the cleansing fires of religious fanaticism and racial supremacy that had swept these lands a century past. Hengist’s careful stewardship maintained a fragile truce of tolerance under cloaks of seemings and secrecy, but Loren held no illusions of what would happen should Count Jalad of Westmarche prevail.
The lad’s fingers found pointed ears under tangled hair. “Who—what—are you? You’re no northern merc. You’re elder.”
“Curioni tempas achturo.” Loren tapped his chest and frowned, struggling to make the lad understand. “Loren…” His hand dropped. True names held power, but there was no harm in saying just his first name aloud. It was common enough in the realm of the dawn.
The lad’s eyes welled. “Lady, ease his passing. For the lives he saved, let him enter the Hall of Fallen Heroes.”
How did a human know of the afterlife but not how warriors of the Light got there? How did he know the ritual words? Loren’s suspicion grew. A human wielder of blood magic communed with the Lady of Light, an ancient elder deity banned by most humans? There was no taint of evil about the lad, but the unmistakable touch of dark fire was upon him.
Footsteps preceded the stench of unwashed flesh, diverting his attention. Three armed men in black and red livery approached, blood crusted weapons drawn. “Look here, lads.” A bearded giant pointed a rust edged sword at the fallen warrior. “Count Jalad’ll pay a goodly bounty fer him.”
A shudder went through Loren’s companion as he eyed the Boars’ iron-blend weapons with fear-concealed and drew his knives. Something about the metal itself troubled the lad. A burning anger not his own left a bitter taste like ash in Loren’s mouth. “Leave him be. Rob the dead. This one still lives,” the lad said.
“Not fer long,” the bearded giant snarled. “He’s ours.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Well, since ye insist.” The man lunged.
The strangers’ glee and bloodlust turned Loren’s stomach. He tried to rise and cursed his weakness. Not again. For the second time in his life, he watched a smaller, younger soldier face off against multiple opponents bent on killing. Again Loren was unable to come to his aid, could only lie still and hold his breath as the drama unfolded. His defender was courageous and skilled, but outnumbered. Loren watched the dance of death. When fighting for your life, drop the enemy and ensure they do not rise again.
The lad flung himself beneath the bandit’s arm and rolled behind him. Then, as if he heard Loren’s advice, he leaped up and reached around his target’s neck. He buried his knife in the first attacker’s throat and jerked the blade backward, dropping away as the body fell.
Loren was impressed. Unlike Markale, this lad was as skilled a fighter as he had ever seen, well beyond his tender years. Healer and warrior? It was an unheard of combination.
The spray of blood shocked the others motionless. The lad launched himself at the nearer of the two, his blades flashing in a circle of death. Raising his bloodied sword in self-defense, the thick necked Boar threw himself backward. He could outreach his attacker, Loren noted, but the man’s fear and the lad’s speed stayed his sword for a critical moment.
The other Boar circled the lone defender. They separated, one to hold the lad occupied while the other finished him on the ground. Loren groaned. Could the lad handle both? The Boar approaching Loren was a rat-faced man with a wispy mustache. “Ye’re King Jalad’s prize now.”
“Never!” The lad’s scream of defiance hammered into all of them, flattening the two would-be murderers. Such raw, dark power. The lad had no finesse. His very form shimmered as he threw himself on the rat-faced bandit, a knife in each hand.
The man brought up his sword, the edge angled too much for a killing blow but still slicing along his attacker’s unprotected side. The lad cried out as blood soaked his shirt. There was a flicker of black lightning and a stench of sulfur so faint he might have imagined it. The knives flashed in the setting sun, then plunged down to disappear into the Boar’s body.
The man jerked and stilled.
Loren’s guardian angel cursed as he rolled, rose and turned to confront the final assailant. He staggered as he did so, favoring his left side, but hiding the weakness well.
“Mercy, lad.” The last Boar crawled away.
If he escaped to report, they were both doomed.
The lad was cold. Implacable. Death. He hissed as he sheathed his gory long knives and palmed a small throwing dagger. “I grant you the same mercy you’d grant us.” The lad threw the slim dagger. It buried itself to the hilt at the base of the Boar’s skull. The man collapsed and went still.
The lad swayed and fell to his knees. He retched and started to cry as he retrieved his knives. He tore off both sleeves to bind his blood-soaked side.
Loren studied the lad’s form. The way he walked, those long smooth arms… Awareness surfaced. Tall as a man, dressed like a man, fights like a man, but he recalled the sweetness of the voice petitioning the Lady of Light on his behalf and wondered.
When his rescuer returned to his side and knelt aside him, Loren reached out with his good hand and yanked off the hat. A flowing mantle of hair tumbled to the ground. He reeled. A woman. That hair. It rippled in the dappled light from dark chestnut through fox red and flame orange, overlaid with bronze. Her gold eyes held the piercing clarity of a falcon’s. Their fierce and proud expression warred with the white lines of pain around her mouth.
Had pain blinded him? The lush fullness of her lips could only belong to a woman.
“Damn you,” she cursed. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Truth-hidden indeed. Not so young. His heart seized at her wild beauty. Life-debt. She defended his life at risk to her own and shed blood on his behalf. Dark creature or no, he owed life-debt to a woman. “Name?”
“Dara,” she snapped. “Dara Kahn Androcles.”
The not-quite-true-name rang a familiar note in the back of his mind but he could not fathom why. “Glorie’ riven los Cymry yani. To the Lady you pray?” He shuddered. The edges of his focus shimmered. Not yet, Lady. One minute more. “Rest…”
Tears slid down her cheeks as she rough-bound his wounds.
“Not my time.” He tried to rise and clenched his teeth at the blinding wave of agony. “Dracken rue!”
“Pain’s our friend. Tells us we’re not dead.”
The world shifted back into focus. “I shall heal. Time I need, and sleep. See to your own wound first.” Her pain beat at him, more burn than sword-cut.
“’Tis just a scratch.” She took a shallow breath. “I must get that arrow out afore you move. Much as hazel helps, I can’t leave you here. A storm’s brewing and it’s cold at night. You must come with me. I’ve medicine to help you.”
Human medicine… Loren grimaced. “Hazel is all I need.”
“Compromise.” Dara faced the tree, closed her eyes and bowed her head. “Spirit of hazel, by the Lady hear me. I need your aid to follow us to where I can shelter and care for him.”
The tree rustled. Loren spied a dappled leaf-green sprite sitting naked on the lowest branch. She giggled and winked an ageless nut-brown eye in a triangular fa
ce, swinging a tiny bare foot. “I grant thee my aid, son of Cedric ta Pari.” Her voice tinkled like wind chimes through his mind.
“You know me?”
She tossed long, tangled green hair, braided with leaves, back over one narrow shoulder. “We know thee, right hand of the high king. Much thou hast yet to do.”
“Can you not help her instead?”
The sprite shook her head. “I am bound to grant the wish of the petitioner. Accept this token of my goodwill.” Her dainty hand curled around a small, still-leafy branch and it parted from its parent.
Loren took the branch from her hand. Life-warmth still coursed through it. Dara’s eyes widened and he realized she did not see the sprite herself.
“Strength I grant thee, to lighten her way home. The rest lies within thine own power, son of the dawn. Plant the branch in good soil when thy need passeth.”
“My thanks, lady.”
“Thou art welcome. One thing more. When in doubt, trust thy heart, not thine eyes.” The sprite shimmered and vanished back into the tree.
Dara laid a hand on his chest. “Moving with the arrow in will do more damage. I’ve dreamwine…”
Loren shook his head. That mortal forgetting-brew played havoc on elder gifts, including self-healing. “Nay, lady. It does more harm than good.”
“That arrow isn’t for hunting birds. The barbs dig deep.”
He caught truth-not-revealed. “You can remove it.”
Dara nodded.
“Lady, my very existence in this land is a death sentence. You would not save me just to turn me in.” He willed her understanding. “I accept no drugs. I can bear pain, but whatever you do know I would give no report.”
She bit her lip, then nodded and closed her eyes. Dark fire surrounded the arrow and followed along its path into his body. Unshielded, Loren barely breathed at its touch, but the arrowhead changed, shrinking and smoothing out.
A massive wave of pain lurked just behind her power. There was no way to block it. The strength of it would knock her flat. She knew so much, yet so little. Her healing powers came from within herself only. How was it no one had taught her to use the other sources so as not to burn herself out? What teacher sent a novice off half-trained?
Dara returned to full awareness. The headache slammed into her. To his awe, she shoved the pain aside and pulled the arrow out afore he knew what she was about. Staggering to her feet, she set to work building a travois with two deadwood branches and Loren’s borrowed cloak.
Loren’s body sealed off the new wound. “You need rest.”
She helped him roll onto the makeshift travois. “We must go. It’s not safe to stay here.”
Loren expended precious energy lightening the load for her to haul. Aided by the hazel branch, the entire travois glided over the rocky ground all the way to Dara’s home.
Her headache clawed at his shields. The sheer force of her will humbled him. He had seen elite rangers yield to less pain.
She plowed to a halt. “We’re here.”
Loren stared at the thatched hovel she lived in, made of sticks bound with braided leather, daubed with mud. Inside, the chalk-washed walls fared better. The interior was neat and clean with braided scrap rugs, careworn and sun-faded needlepoint cushions on the willow rocking chair and pots of herbs and flowers. New straw and herbs littered the smooth-raked dirt floor.
Dara dragged her bed to the hearth and helped him into it. He smelled fresh grasses and pine needles in the ticking, noted the clean linen sheets, downy feather pillow and soft woolen blankets. Loren fell into them. “I shall not steal your bed.” But the hazel wand’s aid left him and he found himself unable to rise. “Take something for the pain.”
“You first.” Dara rolled her sleeves and hummed as she filled a pitcher from the cauldron set on the edge of the banked fire. She poured the hot water into a wooden basin, gathered clean wool rags and healing salve and peeled off Loren’s clothes, undressing him down to his loincloth. Hesitating at the symbols of alien magic on his amulet, she left that alone, washed off dried blood and checked his many wounds.
Loren watched color flood her face as she cleaned the gash in his thigh. “Fear not. Vows have I taken to no innocent harm.”
“You’re not the first man I’ve had in my bed.”
He knew bravado when he heard it. His hand covered hers. “That song. What is it?”
“Something my mother taught me. Sleep if you can.” She smeared salve over each cut and wrapped it in clean bandages. “I’ve a draught here can help you.”
“Nay. I am not human. I shall heal myself.”
“Will you take naught for the pain?”
“Nay. Pain tells what is wrong. Trance above it I shall. Dara, plant the branch. For good fortune.” Talking exhausted. Translating was worse. Blocking her emotions out proved nigh impossible. Time to stop trying. His eyes closed. “Banisha verilli far. Gloria verilli far…”
The chant silenced as the world faded away.
Chapter Two
“Dara?” Loren opened his eyes at the rustle of cloth.
White-faced, she brought water. Without the distraction of that glorious mane, braided back for practicality, her golden eyes took up her entire face. “Welcome back, m’lord.”
He hated her fear and awe. “I am no one’s lord.” It was not a lie, not precisely. “I am but a simple warrior and in your debt, lady. How is your side?”
“Healing.” He raised an eyebrow and she shook her head at his unspoken question. “I don’t waste energy on my own minor wound when others are in greater need. Can I get you anything?”
“Food.” He sighed. “This time was worse than normal.”
“You should be dead. You look terrible still.” Dara made oat gruel with honey and goat’s milk. She eased an arm under his shoulders and helped him sit up. “Take it slow.”
How could he have thought her male? True, her lush curves were clad in linen rather than silk, and she smelled of green herbs rather than flowers. For all he was accustomed to more refined beauties back home, hers was an earthy sensuality that sent his unshielded senses reeling.
Loren caught disbelief behind fear and awe. Concern for him mixed with worry for her own people and outrage at what the enemy had done. Crushing sorrow. The need for retribution.
Buried deep was a woman’s awareness of Loren as a man. Well, not quite a man, but…
Loren threw up a shield, cutting that thought off. She had been within him—her spirit-presence lingered still—but some things were best left alone.
What he felt for her, himself, he attempted to ignore.
His hands shook and his body screamed for more food. “Meat broth, have you? Red wine? Mayhaps bread? Eggs?”
She eased away from him. At the table, Dara mixed together dried herbs in a bowl and crushed them with a wooden pestle. Their scent filled the room. Her skirt swayed with her every movement. Her braid gleamed in the dancing firelight.
He could not take his eyes off her. His body stirred. He must be feeling better, if he spared a thought for lust. It had been too long, though, if he got aroused by the mere sight of a woman’s braid!
She unstoppered a clay bottle and red wine splashed into the bowl. The acrid tang brought him back to his senses. She set the bowl on the edge of the hearth and returned to his side. “High-mineral herbs. Heat releases their full strength. There’s soup in the big pot, root vegetables in beef broth. I’ll mix them soon as the wine heats through.” She slid the empty bowl from his unresisting fingers and set it aside. “You’d know what you need after healing. If you’re ready for more hearty fare, I’ll manage.”
After several minutes, she ladled soup into the bowl of herb wine and soaked two thick slices of heavy grain bread in it. “I’m not the best cook in the world.”
Her arm slid around him again and he leaned against her, letting her support him while he ate. Her breasts cradled his shoulder as he held the bowl. “You underestimate yourself. How long was I…?”
“Two days. I washed your wounds and changed the bandages. Every dressing change showed visible improvement. Wound poisoning didn’t threaten. There aren’t even any scars.” She paused. “That’s not possible.”
“It is how my kind heals. Wounds re-knit from the inside out.”
She eyed his almost naked body. “How?”
“I know not. I cannot heal others. Only myself, at a cost. As you see, healing energy melts every available scrap of fat until days later we awaken scarless wraiths.” He grinned. “Starving wraiths. We eat like baby birds afterward.” He sobered and changed the subject. “How fared Riverbend?”
“Jalad’s gone. For now. I’ve kept busy with Eagle survivors at my door. Hengist went to ask justice from High King Sezeny.”
Loren frowned, thinking. “The entire court attends the wedding of Sezeny’s heir Tanis to Princess Chandra. Jalad chose the perfect time to invade Riverhead. It shall take time to bring the Boar to…justice.”
Dara appeared not to notice the hesitation. “Moira knows she can expect no outside help anytime soon. Everyone’s looking over their shoulder.” Black rage hammered at him. Her eyes glittered. “’Tis no way to live. I’ll bury no more dead.”
He fought for balance in the onslaught. She had no shielding at all. There was that yawning pit of despair again. “You lost someone in the battle.” He set his bowl aside.
She stiffened against him. “We gained many widows and orphans. Hengist’s coffers will be emptied at this rate.”
He reached to embrace the darkness. “Nay, Dara. You lost someone close to you.” He shuddered at what he touched. Irredeemable. Murderer. Alone. She considered herself a murderer. But he had touched her soul. Dark, aye, dangerous for certain, but not evil. He would know. “You slew those men in my defense. That makes you not a murderer, else are all warriors guilty.”
