by Wilde, Kati
Cradling her still form against his chest, backward he swam toward the dinghy. He was almost to that small boat when the first dorsal fin sliced through the water nearby. Drawn by the squid’s blood.
Drawn by Jalisa’s blood.
The sharks were big enough to tip over their small boat. If a frenzy began, she would not be safe.
Kissing her soft lips, Aruk carefully lifted her into the dinghy.
Then into the water he went again. With his knife, he made a shallow slice across his thigh. A full night this had taken before, and he had not that much time. Better to draw them quickly and get this over with.
The first shark attacked from beneath, a swift nightmare of gaping jaws and dagger teeth. With a mighty swing of his arm, Aruk battered his fist into its head.
By the time the shark’s gray body settled dead onto the sea floor, he’d sent eight more sinking to join it. When no more fins were in sight, Aruk climbed into the boat. For the briefest moment, Jalisa opened her eyes.
Alive. But so pale she was. And still she bled.
He would not lose her. Had he known a spell, his own life he would have given to save her. But no magic did he have but the emotion in his heart—and the untiring strength that emotion gave to his arms.
Eyes blazing with it, he struck the oars into the water and began to row.
6
Jalisa the Difficult
The Smoking Islands
The fever was upon her again. But this time, her lungs did not seem to be drowning. Somewhere nearby, monkeys screeched. A woven mat she felt beneath her back, featherlight gossamer blanketing her front.
Restlessly she moved. “Aruk?”
“Shh, princess.” A soft rumble his voice was, and cool water touched her lips. “Be at ease.”
Her throat and tongue were parched. Thirstily she drank, then whimpered softly when he drew the water away.
“Slowly.”
Or she would vomit it all up. She nodded and the movement made her head swim. Her voice seemed a cross between a whisper and a croak. “I still do not believe there were kindly dolphins.”
His quiet laugh she heard, but when Jalisa’s own weak laugh shook her body, pain ripped through her side.
“Be at ease,” he said softly again. “I stitched your wound as I would a battlefield injury. But it will hurt for some time.”
And she was fevered, so still in danger. With strength born of desperation, she caught his wrist. Her eyes would not properly focus in the dim hut, and he was but a giant shadow looming beside her.
“If I die,” she croaked, “even though you would not have your night with me, please kill my father anyway. Or all of Savadon will be as Aremond is, and ruled by a sorcerer tyrant.”
“Your father is a sorcerer?” was his grim reply.
“No.” Such effort that short answer was, yet more effort she had to make. “But magic he always seeks for his own corrupt gain. Please. If I am dead, no one will hold him in check.”
“You will not die, princess.” Strong hands cradled her hot cheeks. His voice was hoarse as he vowed, “Never will I let you.”
And that seemed to be the only promise Aruk would make to her. But no more effort could she give.
Her fingers fell away from his wrist, and she knew no more.
* * *
Aruk’s promise he kept, and she did not die. Jalisa knew not how many days he tended to her fever, but his gentle care continued after it broke. With every movement, the pain from the wound in her side jabbed deep and stole her breath—and so Aruk assisted her every move, attended to every need that she had. No embarrassment could she feel, even during the intimate tasks. Too grateful she was. Yet still it was a relief when enough of her strength returned for Jalisa to manage those tasks on her own.
And still he cared for her. When she finally could stand and walk, merely crossing the small hut left her weakened and shaking. So he would carry her outside, where she could enjoy the fresh breeze and warm sun, until exhaustion forced her to return to the sleeping mat.
While she had been fevered, he’d woven another mat, and every night he slept beside her. If ever she stirred in the dark, instantly he seemed to wake, asking if there was anything she needed.
All that she needed was Aruk, close beside her. So he had already given her everything.
Over the next week, more strength she gained. Except for when he hunted, everywhere Aruk carried her then, as if he feared letting her out of his sight. He had decided to make the dinghy more seaworthy, so that the small boat might carry them the two days’ voyage to Savadon. Trees he felled and began to shape, explaining to her what he did and why he did it, so that she watched him not only in admiration of the way his powerful muscles gleamed beneath the sun, but in admiration of his skill and knowledge. Less strenuous tasks, such as braiding vines into ropes, he showed Jalisa how to do after she complained of being useless. So much more he showed her, too. How to start a fire with no flint and steel, how to catch and clean and roast a fish, how to make a flute from a thin hollow bone he found.
But he could not teach her to play it as beautifully as he did.
Nearly every waking hour, they spent together. Aruk told her of his twin brother, Strax, and of growing up in the wastes of the Dead Lands. Of the adventures they’d had as hired swords, the places they’d been, the things they’d done and seen.
To Jalisa, who had rarely stepped outside the palace walls and who had never been beyond the borders of Savadon, his adventures were the most wonderful of all stories.
In turn, she told him of the war-torn history of her kingdom, which served as the only route through the southern realms to the Illwind Sea, and the battles fought over the riches that the trade through Savadon brought. She told him of the heroes and villains in her own royal line, she told him of books she’d read—and said nothing at all of her own life. But if he noted how she avoided ever mentioning growing up within the palace, never did he say.
When she could trudge through the soft sand for more than a minute without having to stop to catch her breath, longer walks they took along the beach. Each day she grew stronger, and each night she fell exhausted and happy into bed, Aruk within arm’s reach beside her.
And through it all, so desperately she fell in love with him.
But Jalisa knew a reckoning was coming. For he had tended to her so closely. Feeding her, bathing her.
She knew he’d seen the rune carved into her skin, a rune that matched one of his.
She knew he’d seen the small scars that climbed her inner thighs like ladders.
And she suspected they were why he hadn’t touched her again, except to care for her in sickness. In the first weeks, her wound might have been the reason, except that more than a month had passed since the fever had broken, and her side barely pained her now. Yet still he didn’t touch her. And despite the yearning ache within her, she hadn’t reached out to him, either—too afraid that he would push her away.
When the reckoning came, it was not unexpected. Too quiet he’d been that morning. Together they walked along the shore, Aruk gazing out beyond the cove to where her ship had once been anchored, when he asked gruffly, “What did you pay for the wind spell?”
Painful constriction circled her heart. No use was it to lie, to name a sum of gold. Already he must know that she’d not paid with coin.
“A drowning cough,” she whispered.
He drew to a halt in the sand, eyes closing. “The scaling of the spell stole the good wind from your lungs?”
Essentially that was what it had done. Almost never was the consequence exactly equal. “Yes.”
“How long?”
“Almost two months.” Desperately struggling for every breath, stricken by fever—all the while her father waited for her to heal, so she might be wed. “As soon as the illness passed, that was when I fled.”
“Two months of drowning in your own lungs.” Jaw clenched, he opened his eyes, his gaze blazing into hers. “Blood magic s
hould never be used.”
“Perhaps not.” But it was the only magic she had.
“‘Perhaps not?’” he echoed. “Do you not know why it should not be used?”
“Because it defeats the purpose of this rune.” She passed her fingers over her hip, where the marking was—the rune that bound her magic to the border of her skin.
In the Dead Lands, that rune was a vow made to never use spells that would push the world out of balance. That was likely what it meant to him.
But that was not what the rune meant to Jalisa. She had not chosen it or made a vow. Instead it was a cage that she’d been tossed into.
And so her power was bound beneath her skin…but her blood was still full of her magic. By shedding drops of blood, her magic she could use again.
“Because it is dangerous,” he snarled. “The scaling always affects the one who cast the spell. And never can anyone predict what the scaling will be. Blood magic kills the person who uses it. Always.”
“Eventually it will,” she agreed softly. “But I won’t need to use it so often after my father is dead. Until then, it is a risk I must take.”
“Why must you?” he challenged fiercely, and dropped to his knees, shoving up the hem of her torn and ragged shift. Jalisa trembled as his thumb brushed over a small pink scar on her inner thigh—the most recent of the scars. “This must be the ship. But what is this one?” His fingers moved higher, touching the oldest. “What was so important that you risked your life for this?”
“My father decided to make an example of a pack of street urchins who had been stealing food from the market. They were meant to hang. I unraveled the ropes. So they were exiled, instead.”
So still Aruk went. “And the scaling?”
“My hair was knotted for weeks. Which does not sound so very dire, I know,” she whispered painfully. “Except that I am always supposed to be a pretty princess and my father was so very angry with me and my maids. They could not fix my hair and so he had all of theirs shaved, as criminals have their heads shaved. They had to endure that humiliation—and to me, that was the worst part of the scaling. But other scalings were not so bad. Some spells, the effect on me must have been so small that I still do not know what the scaling was.”
For an endless time Aruk stared up at her, his tortured gaze searching her face. Then he glanced down again, his fingers sliding down the ladder of small scars. “All of these…?”
“To save those he would have executed for cruel and petty reasons,” she said softly. “But I did not save everyone. Such as a man who beat his wife to death—no spell did I cast then.”
“And the marks you hid here,” he said hoarsely. “So your father would not realize what you’d done.”
“Yes. And I have been mostly fortunate in the scalings. The cough was the worst.”
“Jalisa.” He groaned her name and pressed his face into her belly, holding tight to her hips. “You should not have used it.”
Her eyes burned. Did he not understand how helpless she’d been? “Then what should I have done? How could I have saved them?”
“What if the blood magic had killed you? Who would have saved them, then?” Drawing back, he looked up at her fiercely. “You must find another way.”
“I have,” she reminded him. “And the only blood required is my virginity.”
Again his eyes closed, his face a mask of torment. “To hire my sword and kill him.”
“Yes.”
The one night that had seemed such a cheap price to pay…and now seemed not a price to pay at all. Instead it was the sweetest gift, that she would have one night with him before duty pulled him away.
Gently he urged her down to kneeling in the sand with him, her face on level with his. “So tell me what sort of man I am to kill.”
“When I was a little girl, he was the best of men. He doted on me, spoiled me, encouraged me. Anything I wished for, he gave to me.” Her breath shuddered in painful remembrance. To a young girl, such indulgence seemed like love. And she had loved him so much in return. “He was so proud of how strong my magic was. From the beginning, he made certain I had the finest tutor—a witch from the Dead Lands whom he’d rescued from slavery after she’d been stolen from her home, and her magic bound with the rune. As my father instructed her to, she taught me many spells, so that I might one day become a powerful sorcerer who could protect our people and defend our kingdom. That was the sort of man he was.”
“Then he changed?” Aruk asked softly.
“He did not change,” she said achingly. “All that changed was how I saw him. I was fifteen years of age when I discovered the witch was my mother—and that he’d not rescued her from slavery, but instead had purchased her from a slaver. He married her so that I would be a legitimate heir, then forced her in his bed. Then he told her that if she ever wanted to see her daughter, it could only be as my tutor. But I do not think he ever realized that she taught me more than spells—and that she taught me of true magic, too.”
And that love was not just unchecked indulgence. That kindness was not just benevolent condescension. That compassion was not just prayerful pity.
She looked into Aruk’s eyes. “She ruined me for what he intended—to use my power to bring other kingdoms under his heel.”
“You would have been the tyrant sorcerer,” he said in a gruff voice.
“Yes. Probably he would have lied to me, said our kingdom was under attack and he needed me to cast my spells to destroy the enemy. But what difference would my ignorance make to those I would have killed or harmed? No difference, so a tyrant I would have been.” She drew another long, shuddering breath. “When I understood what he’d done, I attacked him—though not with magic. My mother taught me never to use spells that weren’t contained by wards, so no innocents were harmed in the scaling. Instead I went after him with a dagger, but I was no warrior. And he plunged it into my heart instead.”
Rigid Aruk became. “What?”
“My mother saved me.” Tears wavered through her voice. “Her magic was bound with the rune, so she used blood magic to heal me. That was when I learned what it was, because never did she teach it to me. That scaling, she survived. A small cut only opened over her own breast. Then in her rage, she used blood magic against my father—the scaling killed her. But the spell didn’t even touch him. We didn’t know that he wore wards to protect himself. Perhaps fearing that one day I might turn on him with my magic. But I never turned on him again.”
“Not where he could see,” Aruk said.
“No.” Pain clogged her throat. “He branded me with the mark because although I would not use my magic to further his ambitions, my usefulness wasn’t over. I could be bred to produce another child with magic—and if I was bred to someone who also had magic, even more powerful the child would be. But Solegius of Aremond’s power had been rising, and that sorcerer had most of the strong magic users in these southern realms killed so no one might stand against him. And my father did not want to settle for a someone such as a mere healer.”
“That is why you told me to cover my ward and never to return.” Realization pushed through the harsh mask his expression had become. “Because I am from the Dead Lands, and any child of mine would hold strong magic.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “He would have captured you, tied you to a bed, and bred you to me—and perhaps bred you to many other women, too. Just in case my child turned out as disappointing to him as I did.”
“You are no disappointment,” Aruk said forcefully, holding her face in his hands. “So you stayed to save those who he tried to execute. When did you decide to run?”
“When he found Prince Wanieer. No powerful magic does that prince have, but my father is desperate. So I became desperate, too.” So desperate, she’d spelled the ship and spent two months drowning in her lungs. “My father’s wards meant that my magic couldn’t touch him, and I couldn’t fight him with a sword, so I went in search of someone who could help.”
And it was Aruk she’d found. A man whom she’d fallen in love with. A man who might no longer want to take this job, now that he knew she’d used blood magic over and over again.
Her heart aching, she hesitantly asked, “Will you still help me?”
“I will,” he vowed hoarsely. “I will kill him for you.”
Tremulously she smiled, and closed her eyes in sheer relief, before pressing a grateful kiss to his lips. “Thank you, Aruk. I would have done anything. But I’m so glad it will be you.”
He nodded, his jaw clenching. “But no more blood magic. Whatever needs done, we will find another way. Not one that risks your life every time.”
Jalisa could not make that promise. “Some things are worth risking my life for.”
“And you have hired me to risk mine. So no more blood magic. We will end your father without it.”
She nodded. “If we can.”
“We can,” he said fiercely, then paused and gave her a wry look. “As soon as we get off this island.”
Jalisa laughed. “Yes,” she agreed. “I think we must do that first.”
7
Aruk the Fettered
The Smoking Islands
Aruk would have given anything to stay forever on this island with his princess. Jalisa was nothing like the fantasy woman he’d conjured as a companion the first six months he’d been stranded here. Instead she was far more incredible than he’d ever imagined. Never had she complained of the roughness of their living or the work they must do. Always she helped when she could—and when she could not, some other task she would complete for him. She made him laugh and made him think and made him smile and made him ache with need for her.
But never would she be happy here. Not while her kingdom lived under her father’s heel. Worry for her people would consume her, and never would she abandon them.
Just as Aruk would never abandon his duty. So similar they were, though it had taken him so very long to see.
