by Cara Bristol
Reena afforded her cousin the respect due an elder and a healer and usually deferred to her judgment. And because they were relations, Honna enjoyed a familiarity with her most did not have. But sometimes her cousin forgot who Reena was. Sometimes? Often. More so with every passing day.
She halted. “Honna, look at me.”
Her cousin didn’t slow. “You’re wasting time.”
“Look. At. Me.”
Honna pivoted, her impatient expression fraying Reena’s last nerve.
Reena strode toward her until they were eyeball to eyeball. “Do not forget who you are talking to. I am the heiress to the throne of the royal house of Sharona. The future queen. I do not serve at your behest. You serve at mine. You will address me with respect. Do you understand?”
Honna’s eyes flashed, before she nodded her head in a slight bow. “I apologize…Princess.”
* * * *
Garat released his breath in a silent exhale as the Sharona women disappeared around the curve. He dug the unguent from his pocket and flung the jar into the woods. Useless stuff. He’d reacted to a painting! And now to a skin-and-bones wraith with sunken cheeks and a figure that more resembled an immature Lahon’s than a Sharona’s.
His loins still tingled, although she was out of sight.
He’d been following the path to the spring when he’d heard them crash along, and he’d darted into the brush. He hadn’t gotten a good look at the first one—she’d charged past him, her haste hinting at a mission of some import. The frailer one dawdled, stopping to pick a flower in front of him then had gazed into the forest. It was a miracle she hadn’t spotted him.
She had seemed familiar, yet he was certain he had never met her. He avoided Sharona whenever possible, and he would have remembered her. One good puff of wind would carry her off. Bony wrists had jutted out from her sleeves when she’d lifted the flower to her nose. Her white robe lay slack against a flat chest and sharp hips. Gauntness extended to her face, enlarging cyan eyes shadowed by dark rings.
He hadn’t been able to avert his gaze from her near-translucent skin, her fluid movements, the sweet curve of her lips as she’d inhaled the bloom’s scent. Her ebony hair wound around her head, and he’d wondered how long it would be if unbound.
And he’d grown hard, though she’d exuded no mating pheromone. The only detectible whiff had come from her companion as she’d raced by. But it had failed to move him in any way. Something about the wraith, however, had delivered such a powerful punch he’d reared back and stepped on a branch.
She’d run after her companion, and her voice, like the low tones of a harp, delivered another jolt to his cock. Snippets of conversation drifted to him—her interest in a Lahon’s manroot. A curiosity easily satisfied. With self-derision, he’d glanced at his tumescence.
Then the conservation had gotten louder, angry, and the wraith had called out a name. Honna.
The other Sharona had turned, and he’d stared at the face of his nemesis. She’d aged much more than a decade in the ten years since she’d robbed him, and her countenance appeared as harsh and forbidding as the electrical impulse disruptor holstered to her hip. It was as if her crimes were inscribed upon her face to warn the unwary. And now he had name to go with the face that haunted his nightmares and fed his vengeance.
With that hammered the revelation that the wraith was the queen’s daughter. How could she appear so different from her portrait? What could have transformed her into twigs and skin?
A chill traveled up his spine. Protect her, the wind murmured, the sound so clear and real, he whipped around to see if someone had crept up behind him, but he was alone, and he turned his attention back to the path to find it deserted. The Sharona had disappeared into the wood. Protect her….
Protect her? From what? No one would dare touch a princess. He shrugged off the ridiculous ideation that Reena needed anything from him. The queen’s daughter was as safe as she could be—at least until the Lahon invaded. If anyone required extra defenses, it was he, for the unwanted tug on his loins was increasing.
Willpower. You shall overcome this. Remember your son. Using his history, his loss, he built a wall around his lust—and a new cold, calculated plan.
Scrap the invasion. He would not need to send his fellow Lahon into harm’s way. Securing water for his people and avenging his son’s death required only one thing.
A hostage.
Chapter Seven
Reena knew when she’d been outmaneuvered.
They reached the spring, a small hole in the rocky ground, and Honna knelt and filled a canteen halfway with water then scooped in what appeared to be a double-herb dose. Nothing short of an outright confrontation would deter her cousin, and after the little spat in the woods, Reena wished to avoid further upset.
She loved her cousin—her best friend, her ally, her healer. If Honna sometimes became a little overbearing, it was because she cared, had taken her inability to find a cure as a personal failure and reacted with bitterness. No one doubted that Reena was still alive due to her cousin’s heroic efforts to prolong her life. She could never repay that debt. And instead of forgiving Honna’s understandable temper, Reena had used her position to browbeat her—a position she’d never hold anyway.
“I’m sorry for my harsh words,” she said.
“I want the best for you.” Honna rose to her feet. “It hurts me when you don’t trust my judgment.”
“I do trust you. Can you forgive me?”
“Of course.” Honna smiled.
Water gurgled in the tiny spring. Judging from erosion of the rocky basin, the spring had once been a much larger pool—almost as big as the one in the palace gardens. Now, it produced scarcely enough water to fill a canteen.
“You won’t be able to bathe.” She would have liked to immerse herself, too.
“No, I’ll have to wait until we return to the palace.”
“I expected water to be more plentiful.”
“It was, once. This whole area used to be submerged.” Honna shrugged. “It has seemed like the closer we get to the Lahon settlements, the more arid it becomes.”
“What will the men do if the water dries up?”
Honna shrugged. “That’s not something we need to worry about. The Sharona have plenty.”
“If there’s no water—”
“There is enough for you to take your medicine.” She held out the flask. “Quit stalling.”
Maybe she was trying to postpone the inevitable, but the lack of water concerned her. People couldn’t live without it. The Lahon would be forced to migrate. And then what would the Sharona do about mating? How far would they have to travel to fulfill their duty?
Reena accepted the canteen, wrinkling her nose when she raised it to her lips. The tincture smelled as bad as it tasted. Get it down fast. Conscious of scrutiny, she took a big gulp.
Halfway down her throat, the liquid shot back up. She tried to swallow, but her gag reflex wouldn’t allow it. Tears welling, she choked, spewing out the liquid.
“It’s not that bad. Finish it.”
Not bad? After several days without it, it seemed far worse than she’d remembered. Or had Honna given her different herbs? Reena sank to her knees, and, cupping her hand, rinsed her mouth from the small spring.
She refused to spend her final days forcing down a bitter concoction that couldn’t save her anyway. Decision made, she stood up and jutted out her chin. “No herb. It tastes too horrible to describe, and it is not working, so I’m not going to drink it anymore.”
“It is working! You have to take it. You’ll get worse if you don’t.”
“I’m going to get worse anyway.” Reena turned her back on her cousin and the meager water source to empty the flask into the bushes. She would prefer to live only a minute without the herb than to suffer an hour with it.
* * * *
The queen’s daughter stood near enough that Garat could see the delicate detail of cheekbones made prominent by her
gauntness, a crown of hair so shiny it reminded him of obsidian—and her grimace as she poured out the contents of the canteen.
Focused on her, he almost missed the cousin’s reaction, but he glanced over in time to see an expression of such deep hatred contort his nemesis’s face that he jerked. And then it was gone. Erased by cool determination.
“I’m sorry,” Reena said, her back turned.
“I am sorry, too,” his son’s killer replied, and unclipped the electrical impulse disruptor. “I had high hopes for the herbs. It seemed...” She adjusted a setting on the weapon. “Kinder.”
Honna raised the EID.
“Kinder than what?”
“No!” Garat leaped from the brush as Honna fired.
The blast hit them both, but he absorbed the brunt of it. Reena emitted a strangled squeal, but his vocal muscles were paralyzed by the white-hot current sizzling through his body. Muscles cramped and locked. Burning spikes shot through his legs, his abdomen, his arms. He could not have released Reena if he’d wanted to.
Together they hit the stony ground. Agony ripped through every sinew and tendon of his body. His heart seized up, froze in mid-contraction. The sight of large, terrified eyes was the last thing he remembered before blackness engulfed him.
* * * *
Something rough and sharp, like jagged pebbles, dug into his side, and an insect seemed to be buzzing at his nose. Garat swatted at it, surprised by the effort it took to lift his hand. He pried open his eyelids to a vast blue…sky? He blinked. He flexed stiff fingers then raised a shaky, heavy hand and smoothed it over his cold face. Why was he lying on the ground? What had happened? Mother of the Goddess, he ached.
He rolled his head to the side. An unclad woman lay an arm’s length away, wilted flower petals scattered around her.
He sprang to sitting position. Reena! Her hair had come free, its tangle concealing her face. Her nakedness revealed she wasn’t merely thin; she was wasting away, her body hard angles and jutting bones.
Memories poured forth: following the Sharona to the spring, Honna firing, him leaping forward to thrust Reena out of the way, catching the photon stream. His hand flew to his thigh. Dagger—gone. No, he recalled, he’d lost it to the guards outside the palace. His leather mail was intact and had diffused the blast’s potency. Or maybe he’d survived because two of them had been hit by the same stream.
He scanned the grotto, seeing no sign of their assailant—or of Reena’s clothing. It made no sense she would be undressed in the autumn chill. Goose bumps roughened her arms and legs. A thigh thrown forward shielded her mons but cold had hardened the nipples of her small breasts to pebbles.
Despite her sickly and chilled condition—and the residual buzzing and cramping in his muscles—desire pulsed anew. He yanked his gaze away and checked the sky. According to the sun’s position, they’d lain unconscious for several hours.
Garat hesitated to touch her naked flesh. Her portrait and presence had affected him enough. He fortified himself with a deep breath and shook her shoulder. “Wake up.”
No response.
He shook again. Against her slenderness, his hand appeared huge, hulking, and rough. Despite his resolve to remain unmoved, his thumb drew a swirl over skin as smooth and silky as the fine fabrics worn by royalty. Which she was. He cursed and yanked his hand away.
Why wasn’t she waking? What if she was…
“Reena! Reena!”
No answer.
A long, jagged cut crusted over with dried blood and dirt marred her left wrist. He pressed two fingers to her right arm above her crystal. No pulse. With a shaking hand, he swept the hair from her face and probed her neck. Nothing. His heart rate spiked, and his stomach clenched. Oh Goddess, don’t let her be… Pressing harder against her cold throat, he searched for an artery. Oh please…not again, not again. Was that a flutter? Yes. She was alive. Barely.
Dark lashes formed two perfect crescents against luminous skin. Her overlarge eyes had been wide with terror when the beam hit. Had she realized what was happening? Had her fear been of the EID’s effect and her cousin’s treachery—or had she been afraid of him?
He staggered to his feet. What would cause the queen’s niece to attack her own cousin? From eavesdropping on the conversation, he’d gleaned Reena suffered from a serious ailment, further proven by her emaciation. Honna had given her a drink that had gagged her, and she’d dumped it out. He didn’t see the canteen at first then spotted it underneath a bush. He raised the vessel to his nose and sniffed. His stomach roiled at the smell. No wonder she didn’t want to drink it. His pack lay a short distance away, and he snagged it. He shoved the container inside and extracted his water flask. Kneeling at the basin, he filled the vessel. Once there’d been a bubbling, frothing pool. Now only a trickle. Nothing illustrated the Lahon’s crisis better than this.
Their solution lay a few feet away on cold, rocky ground.
You sought a hostage. Now you have one.
Her cousin had tried to kill her. He would use her.
It provided little salve to his conscience that he couldn’t just leave her lying there injured, ill, and at the mercy of an assailant who might finish the deed.
You cannot afford compassion. Your people are counting on you. The Sharona have much and are unwilling to share. And do not forget this one’s blood relative killed your son.
Grasping her twig of an arm, he tugged her to a sitting position; her head lolled forward. One good sign: her crystal was clear, so she wouldn’t cause an uproar by enrapturing multiple males. How she had incited his lust was better left for examination another time.
He removed his mail and pulled off his tunic. After he dressed her in the long shirt, he re-donned his chest guard then slung her slight form over his shoulder. Conscience heavier than his burden, he headed for home.
Chapter Eight
By the time Garat arrived at the settlement, his hostage still hadn’t roused, and concern churned his stomach. Twice he’d stopped to verify she still breathed. The effects of EID should have worn off.
He strode into camp, drawing the immediate attention of his brethren. He ignored their stares and focused on the path in front of him as he headed for the hut he shared with Kor. His brother must have been watching from the window because he flung the door open. “What happened?”
“I’ll explain later. Get Meloni.”
Kor nodded and hurried down the path.
“Wait!” Garat called.
His brother halted.
“Where is Jerak?”
“Being tutored.”
“Good.” He shouldered into the hut and kicked the door shut.
He carried Reena to his room and eased her onto the bed then rechecked her pulse and respiration. Still weak and shallow. He pulled up a chair and sat then took a cold hand between his and rubbed. There’d been a harp in the queen’s receiving chamber. Did Reena play? He could imagine her plucking the strings with her long, delicate fingers. She had pretty hands, except for the blotches darkening the base of her nails. Garat set her hand on the bed and sighed.
Guilt refused to abate, despite frequent self-assurances he was doing the right thing for his people. And for her. He could not have left her alone and naked on the rocks. He’d had to take her; he’d had no choice.
You could have carried her back to the Sharona.
The queen might have been so grateful she’d have agreed to the aqueduct. On the other hand, Shara might have accused him of injuring her and tried and convicted him. And wouldn’t he have been delivering Reena to the one who might attack her again?
She was better off in the Lahon settlement. Keep thinking that and maybe you’ll believe it.
“This way!” From outside came his brother’s voice, and, moments later, Kor burst in with Meloni.
For as long as he could remember, Meloni had been the Lahon’s healer. He’d set Garat’s arm when he’d fallen from a tree as a child. Even back then his long hair had been streaked with gray,
and while he’d seemed ancient to a young child, the healer never seemed to age. His face remained relatively unlined, his eyes sharp, perceptive.
Garat jumped to his feet. “Thank you for coming.” He gestured to Reena’s still form. “We were hit by an EID blast. She should have awakened. I think there is something else wrong with her.”
“Let me see.” The healer removed his shoulder bag and adopted the vacated chair.
Reluctant to leave, Garat hovered close enough to observe, not near enough to interfere. He glanced at Kor. He was probably dying of curiosity, but the examination might entail disrobing, and the idea of his brother gazing upon Reena’s nakedness did not sit well.
“Thank you,” Garat said pointedly.
“You’re welcome.” Kor didn’t budge.
“Please leave us now.”
“Why?”
“It would be best,” Meloni said, without looking up from his patient. “Too many individuals muddy the energy.”
Kor threw up his hands. “Fine.” He scowled at Garat. “We’ll talk later.” He stomped from the room and slammed the door.
When Meloni raised Reena to a sitting position to remove the tunic, her head flopped forward on a neck so slender it was hard to imagine it supporting her head. Garat rushed to assist with disrobing. He disliked the healer viewing her nakedness, but nothing could be done about that.
“She’s really ill, isn’t she?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Can you save her?”
Meloni lowered her to a reclining position again. “I don’t know yet.”
He wanted a “yes,” a “this isn’t as bad as it seems,” or a “let her sleep it off.” Uncertainty from a healer who channeled the Goddess’s own power? Not a positive sign.
He paced, too keyed up to remain still. If she died, he would lose his bargaining chip. Invasion would be the only choice. The Sharona would resist, and lives would be lost on both sides. He needed the queen’s daughter to live.
Because if she dies, I will be bereft forever. The thought hurtled out of nowhere.
She means nothing to me. Nothing. He clenched his fists and strode to the bed. “Well, how is she?”
