Realm of Light

by Deborah Chester

She could smell fresh platter cakes now, making her ravenous. Truly this was a special, magical place. She was not ready to leave so soon.

  But Caelan was already out of bed. Quietly he was dressing with his back to her. She rolled onto one elbow and watched him, loving the gleam of firelight on his sun-bronzed skin, the smooth ripple of muscle and sinew, the knobby ridge of vertebrae up his spine as he bent over to pull on his leggings. Thinking of the night and its mysteries, she felt herself blushing, but she didn’t care. She was wildly, gloriously happy. Caelan had been both ardent and gentle, a combination that had led her quickly past shyness into passion. In exchange, she had drawn on the dances of pleasure that had been taught to her during her time with the Penestricans. She had been both wanton and innocent, and even now as she dreamed of all that they had shared, she felt her pulse quickening and a sensual little smile curving her lips.

  This was life. This was truth. A man and woman together were so much more complete than either could be alone. Whatever lay before them, they would face it as one.

  But this morning, he looked so serious, so remote. She watched his supple hands that had been so gentle, so masterful last night now fasten buckles and oil the blades of both sword and dagger. He wore his warrior’s face, purposeful and somber, and she felt a qualm, wondering if he would become a stranger again.

  Caelan picked up his armor, then hesitated and glanced over his shoulder at her. Seeing her awake, he smiled.

  The smile lit up his face, and the warrior vanished. In his place stood the man with a heart of grace and compassion, a man who was kind and loyal and true.

  He dropped his armor and came to kneel beside her, kissing her thoroughly until her body melted and her arms reached around his neck to pull him down.

  But he unclasped her hands and held them in his large, callused ones. “Temptress,” he said, still smiling.

  “You are too far away.”

  But although passion quickened in his eyes, he shook his head. “It’s daybreak. We must not linger here.”

  She sighed while he stood up and started buckling on his armor. “I will always love this cave.”

  He paused with his hands on the buckles and grinned at her. “And I will always love you.”

  Her breath caught in her throat, and she loved him so much she wanted to cry.

  “Get up, your lazy Majesty,” he said. “It’s a long walk to Gialta.”

  That brought her down to earth. Flinging off the fur cloak, she dressed quickly, amazed to find her gown mended and clean. Braiding her hair, she leaned over a stone bowl of water to wash her face. The water was freezing cold, making her gasp and shiver.

  By then, Caelan was bringing her the platter of food. She nibbled on a cake, finding its nutty taste unusual but delicious, and looked in vain for her slippers. They were worn through. They would never take her to the Trau border, much less all the way to Gialta, but she couldn’t travel barefoot.

  “Ready?” Caelan asked, leaning over her shoulder to bite the cake she held absentmindedly.

  She looked around with a gurgle of laughter and gave him a quick kiss. His lips were covered with crumbs that she licked off.

  “Stop that,” he said, pulling away from her. “We must go.”

  “But I can’t find my shoes.”

  “I saw them.”

  “Where?”

  But he was already bending to pull out her slippers from beneath the pine boughs. “Here.”

  To her surprise, the slippers looked like new.

  “Who mended them?” she asked, holding up first one, then the other in amazement.

  Caelan shrugged. “Who gave us fire and food ?”

  “Your sister?”

  He fastened on his army cloak and did not reply.

  Elandra watched him and found herself frowning. “Don’t wear that,” she said.

  He paused and raised his brows.

  “Don’t wear imperial crimson,” she said. “Kostimon is dead. The ruby throne is broken. Don’t wear his colors.”

  Comprehension filled his face. Slowly he removed the bright cloak that had been a symbol of pride for so many soldiers through the long march of history.

  She brought him the fur cloak and watched as he put it on. Smoothing his hand across his breastplate, he asked, “Do I now look like a barbarian?”

  Elandra laughed. “Yes, but a most handsome one.”

  He made a face. “I don’t think the army is interested in how handsome I look.”

  “Will your sister come to see us off?” Elandra asked. “Will I get to meet her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  His mood had sobered again. Elandra watched him, but said nothing. This homecoming had not been what he had imagined; she felt his keen disappointment.

  Again she changed the subject. “If the Choven gave you a sword, why didn’t they make you special armor as well?”

  “Are you now going to suggest I leave my armor behind?”

  “No, silly. You must have it. I only wish it were an officer’s.”

  He looked grim as he brought her gold wool cloak to her and fastened it around her shoulders. “The trappings aren’t important now. Only fools worry about how they look as they prance to the battlefield. I worry about whether we can raise the men we need.”

  She gazed up at him, adoring him, believing in him. “We will raise the men.”

  “I wish I had your faith.”

  “We are on the side of right. Tirhin betrayed his own people. In doing so, he forfeited any claim he might have had. Kostimon never named him successor.”

  “Kostimon,” Caelan said dryly, “did not believe in sharing what he had.”

  She nodded and glanced around at the small cave one last time. Already she missed it. How silly to cry over a primitive mound of pine boughs. How silly to be a woman at all. She lifted her head high and sniffed quickly and lightly, determined not to let him see her foolishness. Small wonder men did not want women along in battle when they could turn sentimental so quickly.

  But Caelan took one of her hands and kissed it. “We were blessed here. This sanctuary witnessed our union. And although no priest has pronounced over us, I do claim you, Elandra of Gialta, for my own. I say you are my flesh. You are my spirit. You are my heart. And I will keep myself for you only until the day I die.”

  She found herself trembling with joy at the honor he did her. When she looked up into his eyes, her own filled with tears, then she blinked them away and said breathlessly, “And I do claim you, Caelan of Trau, for my own. You are my flesh, my spirit, and my heart. I will keep myself for you only until the day I die.”

  He pulled her close into his arms, lifting her until her feet dangled while he kissed her, then set her gently on the ground again.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Gripping his hand, feeling as strong as the earth goddess herself, Elandra nodded. She would follow this man to the ends of time if need be. Let all their enemies be cursed unto death if they dared try to part this union.

  “Wait,” Elandra said before they reached the mouth of the cave. She pulled her hand free and darted back. “There’s something I want to do.”

  Impatient, Caelan frowned at her. “What?”

  “Never mind. Go on. I’ll join you in a moment.”

  Shaking his head, he hoped she did not intend to linger here. No matter how wonderful the night had been, it was time to go. He felt a strong sense of urgency, the suspicion that time was rapidly running out.

  “Hurry!” he called after her.

  “I will,” her voice came back, muffled and echoing through the cave.

  Stooping low, he ducked outside, stepped across the stream, and climbed the low bank. It was gray yet, very cold and still in that moment of hush just before the sun lifts over the horizon. With his breath streaming about his face, Caelan walked quickly, swinging his arms to get his blood pumping. He hoped Lea would come before they left. He did not want to go without saying goodbye. Besides that, he wanted to
ask her for the gift of two ponies and supplies. On foot, their journey would be hazardous and slow.

  He knew he could travel quite fast on his own, fasting if necessary, but Elandra was not accustomed to such hardship. She must find the cold brutal. He told himself to take very good care of her, not let her grow too tired or too chilled.

  A bugling sound came from overhead. Caelan froze, unable to believe his ears; then he looked up. Overhead sailed a shape that had haunted his dreams for years. He saw the black leathery wings, narrow head, and thin, flexing neck of a dragon.

  Caelan told himself to move, to run for cover, but he couldn’t. It was impossible that this was happening again. Were the gods this capricious, this unkind? Was fate against him? Had the shadow realm tracked him down again?

  The dragon wheeled high above him and bugled again. Its rider shouted something Caelan did not understand. Hatred boiled in Caelan’s heart, and he forgot both amazement and prudence as he drew his sword and brandished it aloft.

  His field of vision narrowed until he could see only this one dragon and rider circling above him. He burned for revenge.

  “Come down here and fight!” he roared.

  The dragon lifted a wing tip and swung around, then plummeted in a sudden dive straight at Caelan. He heard the coughing roar from the dragon’s throat, and fire belched from the beast’s nostrils.

  The flames scored two tracks through the snow, and thick gouts of steam rose into the air.

  Caelan knew he should run. He was no match for an airborne dragon, and he knew it. But at that moment he was too furious to care.

  For years he had dreamed of revenge. Now the chance had come to him. He was no untried boy this time. And he would be damned if he let this raider ruin his life a second time.

  Screaming curses at the top of his lungs, he ran forward between the twin bursts of flame. The heat scorched him. He could smell his own hair burning, and one corner of his cloak caught fire. Without slowing, he leaped high in the air and swung Exoner overhead.

  The tip sliced through the dragon’s wispy beard into its chin, and blood spurted. Screaming with pain, the dragon flung up its head and veered aloft even as its rider leaned dangerously over in an attempt to stab Caelan with a javelin.

  Both men swore and yelled at each other, while drops of dragon blood splattered the snow. The dragon circled the treetops, squalling and slinging its head.

  Only now noticing that his fur cloak was on fire, Caelan slung it off into the snow. The stink of singed animal hair filled the air. He bent a moment and scooped up a handful of snow to rub across the burns on his face.

  In that moment of inattention, the dragon dove again, wings tucked, talons stretching out, head extended fully with fangs bared. It came right at him.

  There was no time to dodge or duck. If the dragon succeeded in striking him, the impact alone could kill him. Caelan braced himself, bringing up his sword one-handed, and heard Elandra scream.

  The impact was like being struck by a battering ram. The jolt was tremendous, knocking the air from his lungs and lifting him off his feet. He felt himself fly into the air. There was incredible pain; instinctively he severed it. He felt his arms still swinging; then Exoner bit deep, and the swing continued, slicing off the head of the dragon.

  The dragon’s attack cry fell silent. Blood spurted in a great, drenching sheet, coating Caelan’s face and blinding him. The Thyzarene shouted something incomprehensible, while Caelan hit the ground with a numbing, bone-rattling jolt. Impetus sent him skidding across the ground before he struck a tree stump.

  He lay there, blind and gasping helplessly, the sword still clutched somehow in his hand. He couldn’t seem to draw a breath properly, but he knew he had to get on his feet. If he gained his feet, he could move. If he could move, he could survive. He had to survive.

  Still, he lay there, unable to see, his own breath wheezing horribly in his ears, writhing in a feeble effort to flip over and get his knees under him.

  He heard the Thyzarene swear, then a thud, then the swift, crunching sound of running footsteps across the snow.

  Fear propelled Caelan up. Dragging his forearm across his eyes, he cleared most of the dragon’s blood away, ungluing his eyelids in time to see the Thyzarene running straight at him with an upraised javelin. The Thyzarene’s swarthy face was contorted with fury. He screamed curses as he ran.

  Caelan met the man’s attack on his knees. His sword blade connected with the thrusting javelin point, and sparks flew from metal. Despite the other’s advantage in standing, Caelan was strong enough to hold their locked weapons and even push himself to his feet. This close, he saw that his opponent was only a boy, grown but not yet filled out, with a scraggly beard fuzzing his lean cheeks. Grief and rage blazed from his eyes.

  It was said that Thyzarenes who flew the dragons had some kind of special bond with the creatures. Caelan glanced at the dead dragon tying in the bloody snow, then back to the Thyzarene straining against him. Rage could strengthen a man, but blind rage made him vulnerable and foolish.

  Almost contemptuously, Caelan pushed the boy away and circled him, waiting to pick his moment.

  Tears were running down the boy’s cheeks, but he was still cursing Caelan in his own tongue. Heedlessly, he swarmed Caelan in a frenzied, almost mindless attack, jabbing and flailing.

  Caelan parried strongly, sidestepped another furious thrust of the javelin, and ignored the chance to cleave the boy in half. Instead he leaped behind the boy and got one arm around the boy’s throat.

  The boy kicked and flailed, but the javelin was useless at such close quarters. Caelan knocked the weapon from his hand, and it plunged into a snowdrift.

  Yanking the boy around bodily, Caelan forced him to stand where he could look at his dead dragon.

  “Look at it!” he shouted in Lingua. “Look at it!”

  The boy twisted and struggled, but Caelan tightened his hold until he heard the boy choke. Then he pushed the Thyzarene to the ground and planted his foot on the boy’s back to hold him pinned.

  “That’s what is going to happen to you,” Caelan said.

  The boy heaved in an effort to get to his knees, but Caelan stamped him flat again. Sheathing his sword, he drew his dagger instead and tested its edge with his thumb. It needed honing, but it would be sharp enough for what he intended to do.

  His mind flooded with the memories of that long ago day at E’nonhold when the dragons had set the buildings on fire. He remembered dear old Anya’s face as she ran for her life, only to be burned beyond recognition. He remembered the screams, remembered his own helpless feeling of rage and frustration, remembered the laughter and exultant shouts of the raiders. He remembered lying on the ground, trussed in a net, while one of the raiders slit his father’s throat.

  Gripping a handful of the boy’s dark curls, Caelan jerked him up to his knees and held his dagger in front of the boy’s terrified eyes.

  “Stop! Stop!” the boy said desperately in heavily accented Lingua. “By the gods, stop!”

  Caelan took grim pleasure in hearing the boy beg for his life.

  “A Thyzarene afraid?” he jeered. “You are going to die out here. One quick slash, and you’ll be as dead as your dragon.”

  “Wait! I can offer you money,” the boy babbled. “Take my bracelets. They are gold. Take my—”

  “Shut up,” Caelan said, contemptuous of this whining. “When you are dead, I will take everything I want anyway.”

  “No, please! You don’t—”

  “That’s the Thyzarene way,” Caelan broke in. “You live off plunder. You dance in the ashes of your victim’s houses. You cart out all their possessions and pick them over. Bloodsucker! Carrion-eater! Reap what you have sown!”

  He put the dagger to the boy’s throat, steeling his heart against the boy’s sobbing. There were no more pleas for mercy, much to his relief. He hated the boy’s tears, for they made him realize the boy was younger than he looked. For a moment Caelan wavered. But
then he remembered all that he had suffered, and his fingers tightened around the dagger hilt.

  “Caelan, let him go!”

  It was Elandra’s voice. Caelan hesitated, but then refused to look in her direction. He kept his gaze grimly locked on the back of the boy’s head. This was not her business, he told himself.

  He lifted his elbow to turn the blade to the most efficient angle. One swift slice, and ...

  “In the name of all that’s merciful, stop what you are doing,” Elandra commanded.

  Her voice rang out across the small clearing.

  Caelan glared at her, standing nearby. Her eyes were huge in the pale oval of her face.

  “He’s only a boy,” she said. “What are you doing?”

  “Little Thyzarenes grow into big ones,” Caelan said grimly. “If this one is old enough to kill, he’s old enough to be killed.”

  “You have slain his dragon and wounded him to his soul. That is enough.”

  “It is not enough!” Caelan shouted. “It will never be enough! He killed my father—”

  She came running up to them, close enough now for Caelan to see how red her cheeks were, how furiously her eyes blazed. “This boy is not your enemy.”

  “All Thyzarenes are—”

  She scooped up a double handful of snow and threw it in Caelan’s face. “He is not your enemy!” she shouted. “He was not there the day your father died. He is not responsible for your being sold into slavery. Genocide is not justice!”

  Caelan glared at her, slowly cooling down. She was right, but he didn’t want to admit it. He was furious at her interference. “I will have my revenge.”

  Elandra didn’t flinch. “Then kill him in cold blood if you wish,” she said in a raw, scornful voice. “But I will tell you the problem with such a revenge. Once his blood spills hot over your hands, your father’s death will not be undone and your guilt will not be one ounce lighter than before.”

  Caelan scowled, the muscles in his jaw clenching hard. She was right. He wanted to curse her, but she was right. The admission tasted like ashes in his mouth.

  Growling, he released the boy and stepped back.

  Sobbing, the boy sank into the snow, and Caelan looked at him with disgust.