Embers

by Helen Kirkman

  She had to get help. The abbess, the priest. Whoever she could find who knew more than her about healing. Even his own men standing guard outside. Even if they killed her. Someone had to help him.

  He moved. Her hand. She had left her hand resting against his heated skin. Touching him. Her fingers moved with the turn of his head, sliding across his face, touching the moistness of his lips like some indecent caress she had no right to. She was staring into gold-flecked eyes, dark with confusion.

  "You…" She felt the whisper of his breath.

  The eyes were deep, so achingly deep. Their deepness held her, just as it had the first time she had seen him, when nothing in the world, her world, had existed except him.

  Just for one instant it was like that again and her heart leaped with a hope and a strength that had no relation to any decision of her mind. But then it was gone, that moment. It had not belonged to anything real, not even to what was real in the mind of the man she loved.

  She saw the instant when full consciousness returned and when it did, it wiped out that frail, fathoms-deep connection as though it had no existence.

  "Making sure I was really dead?"

  She gasped, dragging her hand back. Guilt, the renewed savageness of loss, nearly paralyzed her. Blank impenetrable eyes watched every awkward, clumsy, shaking movement she made.

  He tried to straighten up. A small wrenching sound of pain and surprise escaped the lips she had just touched.

  She grabbed his shoulder. Regardless of what he wanted.

  "Wait! You fell. You took some hurt." She swallowed. "The sword…" It came out on a thin, keening sound of terror.

  He looked at her fingers twisted in his tunic.

  "Hang the sword, woman. If it had been the sword I would be dead." He raised his head and her gaze was caught in a mesh of burning gold. "Disappointed?"

  She blinked, trying to tear herself out of the golden net.

  "Yes." She raised her head, but despite the show, her voice choked. She was not naturally good at lies.

  She was learning. She untangled her hands out of his sleeve.

  He sat up.

  She choked back what would have been a shriek. She saw the blood welling down his arm, so much it had soaked out from underneath his body in that thin, life-sapping stream and she had seen it. She remembered how he burned.

  "Saint Dwyn preserve—"

  "Saint Dwyn? Does that not seem an unlikely choice? A virgin saint?"

  Hun's whore.

  She flinched. He watched it.

  "But then your Saint Dwyn is also the patron saint of ill-fated lovers. Or do you perhaps prefer the fact she had her own importunate suitor frozen into ice?"

  Of all Englishmen, only Brand would be able throw a Celtic saint's name back in her face.

  And ice could, of course, burn through flesh like fire.

  "She unfroze him afterwards."

  "Aye. But she did not marry him."

  "No." But then Dwyn had been a saint. It would not have burned her heart out that she could not marry in mortal love. Her gaze slid away from molten gold that burned like ice and fire all at once.

  She saw the trail of blood. She swallowed.

  "What happened?"

  "It is an old injury. Naught to do with this and naught that matters."

  "But…at least let me see. I can help you."

  He became very still.

  Healing had not been an accomplishment of the Princess of the Picts.

  "I learned healing from the abbess."

  The worst thing she had helped with had been the broken arm of a travelling goldsmith. She had been squeamish all the way through. The man's gratitude had been an embarrassment. She smiled with a confidence she did not feel.

  "And you use your…skills on those who pass through this place?"

  Her smile became bland.

  "Why not?"

  The subtle eyes flickered.

  Do not do this, Alina. Do not tread on dangerous ground.

  Her perfect smile remained intact. She had never taken advice in her life, least of all her own.

  "Well, then? Do I practice my skills on you?"

  "It is not necessary." The eyes blanked off. He got to his feet. She stepped back, watching his pain, both physical and of the mind, obliterated, consumed by the flames inside him as though someone had poured oil on hot coals. "If you really want to be useful, just find me a cloth to bind it."

  She crossed to the carved chest in the corner, found clean linen. She thought his gaze followed every move. Doubtless ready to fall on her if she attempted escape.

  She could not. Not yet. Not while he was so hurt.

  She ripped cloth into strips. "Let me see."

  He was sitting, propped up on the wall bench. The sword, laid out next to him, was unsheathed. She averted her eyes from the gleaming, lethal length of metal that had so nearly killed her. Killed him.

  She took his arm. She half expected some further outburst of the scarce-contained wrath scorching inside him. But her touch was permitted. The gold eyes held her, like a giant beast of prey toying with its victim before it drove for the kill.

  "You really are going to minister to my hurts?"

  His voice was cool and quite calm, but inexpressibly dangerous. Her insides clenched.

  "I know how to do what is necessary."

  "So you say."

  "Then—"

  "Just bind it. There is no time for anything else."

  "But you need—"

  "Do it."

  He was already reaching for the fallen sword. The danger in his voice was in that movement, locked down in every muscle, ready to take the fire that burned inside him.

  She looked at how much blood there was.

  "Give the cloth to me. I can do it."

  He must have seen how much she was shaking.

  Her fingers lightened on the linen strip.

  "You have the onset of fever from this wound. If you cannot tell that you are a fool. If you do not do anything about it you are an even greater fool."

  "You mean I am running true to form?"

  "Stop it." Northumbrians. They could kill you with their impenetrable irony.

  "The wound will need cleaning, for all I know it needs stitching. If you want to live, it needs care and herbs against elf shot. If none of that bothers you, do as you suggest. Bind it and leave it."

  "None of that bothers me." And she saw what she had only glimpsed before, the consuming darkness that lay behind the feverish brightness of his eyes.

  A chill ran through her because she recognized what it was: the kind of bleakness that saw only a blank future. She recognized that because it lived inside her.

  It was so bitter. It did not belong in a strong and beautiful creature like him.

  "You must—"

  His fingers hauled the cloth out of her hand.

  "I shall not die yet. I have got a job to do first and the jaws of hell would not stop me. Tie this."

  She caught the trailing end of the cloth flung at her. She tried not to think about the probable mess underneath his blood-soaked sleeve. She straightened the cloth, reaching round, leaning toward him so she could see. Gold arm rings, strong fingers, the intensity of his eyes. Their fingers tangled. She stifled a gasp.

  "Hold it steady. That is not tight enough."

  She pulled, biting her lip just as he did. As though she felt the pain. His fingers hauled on the cloth, compensating without thought for the weakness of her left hand.

  "There."

  It was done. Finished. She surged to her feet while he was still sick and helpless with the pain. It was less than three steps to the door. Simple—An undamaged arm snaked across the opening, blocking it. Her heart seized up. He could not have done it, could not have moved like that.

  "Bit precipitate are you not? I might have thought you were trying to go without me."

  "I will not go with you."

  "Really? Have you worked out who is in charge of the sword a
t this moment?"

  She stared at it, sheathed at his side, ready again to his hand. Her face set. If that was the only way to cut the lethal tie that bound them, then so be it.

  "That does not bother me."

  As an attempt at Northumbrian irony, it was masterly. The repetition of his own careless words struck a chord. Either that or he read in her face the underlying truth. She saw the moment that the bitter irony in his eyes gave way to shock, then something else she could not define. Except that it was weary, so gutwrenchingly exhausted, like someone pushed past the end of their endurance who yet went on.

  "Nay, life does not stop, Alina, regardless of what we want. It is we who must shape it. There is only one thing left mat matters to me. The lands that are mine, the lands that make up Northumbria, will not slide back into the bloodbath that was King Osred's reign, not for your father's foolishness or for yours."

  "Mine ? I was the—" She bit off the word sacrifice. "I was betrothed to Hun to foster an alliance, because he was King Osred's kinsman. King Osred is dead. Hun is dead—"

  "And his brother is not. Do you think I am not aware he is following me south, coming here—"

  "Goadel? Coming here?" That foul, spitting, red-haired creature? "But he cannot…" Her voice rose out of control at the very thought of Hun's brother. Coming after her.

  "He cannot claim you? If Goadel has you, he believes he is halfway to persuading King Nechtan, your uncle, to help Osred's kindred reclaim the Northumbrian throne. It is the best way to get rid of a new king, is it not? With outside help? Pictish help?"

  "No…"

  "No? Why not?" The eyes watched her: a falcon measuring its prey. "There is always a chance. And think of the benefit to you. You would be related to two royal houses. That is exactly where you wanted to be, is it not?"

  Her blood froze. She could not say anything, could not get a word out of the tightness of her throat. The thought of being used, all over again, in some greedy, murderous power struggle was a horror she could not permit. Never.

  Her gaze, fixed on the deadly snake hilt that swung at Brand's hip, became focused with a sharpness she had never known. The sharpness of her vision was frightening, but at the same time oddly strengthening in its finality, as though the sword were bound up with her future. The rune carved into the cross guard became visible, glowing in the sunlight close to his hand.

  Runes were English devices. They were not of her people. But she recognized this one: elk sedge. It symbolized protection. But it was also dangerous, an Atheling's rune. It was a link to a higher world and full of force. That force could overcome people if they could not control it. Only Athelings knew how to merge with it and turn it into protectiveness.

  Brand was an Atheling, a prince.

  She was a princess. Equal.

  She could feel his gaze on her bent head, the back of her neck. He moved, so that the sunlight diced with the shadows, like the mirror of her future.

  "You really wish you had killed me, do you not? Then you would be free. Free to follow what you have found you desire. But there is just one thing you may not know, Alina, one thing you should take into account before making your sweeping decisions. Do you realize who your uncle's ambassador is at the court of Bamburgh? Your brother Modan."

  Her sight blurred.

  "Modan? In Bernicia? But he was my uncle's ambassador in—"

  "The Kingdom of the Britons in Strathclyde. Your uncle had him recalled. Then sent to Northumbria."

  Her uncle? Or her father? Maol of the Picts did not forgive. She knew the reach of his bitterness where Strath-Clòta was concerned. Where she was concerned and… "Modan…"

  It was as though she was calling his name, as though he could hear her. The dark-eyed face of her older brother obliterated the sword. Modan had been the only member of her family who had ever cared about her. He had had no part in her marriage arrangements. He had been in Strath-Clòta, with their mother's kindred. Safe.

  "My brother—"

  "Your flesh and blood. Just think on it, Alina. What do you believe Modan's life would be worth if you do not come back to Bamburgh with me? If Goadel launches a rebellion with you as part of it? How long do you think it would be before the new King Cenred or his retainers at Bamburgh had your brother killed? They would not keep him alive for one day. He is already a virtual prisoner."

  "A prisoner?"

  "I should have said an honoured guest. Naturally he would not be harmed. Not unless what everyone suspects Goadel is planning actually happens. Not unless you make it happen."

  The irony in his eyes and his voice, even the anger, were subsumed by a deadly earnestness that she had not seen before.

  "Think. Is it worth pursuing what you want over your brother's blood? Will it be worth waking up each day even in the midst of all your power and all your riches knowing what you have done?"

  The shadow of that other unjust death took shape between them. The power of a brother's sacrifice. The sound she made was not human. It came out of the mouth of some crazed animal writhing in its trap. She could see why wolves caught by iron would bite their own limbs off just to escape the pain and the darkness closing in.

  If she went back to Bamburgh they would keep her there forever, a prisoner in all but name. Or else they would send her back to her father in the palace at Craig Phádraig. To let him plot another marriage for her. If even the most greedy and ambitious of prospective husbands would have her now.

  If she took one step out of this door in Brand's keeping she would place him in appalling, merciless danger just as she had done before. Until he got her across the length of Britain and possibly even after that

  If she did not go they would kill Modan. Sooner or later. Because Goadel would not give up his ambitions.

  Is it worth pursuing what you want over your brother's blood?

  That was what Brand had done, unwittingly. Caused his brother's harm. For her sake. It was what she had already done. Killed an innocent man.

  And now what would she do? What choice did she have?

  "Come. You will be quite safe from a repeat of my importunate advances if that is what you are worried about. Someone else claims he was…seeking to find you. He is here."

  She looked at the burning eyes.

  "No doubt he will see to your welfare."

  "Who?"

  "You will see."

  He did not touch her again. He did not need to. She took the first step by herself, the step that set her on the road back to the past, to the beautiful, deadly palace set on the impregnable sea-girt rocks at Bamburgh. The place where it had all begun.

  There were half a dozen Northumbrians waiting outside. And one Pict. It was her half brother Cunan.

  The hellhound of Craig Phádraig.

  CHAPTER THREE

  They would have to stop.

  Brand could see it in her face. He cursed. He had wanted to be much farther away before they halted. Farther north. He knew he could push himself until the daylight faded, beyond, despite the wound to his arm. The men would follow. They would have to. But Alina…

  He called a halt. The first to protest, naturally, was the yapping creature Cunan. The word meant "hound-like." If ever a man had been more aptly named…

  A torrent of badly-accented English poured from lean and snapping jaws. He turned his back. Even a bitter, illegitimate half brother ought to have some feelings for his sister. The man should have been demanding that they stopped hours ago, not that they went on.

  He strode off without looking, trying to mask disgust. Behind him the complaints continued.

  His shoulders flexed with the urge to knock a set of predatory teeth down a snarling throat.

  Alina said nothing. She had said next to nothing to her brother since she had seen him. Whether that meant she resented him, or whether she would not converse with her kinsman in front of a band of Northumbrians he did not know.

  He stopped beside her mount and held up his hands.

  "Come here."<
br />
  He thought at first she would refuse his aid. She probably loathed him enough to do so. But then she changed her mind. He realized the full measure of her tiredness. She simply fell from the saddle into his arms without the slightest resistance, or, he suspected, the slightest control over what she did.

  He braced himself instinctively to swing her weight against his right side. He need not have bothered. He could have held her against his injured left arm without effort. Her weight was wrong, not nearly enough for her height.

  His hands tightened on her body under the threadbare sack she seemed to consider passed for a gown.

  "Cuthbert's bones."

  It was an appropriate expression because that was all mat seemed to be under his hands, a collection of very small bones. Had they starved her at that miserable-looking nunnery where she had chosen to wait for Hun, or what?

  He could not believe this was what the smooth, curvingly voluptuous body had been reduced to. But then neither could he believe the coarse sack a creature of silk and fine cloth and bright gems was wearing. That creature had dazzled an entire court. And himself. She had struck straight through his heart.

  But she had done that to a person who no longer existed.

  The small frame pulled away from a grip that was too close. Strands of her night-black hair slid across the backs of his hands like remembered silk. Remembrance. A hunger beyond limits. The tightening in his loins was instant, tearing.

  "Let me go…" The words were breathless, whispered low against his ear. Her rapid breath fanned across his heated skin, enough to send the desire twisting deep inside.

  Desire born of memory. There was nothing else left in him.

  Or in her. She spoke so low only because she would not struggle with him in front of his men. A princess to the last. He let her move away but kept hold of her wrist until the camp was made and she was settled.

  She sat, stiff-backed, between Cunan the Pict in his long cloak and brightly coloured clothes and Duda the Northumbrian dressed in what could only be described as rags. If you were feeling charitable.

  Duda's various mismatched coverings twitched, which meant Alina's bastard brother had irritated him. Cunan's hound nose flared in response. Brand did not bother to intervene. Cunan would find out. Everyone did eventually. Duda was both the most cunning-minded and the most ruthlessly disgusting fighter he knew.