"No, I don't think that's an answer at all."
"You owe me nothing, and I've caused--"
Clanda chuckled. "You've cost me nothing, yet. And you have sanctuary here. I won't refuse anyone in need."
"Then why--"
"Why tell you about the Reapers?"
He nodded. "If I'm safe here--"
"You aren't safe here, just protected. I suspect Ka-shal Tiroth will petition the council for your extradition, that's why I told you about them."
"I don't want to be the cause of trouble." He shifted from one foot to another and toyed with the hem of his shirt.
Clanda smiled a little and patted the table. "Sit down."
He did as he was told, and a plate appeared in front of him laden with roasted chicken, stir fried squash, and potatoes. The smell tickled his nose and his stomach growled.
"Eat," Cali said, sitting down next to him with a plate of her own. "I had to bribe the cook to get the food."
He picked up a spoon and poked at the squash. "I--"
"Cree," Mirayla said. "No one is going to hurt you here."
He looked across the table at her, and almost touched her mind to see if she was lying. "Why do you want to help me?"
Clanda leaned forward. "Because Mirayla asked us. I know nothing about you, but I trust my daughter's judgment. But I suspect, given a little time, you'll prove yourself more than deserving of the aid."
Clanda's gaze unnerved him, and he turned his attention back to his food. He took one tentative bite, then another, and finally ate with more gusto, savoring each bite of the flavorful, and blessedly warm, food. It disappeared far too rapidly.
"Do you feel like a walk?" Mirayla asked.
His eyes darted from Clanda to Cali and back to Mirayla. He was stiff, and the walk would be a welcome relief for the tension knotting his muscles. "Yes."
"Come on, then." Mirayla stood and held out her hand.
With a furtive glance at Clanda, he took Mirayla's hand and let her lead him from the dining hall. The pressure of Clanda's eyes bored through his back until the heavy doors swung shut behind them. "Where are we going?"
"To find you a real room, and I'll show you where the bathing rooms are along the way. We might even find you something in the way of clean clothing." She led him down a wide corridor. Heavy walnut doors lined either side of the hallway. "These are the guest quarters." She rapped on one of the doors, and opened it when no one answered. "This one can be yours. The bathing room is at the end of the hall on the left."
He peeked into the room. Though not large, it was well appointed. An overstuffed chair stood next to the single window with a small table beside it. A desk and chair occupied one of the corners. Thick, green carpet covered the floor, and he longed to take his boots off and run his toes through its fibers. But the crowning glory was the bed. Large enough for three, it boasted heavy drapes to keep the sun out and a fat down coverlet. It looked soft and warm; he could hardly wait to sleep in it. "This is wonderful. Fit for a king."
Mirayla chuckled. "We've not had kings here for a few hundred years. I'm glad you like it. There's one more place I want to show you."
"Only one?"
"For today. I don't want to overwhelm you. I'm sure meeting Mama was enough."
He frowned. "I don't think she's happy to have me here."
"Nonsense. She's angry because I lied to her and put myself in danger, not because you're here. Come on. I think you'll like the tower. It's one of my favorite places."
"Oh?" She nodded, and he followed her from the guest quarters down a narrow corridor. There were no windows, and the only light was that of a flickering lamp set in the wall, but Mirayla knew the way by feel. She opened a door and motioned him into it. An endless flight of stairs spiraled upward. "Stairs?"
She giggled. "Yes, stairs. That's how you get to the tower. Start climbing, the door is at the top."
He groaned and began climbing. The stairs went on forever, and soon his legs burned with the strain. He had counted each step, and at one hundred he stopped, leaned against the wall and panted. "How many more are there?"
"We're almost there. Keep climbing," she panted. "The view's worth the effort."
With a groan he started again. Another twenty, he counted, and still they spiraled upward. At last they ended at a door. "One hundred and thirty three? Who built this place anyway?"
"Open the door. And as for who built this. This part of the keep was already here, we just added to it."
"The keep?"
"That what we call this building. Socorrow's Rest is really the town that's grown around the keep itself." She pointed to the door. "Are you going to open the door?"
He chuckled and pushed the door open, revealing a small, round room, half-forgotten by the inhabitants. Its only furnishings were one of the overstuffed chairs, its arms ripped and the stuffing showing, and a three-legged table that listed a little due to one leg being shorter than the others. Tattered books lay scattered around the chair, proudly bearing the teeth marks of mice. The entire room was coated with a layer of dust. Windows encircled it, allowing a clear view of the landscape for miles. The view redeemed the worn furniture and dirty floor. The sun was just sinking beneath the treetops, painting the sky purple and blue and red. The sun's rays struck the windows and warmed the otherwise drab yellow walls to gold.
"This was worth the climb wasn't it?" Mirayla sat down on the arm of the chair. "I love to come here in the evenings when the sun is setting. The gods somehow feel closer here where I can look out on such beauty."
"Beautiful," Cree whispered, but his attention was riveted on Mirayla, not the view. The fading light warmed her hair to amber. Her skin glowed. Her eyes were closed and her expression enraptured. His breath caught, and his heart pounded faster. He longed to take her in his arms. She stood and faced him, wonder and excitement etched in her expression.
"Do you like it?"
Unable to take his eyes from her, he smiled. "Very much so. A beautiful view."
"Perhaps we can enjoy it together."
The words startled him, and he found himself trapped by eyes that had softened to limpid pools of blue haze. Her attraction and desire pounded against his mind and heightened his own. His heart raced. Sweat beaded his forehead, and he wiped damp palms on his thighs. "Mirayla--"
"Shh." She laid a finger against his lips and with a gentle, inviting touch, traced the line of his jaw with her other hand. She moved towards him until their bodies brushed against each other. "We don't need words here," she whispered.
A moan escaped his lips as she trailed a hand down his back and over his buttock. He ached for her, needed her, wanted her, and he could not have her. "Mirayla," he whispered, gasping as her hands found more sensitive places.
"Don't talk."
"I can't do this." He backed away, swallowing guilt and disappointment. "I'm sorry." Then he fled down the stairs.
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* * *
Chapter Fourteen
Alone in his room, Cree cursed his fear, his weakness, and his will. He locked his door and curled up in the chair to stare at the sun sinking behind the city walls. Temptation had been an ever present seductress for years, and he had learned to ignore its voice. He could ignore Mirayla as well, no matter what he sensed from her, or how he felt about her. He would not allow himself to love her. He closed his eyes, wanting nothing more than to sink into the arms of sleep, but his skin crawled with the need for a bath. He ached in places he hadn't known could hurt; a good soak would remedy that. He stood and started for the door, wondering what he could wear once he was clean, but that question was soon answered. Some kind soul had left a stack of clean clothing on the bed. He paused a moment to wonder about that, but finally shrugged, grabbed a shirt and breeches and headed to the bathing room.
He had expected to have to heat water and haul it to the tub, so he was shocked to discover a pump over the tub. Tentatively, he raised the pump handle and a gush of water po
ured from its spout. Reaching out, he found that the water was hot. He pumped with more vigor until the tub filled with steaming water, then removed his clothes and sank into the depths of the tub. The hot water seeped into his tired muscles and relieved some of the ache. Closing his eyes, he sank into the water until it tickled his chin, grateful to feel the dirt and grime of the last few days washed away. When the water grew tepid, he levered himself up with a sigh, reached for a fluffy towel and dried himself and his hair. A stopper in the bottom of the tub, once pulled, drained the water. Fascinated, he watched it spiral down through the circular hole and wondered where it went.
Dressed in the soft woolen shirt and breeches, he walked back to his room, the cool tile floor soothing the ache from the soles of his feet. He opened the door to his room, and lit the lamp. Soft light bathed the room in golden tones; shadows grew large and flickered on the wall. Staring at the bed, Mirayla's blue eyes danced across his vision. The scent of her hair ghosted through the room. He imagined her body pressed against him, her hand caressing his back and face. He groaned and banished the images, wishing he had a book, a piece of paper and a pencil, anything to erase the temptations from his mind. Instead, he folded the covers of the bed back, stripped off his shirt, and slept.
Cree dreamed. Fire surrounded him. The scent of burned flesh and destruction brought bile to his throat. He wondered what had happened. Had the village been attacked? Had lightening struck? He could not remember. His only memories were of thirst, pain, and fear. Villagers ran past, casting angry, hurt looks his way. A vague hint of truth tugged at his mind, and he knew. The fire had started because of him; he had called it to frighten his nightmares away. Despairing, he called again to the flames. The village was gone, and the inhabitants dead or dying, but he was still alive, and he could still make restitution. Flames engulfed him, and pain spread through his body.
But the fires vanished as quickly as they had come. A hand lay in his, spreading tingling warmth over the burns and vanquishing the pain. Voices whispered far away, but he could not tell if they were real or the ramblings of his fevered mind.
"Cree!" One of the voices called to him. High and sweet, he followed the sound, wanting to escape the pain.
"Cree!" The voice was closer now. He remembered he had been dreaming. He was in a soft bed in Socorrow's Rest, and there had been no fire. The fire had been long ago. He opened his eyes to darkness and gasped for air. A lamp flamed into life, startling him with its sudden brightness. Mirayla sat on the edge of the bed in a silk dressing gown, with her long hair hung falling unbound over her shoulders.
"Do you know who I am?" she asked.
Not completely certain he had been dreaming, he raised his arms to the light and stared at the scars covering them. The pain had been real. He could feel it even now, a slow throb spreading from his skin into his muscles.
"Cree?"
"What happened?" His throat hurt, and his voice was little more than a rasp. "How did you get here?" He sat up and held his head. A dull ache oozed from behind his temples, and he massaged it away. A hand touched his shoulder, and he flinched.
"What do you remember? Coming here? Going to sleep?"
"I came back, took a bath and went to sleep. How did you get here?" He was angry, and he wanted her to leave him in peace.
"You were dreaming."
"I dream often, unpleasant dreams, most of time. Why was this one any different?"
She tilted her head a little to the side. "Don't you feel the difference?"
"Difference? This one's no different than a hundred others I've had. My head hurts. My body hurts, but not as bad as in the past."
She sighed, and laid her hand on the side of his face. "Oh, what a long road we have yet to walk."
"That sounds cryptic. Would you care to explain?" As the effects of his nightmare wore off, he relaxed, and regretted his anger.
"The dreams. I thought the dreams had stopped, but they haven't."
"Would you have expected them to?"
"Because you know the truth. The fire wasn't your fault. You were sick, fevered, and not altogether sane, but you haven't forgiven yourself. And when the dreams come, you relive the event over and over, almost to the point of calling the fire once again. You can't escape them, and because you are an empath, they are stronger, and you are more easily consumed by them. If you want them to stop, you have to let go. You have to forgive yourself, or one day, no one will stop you from calling the flames."
He avoided looking at her. He knew she spoke the truth, and there had been many close calls, where only his will had kept the flames away. "I can't forget what I've done."
"But you can't go on like this either." Her voice held only concern, not reproach. "Eventually you'll have to forgive yourself or reach out to someone. If you don't, you'll destroy yourself. I thought you were close when you opened up that night in the cottage. I thought you had finally taken the next step, but I was wrong."
"How can I forgive myself when--" He lay down and turned away from her, tears flooding his eyes. "Please, go."
"What are you so frightened of? The past is past, Cree. You can't change it. You've made your amends, now it's time to move on."
"Please, just go." One of the tears escaped and dampened his pillow.
"Not until I know."
She shifted enough that he could see her eyes. "Because it could happen again. If I keep remembering, I won't let it happen."
She stared at him. "There's a way to stop the chance forever."
He choked his fear into the back of his mind. "What?"
"Accept what you are and train your magic. With true control, there would be no more fires."
He considered her words. All he had to do was train the magic, not use it. Memories crept from their dark confines: Sarana's leering face, the touch of the lash, alien minds pushing against his. He shuddered. Magic meant another sort of darkness, a darkness he feared more than what lurked in his soul. "That's impossible."
A smile played around her lips. "I don't think so. You have to overcome your fear. And you have an advantage this time."
"What advantage?"
"You aren't alone."
She caressed his cheek and started to stand. He grasped her wrist and stopped her. "Please." He sat up and stared into her eyes, losing himself in their depths and lifted a trembling hand to her face. The soft curve of her jaw fit perfectly against his hand. He drew her towards him and pressed his lips to hers. He felt her surprise and delight as she melted against him. He loved her. He could deny the truth no longer. He lost himself in the sweet scent of Mirayla's hair and the softness of her body. He never wanted the moment to end.
She pulled away. "We shouldn't do this. I should never have--"
He sighed. "No, we shouldn't. I'm sorry."
"I--"
"I don't want you to go either," he said, a hint of laughter coloring his voice.
"How did you--"
"It's written on your face. Stay if you want."
"I shouldn't--" Her eyes fell on the chair near the window. "I'll stay until you fall asleep." She stood.
"No, if you are going to stay, lie next to me. We can have the comfort of one another's company without doing anything more." He smiled.
She sat down again, biting her lip as she considered his offer.
"I can control myself."
"Oh, really? I didn't know you could control anything." She smiled and lay down, resting her head against his shoulder. "Except horses," she whispered in his ear.
He laughed. "You'd be amazed at what I can do."
She chuckled. "I've a feeling I'll be surprised often."
He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her a little closer.
"You should be like this more often, Cree. Sullenness does not become you."
He caressed her cheek and kissed the top of her head. "I'll remember that."
"Should I turn off the lamp?"
"No, leave it on." He yawned. "I've had enough of darkness, en
ough darkness to last a lifetime."
~*~
He woke alone and wondered if he had only dreamed Mirayla's presence while she had lain beside him. But, no, her scent still clung to the sheets, along with a few strands of long hair. The salty taste of her lips came back in a rush, and for a panicked moment, he thought they had done more than kiss. Then he remembered her gentle refusal, and her promise to stay until he fell sleep.
Too close. She's getting too close. She'll die. He flung the covers aside and sat up. But I'm falling in love with her. I can't keep her away forever. If not for the dreams-- He pushed the thought aside and reached for fresh clothing. He would go riding, and let the cool wind clear his mind. Then, he would be able to think clearly again. He pulled his boots on and froze. He had no idea where the stables were, or even how to get outside. He slumped on the bed, feeling trapped, and someone rapped on the door.
His heart beat a little faster and blood rushed to his cheeks in anticipation. He crossed the few steps to the door, expecting Mirayla to be on the other side. The blood drained from his face when he opened the door. Clanda stood on the other side.
"Not who you were expecting?" Her lip twitched, as though she were fighting laughter.
His mouth worked a moment before he could speak. "Well, no. I thought you might be Mirayla or Benjamin."
"I see." Without waiting for his invitation, she walked into the room and sat down in the chair. "Shut the door, Cree. I'd like to talk to you without my daughter present." Clanda crossed her legs and waited for him to obey.
His stomach did somersaults, while he shut the door and sat down on the bed. "What do you want to talk to me about? If it's about--"
Clanda arched an eyebrow and smiled crookedly. "I know Mirayla's taken with you. She's not very good at hiding it. We can discuss that later."
Cree's brows knitted together, and he fought off the sudden need to use the privy and be sick at the same time. "Then what?"
"I want to talk about you."
He ground his teeth, and with an effort, managed to keep himself from running from the room. "What...what do you want to know?"
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