TOUCH OF GYPSY FIRE
An Ellora’s Cave Publication, April 2004
Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.
PO Box 787
Hudson, OH 44236-0787
ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-84360-821-9
Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):
Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) HTML
TOUCH OF GYPSY FIRE © 2004 SHILOH WALKER
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
Edited by Pamela Campbell.
Cover art by Syneca.
Touch of Gypsy Fire
Shiloh Walker
To my editor Pam, the Wondrous One.
To my kids Cam and Jess—my world revolves around you two. I love you both.
And to my husband Jerry. My real life fantasy…I love you.
Prologue
A thin haze of smoke hung in the air, rich with the scent of tobacco and ale. A sad-faced harpist played away by the campfire, his gaze distant. Voices were solemn, hushed, while outside the rain fell in a heavy downpour.
In one corner, behind a curtain hung solely for that purpose, a serving wench was servicing a handsome Lieutenant from the city guard. She had considered herself lucky when he had smiled at her. He was clean, he had always tipped well, and he had kind eyes. When he had whispered in her ear, a number of the other girls had given her very evil looks and as he took her hand and led her to the back of the room, she had merrily waggled her fingers at them behind her back. Occasionally, his grunts and moans could be heard out in the main room.
In another corner, one of the guard and his wench didn’t bother with the curtain; he merely jerked her skirt up and pulled her down on his rigid cock, grunting and groaning his way to a record finish while the girl faked her way along. Neither of them were particularly clean or choosy. He wanted sex. She wanted money.
Ah, the ambience.
In yet another corner, two men sat, backs to the wall, facing the small crowd that lingered, waiting for the rain to let up. A mug of ale sat untouched in front of the swordsman. Though he slouched in his chair, his entire body was tensed, ready. His face, one unusually pretty considering his trade, was grim. Pale blond hair was secured at his nape, revealing one pierced earlobe, a single blue stud glinting there.
He had a thin upper lip, a full, sensual lower one. His long legs were sprawled out and covered from waist to ankle in tight, form-fitting leather that allowed freedom of movement and light protection.
Across from him sat a gaily dressed gypsy, his bright shirt the color of the sun the towne hadn’t seen in nearly a month. His breeches were red, cut full from the waist down to the knee, where they were tucked into high riding boots.
“Old Lita wanted us to pass the word along. She’d like to see Tyriel, while she’s able. The lady doesn’t have much time left, I fear.” His black eyes—gypsy’s eyes—were somber, sad. Very unusual for a gypsy.
Aryn had been hoping the gypsy had a message from Tyriel, a message, a plea for help, that she had landed her fine ass in trouble, something…but he barely had time to acknowledge the disappointment. His mouth went grim and tight as he closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were dark with concern, fear and rage as he straightened in his chair. Firelight glinted off the deep blue stone in his ear as he leaned forward.
“Kellen, I haven’t seen or heard from Tyriel in nearly a year. We parted ways last winter,” Aryn said, a frown darkening his fair face. His voice was low and rough, with the frustration he still felt over their abrupt parting and the gnawing doubt that something was very, very wrong. “She had plans to meet up with the family in Bentyl Faire.”
Concern entered Kellen’s eyes as Aryn spoke. Staring at the swordsman, the gypsy shook his head, frowning. Aryn closed his eyes and rubbed them with his fingers, suddenly feeling unbelievably weary. “She never showed at Bentyl, or any of the other faires, did she?”
“We haven’t seen Tyriel in nearly two years, Aryn, since we saw you both together at the faire in Kenton. Why did you break apart? Everything seemed to be going so well for the both of you.”
With a restless shrug, Aryn said, “That’s what I thought. We had a solid partnership; people asked for us by name, looked for us.” He paused, glancing at his blade, the enchanted one that had once been such a burden. “We hooked up over that hunk of tin—and she helped me learn to be equal to it, not be mastered by the Soul inside it. And we never parted ways. We suited each other.” At least until the last day, he thought darkly, grimly remembering that day. She had left one morning after saying some things the night before that had knocked him flat off his feet, storming out of the room before he could take it in. And that night—that night—the one he did not remember clearly. He had Irian to thank for that, he had no doubt. He cursed silently at the sword, a sword that had remained very silent for many months. Bloody hunk of enchanted metal, I ought to throw you in the fires of Ither Mountain. Not only had his best friend up and left him, the Soul inside the enchanted sword that had become a companion had ceased talking to him unless there was a job that needed doing.
In the back of his mind, he heard a low, husky chuckle. The most he had heard from Irian in months outside of their work
“So she just left? Didn’t say anything other than she’d meet up with us in Bentyl?” Kel raised and lowered his ale without drinking, his black eyes serious and concerned. “If Tyriel had said she was going to meet up with us, she would. Something must have happened.”
“And Tyriel being who she is, God only knows what,” Aryn said dryly, using humor to cover his very real fear. “Why don’t you spread the word through the caravan? I’ll ask around and we can meet up in Bentyl. Somebody surely has seen her.”
* * * * *
When they met at the Bentyl Faire some six weeks later, it was with grim faces. Nobody had seen or heard from Tyriel in months. Word had come winging in from all the gypsy clans scattered far and wide. Tyriel seemed to have dropped completely out of sight.
And if a gypsy hadn’t seen her, then she wasn’t around to be seen.
Clad in somber browns, his fair hair secured in a queue at the nape of his neck, Aryn listened as Kel finished talking. Absently shifting the sword harness he wore, Aryn rose and started to pace the confines of the small tent. “Now what?” he asked.
“You don’t need to concern yourself, Aryn. We’re her family and—”
“Don’t.” He turned on his heel and advanced on the shorter man, backing him up against the wall. In a low threatening growl, he repeated, “Don’t. We were partners for six years; we shed blood together, nearly died saving the other countless times. Anything that concerns Tyriel concerns me. Everything that concerns her concerns me.”
Not bothering to hide his small, pleased smile, Kel relaxed. “I’d hoped you would say that. Something tells me Tyriel is going to need all the help she can get.” Rising, Kel wandered over and picked up his harp, absently strumming a somber tune. “The best thing to do is go back to where you two were when you split, since that seems to be the last time anybody saw her. That seems like the first place we ought to try.”
“The first thing we need to do is contact her father,” Aryn contradicted, turning to face the suddenly still gypsy.
“Her father.”
“Can you think of a person better equipped to find her?” he asked dryly.
“Her father.” The forced laughter didn’t quite hide the nerves in his eyes as he ran a hand through his short cap of
black curls. He offered, “We could just send him a message through the courier guild.”
“Since when did gypsies trust the guild?” Aryn asked. “Send one of your own.”
“Right.” Rubbing his sweaty hands down the sides of his saffron trews, Kel tried to figure out if any of his kin would look upon it as an adventure. After all, how many gypsies got to see the enchanted kingdom?
Thousands, probably, he thought, sighing dramatically. And none lived to tell the tale.
“And maybe we will be lucky. Maybe Tyriel has been with him all this time,” Aryn offered, trying to cheer up the younger man.
Not likely though. The elvish kingdoms would drive her mad within a month. Be her father a prince of the elves or no.
* * * * *
Aryn tossed restlessly, tangled in the rough linen sheets. They clung to his naked body, twining around his long muscled limbs like ropes as he fought the scenes playing out inside his head. Trapped in dreams, he flung his arm out and muttered, “Tyriel.”
Irian was on the bed beside him. And the metal of the blade was pulsing, glowing a soft, gleaming silver, tinged with red. Enraged.
He could see her.
They could see her.
God, what has happened to her? Aryn thought, hardly able to believe the slumped still figure was the bright laughing woman he had spent six years with.
A sob shimmered in the air and she turned away from the wall, revealing a bruised swollen face and hollow sunken eyes. The light was gone from those eyes and Aryn shuddered at the sheer hopelessness he saw in her face. Impotent rage ripped through him as he saw evidence that she had been abused and raped, viciously. Blood and bruises mottled her thighs, some old, some new. Scars showed on her belly and legs.
Stretching his hand out, he went to her. But mere feet from her, he was stopped in his tracks, unable to go further. Straining against the barrier he couldn’t see, Aryn shouted out her name.
It was his own voice that woke him.
Hair, face and torso soaked with sweat, Aryn sat up in the bed, his breath sawing in and out as he scrubbed his gritty eyes. A misty form shimmered into view and a large brooding figure started to pace, his eyes glowing red with rage, echoing the red that still shimmered around the blade. This was Irian, long-dead warrior of the Jiuspu, a primitive, valiant race that had been the progenitors of the gypsies, thousands of years gone from the land.
“Tyriel, what happened?” Aryn muttered, shaking his head as Irian prowled the room, swearing in a language no longer spoken.
“Ah, but the poor lass is going mad, so hurt, so broken. Why did she n’ call?” Irian continued to pace as Aryn brooded.
What in the world could have happened between the four weeks between her leaving Ethridge and the Bentyl Faire?
“We will find her. I will help you,” Irian swore, his voice low and rough, the primitive power inside of him throttled back. He was reining it in, purposely keeping himself from overwhelming Aryn’s mind.
“We?” Aryn asked, tossing the enchanter a look. “Or you, after taking me over?”
“We. Tyriel is yours, not mine,” Irian whispered. “After all, my body is long dead.” Sadness filled the man’s eyes, and grief, and he faded from view, and then a door shut inside Aryn’s mind, and the swordsman knew Irian would respond to nothing else.
Even Aryn’s response that Tyriel didn’t belong to Aryn.
* * * * *
The pain, nauseating as it was, no longer kept her awake. Lost in a tumbling maze of dreams, the pain lashed at her out of the darkness. Flinching, she shrieked and tried to pull away from it, to hide.
But it merely found her again, and tore at her repeatedly.
When the pain did little to jar her out of her daze, the things came. Wet, spongy beasts from the underworld, crawling over her, invading her, ripping and biting at her breasts, her nipples, her thighs, her cleft, until she shrieked with the agony of it. And even though the rape the demons inflicted wasn’t real, just illusion, she feared it more than the physical rapes that occurred sporadically.
The things rejoiced in her loathing, in her fear. There had been a time when she would have battled them, banished them as the illusions she knew them to be.
But there had also been a time when she would have lashed out and destroyed the man responsible.
In despair, she curled in on herself, to wait it out. It would fade. It always did.
And it would come again.
It always did.
Chapter One
Six Years Earlier
Gay, cheerful music poured from the flute she held to her lips. Eyes ever watchful, she played on with only a scrap of attention on the music while she studied the crowd in front of her. She kept her hood over her head and her eyes low. In a place such as this, nobody thought twice of such things. Many people here were criminals, thieves, trying to hide themselves. They would think the same of her.
The innkeeper was a slovenly thing, Tyriel thought. But he was no worse than the rest in this city. How had it changed so much? It had only been a few years. Or had it? It was easy enough to lose track of time when you spent so much of it alone.
No longer were men expected to take a wench upstairs. Now they simply retreated to the shadowy corners, engaging in oral sex for the most part, holding the wench by the hair or shoulders, tossing her a few coins when he was done. But one or two over the past few hours had actually pushed the woman up against the wall and fucked her right there.
Since the wenches seemed to enjoy the money, and the attention, Tyriel just turned a blind eye. And a deaf ear when need be. Too bad she couldn’t turn her nose off. The scent of unwashed bodies and copious sex, stale beer, burnt food—oh how she longed for the mountains, the plains, the green of the wood.
Her eyes closed and she briefly thought of home, longed for it—not the wagon trains of the gypsies, but home—the Kingdoms of Eivisa, and the sprawling valleys and towering peaks of Averne, her father’s realm, to walk among the woods and feel the magick of it seeping into her bones, to lie down on the mossy green grass and feel the hard, powerful body of a warrior over her while the magick mingled and their bodies—
Boisterous shouts intruded on her thoughts and she opened her eyes, torn out of her fantasies.
One lout, in particular, was annoying the hell out of her. He had made a number of lewd comments in her direction the night before, all of which she had brushed off and ignored. But he was already drunk and getting drunker, and the night was still young.
Turning her attention to the rest of the crowd, she dismissed him from her mind and looked for a likely mark with full pockets. The one she found was already nodding happily to her music, a sweet-looking old peddler, prosperous from the looks of it. What in the name of hell he was doing in this dive, she couldn’t understand.
And even as she changed her music to match the emotions she sensed in him, he tossed two silver marks into the open case at her feet.
She nodded at him in thanks, pleased. Those two silver marks would let her leave a few days earlier than planned.
And there just might be more where those came from. It wasn’t exactly the most honorable way to play, but she was not using magick. Just playing to suit his moods. What he gave was of his own free will.
A few coppers joined the scattered coins in the case but she didn’t even notice as a loud crash, followed by a bellow, echoed through the tavern.
The guard, an overgrown hulk of a man, looked at the spreading patch of wine that soaked the front of his already filthy uniform. The serving boy, no older than nine, stood on weak knees, his face pale, too afraid to even dodge the blow that was sure to come.
Behind the bar, the innkeeper did nothing, merely filled mug after mug with the disgusting ale. Her flute landed on the ground before the cup fell from the boy’s trembling hands. A growl rumbled low in her throat as she crossed the room quicker than human eyes could follow. Another man was moving, a dark cloaked figure, but Tyriel moved far quicker.
The small boy stared at the guard, pathetically awaiting the blow. But the huge fist never landed. A dark, delicate hand snatched the boy, shoving him backward as the minstrel faced down the guard.
“I doubt anybody is going to notice one more stain on that nasty uniform,” she said softly, her husky voice carrying through the suddenly silent inn as she pushed her hood back, revealing masses of raven black curls, dusky skin and topaz eyes. Her wide, mobile mouth, the color of a rose in bloom, curved up in an easy smile that belied the warning in her eyes.
“Mind your own business, bitch,” he growled, looming over her, reaching out to knock her aside.
When she stood there, immovable as a rock, the guard fell back slightly. “I told you to butt out,” he snarled, placing the flat of his hand on her chest and shoving.
The girl, though nearly as tall as he, was reed slender and should have gone flying through the air. So it came as somewhat of a surprise when he failed to budge her. The mortal fell back, his hand falling from his blade, his eyes narrowed and curious as he watched from the shadows of his hood as the woman smiled tauntingly at the guard.
Backing off, the half-intoxicated guard studied her warily.
Nonchalantly, she reached up to shove her heavy fall of raven curls away from her face and twisted them into a tail, securing it with a leather cord, all the while staring at the guard, that same amused little smile curving her mobile mouth.
“Elf.”
“Look there, see the ears? Oh, my stars, see her eyes?”
The voices blended into the background as she took a step closer, one hand straying to her neck, stroking the amulet there.
The mortal shook his head, smiling slightly as he retreated back to his table in the corner.
The guard’s eyes, like everyone else’s, were riveted on the delicate point of her ears. The luminescent sheen of her eyes intensified and the air around her almost seemed to shimmer. Smiling at him, she asked, “Shall I continue to mind my own business?”
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