She was waiting for an answer, he realized, and hastened to speak. “I have given Arlen orders to follow in my absence. I need to see this stronghold for myself, and get a better idea of the lay of the land around it,” he said as he closed up the pack that held the food, “before I can plan any strategy that—”
“You’re staying?”
Kane looked at her, puzzled at her startled tone and the conflicting questions. Perhaps it was at last telling, the weight of her position. He explained patiently.
“No, I am leaving. For a few days, four at most, I think.”
“I . . . thought . . .” She lowered her eyes. “Pay me no mind. I am . . . weary, that is all.”
He didn’t doubt that; the dark circles beneath her eyes spoke not just of last night, but of a string of nights as sleepless as his own, though he doubted it had been for the same reason, despite her eagerness for their coupling.
He fought down the surge of heat that threatened at the mere memory. She was the Hawk, with reason enough not to sleep. And reason enough to turn even to him in her need for a few moments’ oblivion, and a night of needed rest. ’Twas all it had been, and he’d do well to remember that.
“I have learned all I can of your glade and the close surroundings,” he said quickly, in the manner of any commander’s report to his superior. “I must go further afield now. It will take at least four days to learn all I need to know, to see exactly where Druas’s stronghold is, where the roads intersect, and where exactly your forest meets the base of Snowcap. Arlen has told me, but it is not the same as seeing it—Jenna?”
She was staring at him so oddly he halted in his explanation.
“Why . . . are you telling me all this?”
He shrugged. “You are the leader here, ’tis your business, is it not?”
“I . . . yes. I just never expected to have Kane the Warrior reporting to me.”
Kane’s jaw tightened. He turned his gaze on her face. “I would ask one thing of you.”
She seemed to sense his sudden tension, and only nodded warily.
“From the others, I expect it. I accept it. But not from you. Do not call me that.”
“Call you . . . ?”
“Kane the Warrior. As if it were my given name. It is but a legend, a myth. I have no other name but Kane.”
“I only speak of you as the others do.”
“Yet you, of them all, know I am just a man. And not a very honorable one.”
Jenna drew herself up, and when she looked at him then she was every bit the Hawk, the leader of her people.
“Were that really true,” she said, holding his gaze with that directness that never failed to amaze him, “you would not be here.”
She turned then, and began to walk away. Kane watched her go, his chest oddly tight. She moved with such grace, the gentle sway of her body heating his blood as it tightened the clamp that seemed to be bearing down on his heart. He had to lower his eyes.
He wished it were true, what she had said, but he knew it was not. If she knew the full truth about him, if she knew the horrors he had committed, she would not risk contamination by even speaking to him. What she had risked by touching him, and allowing him to touch her in turn, in intimate ways he’d never done with any woman, he did not care to think about.
“Kane?” He looked up. “I’ll expect a report when you return.”
Despite his inner turmoil, he nearly smiled at her nerve. No, Jenna did not have a cowardly bone in her.
“Yes, Hawk,” he said obediently.
When she blushed at his tone and turned away, he did smile. The irony of it bit deep; he had smiled at pain before, had smiled at anguish. But never at his own.
SHE WAS WEARY, wearier than she could ever remember being. Had it been only the annihilation looming so close, she thought she could have dealt with it; just the knowledge she would die with her people gave her an oddly twisted kind of peace. But when Kane’s utterly disturbing presence had been added, it was suddenly too much, and she felt as if she were going to fly apart into countless tiny fragments at any moment.
And when she had awakened alone, she had had a moment of sleepy wondering whether she had dreamed it all, and only the pleasant ache of her body and the faint marks she found on her skin proved to her Kane’s presence had been very real.
Since their encounter the morning after he had come to her, she had not seen him again before he had gone, and she had spent most of her day trying to put him out of her mind, a fruitless exercise given the continuous murmurings among the clan, still amazed at the presence of a legend among them. Now that he was not immediately present, they all seemed to want to talk about him, and of course they came to her, as the one who knew the most of him. Even when she had first come home they had not been so inquisitive, as if they had not really believed she had found him, had not quite believed he was real until that night when he had strode out of the dark and stunned them all with the sheer power of his presence.
More than once she had had to resort to her power as the Hawk to avoid answering questions she could not, or would not answer. She could not speak of the personal things Kane had told her, the memories that haunted him. Nor could she ever speak of what had passed between them. Not, somewhat to her surprise, out of any sense of shame or embarrassment, but simply because the memories were too precious, too intimate to be shared with anyone, even those she loved most.
And then when she had seen him packing, the morning after the hot, tender night they had spent, she had thought he was leaving for good, going back to the sanctuary of his mountain, and that the idea stabbed a coldness through her as icy as Snowcap’s peak, scared her deeply. For he would leave, she knew that. That Tal’s prophecy seemed wrong meant nothing, not really; she knew he stayed on his mountain because he wished to more than anything. He would leave, and she would have to go on as she had before. She would have to bury deep her memories of sweet, hot kisses and caresses and a scarred, powerful body moving over her, filling a place she had never before realized was empty. Never again would she know what it was like to be mindless with pleasure, what it was like to hold Kane in her arms, to feel him grow as mindless as she and know in her female heart that she had done it. To hear him cry out her name, and cry out his in turn.
I have no other name but Kane.
His words came back to her unexpectedly. He had told her he had left the fighting life behind, and she could easily understand why. But he had never spoken of his name, of why he denied any family connection, of why he was known only as Kane to one and all. But then, a legend did not need anything more. And Kane the Warrior was a legend, no matter that he seemed to have no liking for the fact.
From the others, I expect it. I accept it. But not from you.
She was a fool to read something into those words, a fool to think he, too, remembered those moments in the dark with longing. She found herself blinking rapidly as she hastened through the village. She saw the respectful nods of the people she passed, and returned them with an effort.
She would be the Hawk, with all that meant. She would be their leader, and it would have to be enough. If, of course, anything survived for her to be leader of. And that, she thought, despairing at the ache that rose up anew, depended on Kane.
She saw Cara approaching in the growing shadows of dusk. Instinctively she dodged out of sight; cowardly it was, but she could not face her old friend right now. Even though she doubted anyone knew Kane had come to her in her cottage, sometimes she swore that Cara, with some female instinct, had guessed at least something of what had happened between them. And the longer Kane was here, the more curious Cara had become. Whenever they were together, even speaking only of plans, or the trials to come, Cara seemed to be hovering, watching. Although she was glad to see her friend taking some interest in life again, she could have wished it was
something other than she herself who was providing the means.
“You look a trifle desperate, child.”
Jenna stifled a yelp and spun around to see the storyteller watching her, that faintly amused expression on his face. She had, she realized, dodged behind his hut.
“ ’Tis Cara,” she admitted sheepishly. “She is far too curious about things I care not to talk about.”
“Such as you and Kane?”
Jenna’s lips parted for a startled breath as her eyes widened.
“Do not worry,” the old man assured her. “He did not speak of it. But he spoke of you. And you of him. It is there in your eyes, and his. ’Twas not hard to see.”
“Not for you, perhaps,” Jenna muttered. “I have met my fill of mind readers of late.”
The storyteller only smiled, but it was an oddly crooked smile, as if he were thinking of something far removed from Hawk Glade.
“You have a task ahead of you,” he said gently, “if you wish to overcome what has passed.”
She drew back slightly. “Do you mean Druas? Or Kane?”
For an instant the old man stared at her as she had looked at him when he had startled her so with his perception. After a moment he relaxed, shrugged, and said in that annoyingly vague way, “Both.”
She opened her mouth to protest his ambiguity, then shut it again. There was no point in arguing it; he was right on both counts. And at this moment, when weariness threatened to overwhelm her, she wasn’t sure she could win either battle, let alone both.
She heard a flurry of voices from the other side of the hut and wondered what small catastrophe had befallen them now. No doubt she would learn soon enough, when someone arrived seeking the Hawk.
“Where were you?” she asked, seizing upon the distraction of the fact that he wore his heavy cloak and that it bore the marks of travel; leaves clinging to the shoulders, and a dampness at the bottom.
The storyteller toyed with something in his hands before he shrugged and said, “I went to see a friend.”
“A friend?” When the storyteller did not elaborate, she prodded further. “Outside the glade?”
The old man tilted his head, lifting a dark brow until it was hidden by a thick lock of his silver hair. “Are you asking as Jenna, or as the Hawk?”
She considered that for a moment. “Both,” she said. “As your friend, for you have never mentioned a friend close by. And as the Hawk, because it is dangerous to venture beyond the protection of the glade.”
His hands moved again, and Jenna saw that he held a feather, glistening black, between his fingers.
“You need not worry, Hawk. I would do nothing to endanger your people.”
She drew back, looking at him curiously, “You are one of my people, are you not? ’Twas you I worried about.”
The old man looked absurdly pleased. “I thank you. Not many worry about an old man like me.”
“You are very special to me. As friend, and as the Hawk.”
“You are very kind to an old fool.”
Jenna laughed. “Do not try that doddering act with me; I know better. What you might lack in youth you make up for in wit, and well you know it.”
The storyteller laughed, deep and booming. It was the laugh of a young man, and it made Jenna smile. She had heard such a laugh before, not so very long ago—
“Jenna!”
The cry came from the clearing in the center of the glade. It was Cara, but it was not the cry of a friend looking for her friend to taunt with hints and probings.
It was a cry of desperation.
Without another thought Jenna turned and ran. The moment she saw Cara’s face, saw the horror that had again taken over her eyes, saw the tears streaming down her face, she knew it was no small catastrophe that had overtaken them.
Kane? Had Tal’s prophecy been right after all? Please, she begged, not certain of who. Not Kane. He could not be—
“Lucas,” Cara wailed. “They’ve taken Lucas.”
Chapter 19
“HE’S ALL I HAVE left, and they’ve taken him.”
Jenna stared at her sobbing friend. Guilt slashed through her that her first thought had been of Kane. But as Cara clung to her, weeping, an old enemy flooded her; it was this feeling she had fought so hard, this feeling of helplessness.
Lucas. She remembered the day she’d come back, remembered the boy clinging to Cara’s legs, his eyes wide and stunned and far too old in his childish face.
Fury rose in her, pushing the helplessness before it like the spring flood pushed toward the sea. She would not let this stand. She was the Hawk, and it was time she started acting like it. It was past time. She had nothing to guide her; no Hawk had ever had to deal with such things. But the clan, gathered round now, trusted her, trusted her to do what should be done, as they had trusted her family for generations. She would not let them down.
“Cara, please, you must calm yourself. Tell me how this happened.”
“I . . . he wanted to show me . . . something he’d found. He was excited, Jenna, almost happy, and he’s been afraid for so long, I could not deny him this. So I followed him. I tried to stop him when we neared the pond, but he insisted.”
“But you know the protection of the forest ends there.”
“I know, but all was quiet, there seemed to be no one around—”
Her voice broke and the sobs threatened again. Having just fought such a battle herself, Jenna recognized the echo of guilt in Cara’s weeping. But she could not stop to soothe her now.
“Forget that,” Jenna said, fearing she would never get the story if Cara broke down completely. “What was this thing he’d found?”
“A . . . puppy.”
Jenna blinked. “What?”
“A puppy. A small, spotted one. It was trapped in the mud at the far edge of the pond. It was whimpering so pitifully, Lucas must have heard it from within the glade and followed the sound . . .”
“Go on. What happened?”
“I . . . went with Lucas to try and help it. ’Twas only when I looked closely that I realized it was not trapped, but tied there.”
Jenna went still. “Tied?”
Cara nodded miserably. “I knew then it had to be a trick, and I screamed to Lucas to run. But it was too late, they came out at us. They’d been hiding all around the pond. They grabbed Lucas and threw him over one of their horses.”
Jenna fought off the image of that already cowed little boy facing such terror yet again and tried to concentrate on the facts of what had happened.
“Did you make it to the protected woods? Did they not see you?” she asked.
Cara’s tear-streaked face took on a puzzled expression. “No, they saw me. I know they did. Two of the men argued about . . . whether they should take me, too.”
Jenna’s forehead creased. ’Twas not like their enemy to let a woman go, especially a beauty like Cara. “Why only Lucas?” she murmured.
“I do not know, except that one of the men said something about their orders. Oh, Jenna, he was so frightened, we must help him, we must!”
Orders? Jenna wondered.
“We will think of something,” she told Cara, although she doubted her own ability to carry out that promise. She dared not look at the others, fearing they would see her doubts.
“He’s just a little boy,” Cara said, the tears beginning again. She looked utterly distraught, and Jenna put her arm around her.
“Cara, you must get some rest. Have Evelin fix you an herbal draft.”
The healer stepped forward with a nod, and tried to draw the girl away. Cara resisted.
“But they will kill him. I just know they will. They kill everyone and everything.”
“Exactly,” Jenna said. “Yet they did not kill Lucas
. Had they wished to, they would have right there. Nor would they have left you to report back.”
This made sense even to Cara in her distress.
“What do you think, Hawk?”
It was the storyteller, watching her as a teacher watched a pupil taking a difficult exam. She only wished it were something so simple.
“There is a plan at work here, I think,” she said at last. “And until it succeeds, I think Lucas is safe enough.”
She saw the flash of a salute in the storyteller’s intense gaze, and felt a rush of pleasure in his approval. She had another thought and turned back to Cara.
“What happened to the dog?” she asked, not sure why it mattered.
Cara shuddered. “They . . . drowned it.”
Something cringed inside Jenna, although she did not know why; she had expected this answer. Cara gulped and continued.
“They took the rope it had been tied with and fastened it around a rock and threw it into the pond. I couldn’t . . . I didn’t . . .”
“It’s all right, Cara. I only wondered. There was little you could have done without further risking yourself. Go, now, with Evelin.”
She watched as the healer led her shattered friend away. How many times would she yet go through this, see someone she loved, one of her own, devastated by loss?
“And there you have the difference,” the storyteller said, “between a cold man and a vicious one, a man who has locked his heart away and a man who has no heart at all.”
Jenna turned to look at him. “Another of your object lessons?” she asked wearily.
“No. Merely an observation. But I think you have already learned this one.”
“Have I?”
“You know which one Kane is,” he said, and then left her there, pondering his words, the subject of Kane for once less painful than what immediately faced her.
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