Into the Shadows

by Linda K Hopkins

  “Really?” Lark said. “If these are yours, then take them off.”

  “Very well.” Taking her by the wrist, he placed his hand over the seam where the cuff had been joined. It sprung open and fell to the floor, and he repeated the action with the second cuff. Lark stared at her wrists in shock, then looked up to glare at him.

  “You were able to remove them this whole time?”

  “Of course.” He glanced at the couple. “As you can see, the cuffs respond to my touch.”

  “How?” the woman said, staring at the cuffs. Her eyes flew to the Drameara. “How did you open them?”

  The Rhymer’s gaze was fixed on the Drameara, and he laid a hand on the woman’s arm. “I think it’s best if we don’t know,” he said.

  “But –”

  “Eve,” he said, a note of warning in his voice.

  She glanced at her husband, then back at Lark. “Are you his wife?”

  “No!” Lark said, but her protest was drowned out by the Drameara.

  “She is,” he said. “Now give me a kiss, wife, and show these good people that you were just being foolish.”

  “Get away from me,” she hissed, taking a step back, but she was stopped in her tracks when he caught her around the neck and pulled her back.

  “I can replace the cuffs just as easily,” he whispered in her ear. He pulled back slightly, his gaze meeting hers, and after a moment’s hesitation, she lifted her face to his. Her arms hung at her sides and she clenched her hands into fists as he closed the distance between them and placed his warm, firm lips on hers. Lifting his hand to her chin, he tugged slightly, parting her lips, and then his tongue was in her mouth. A shiver she couldn’t repress passed through her, and she clenched her hands tighter, standing stiff and still. His mouth moved from hers and slid across to her ear.

  “You can do better than that,” he whispered.

  “No,” she moaned.

  “You want the cuffs?”

  She groaned and his mouth was back on hers. His hands slipped down her back, going lower as he pulled her close. He tilted his head, slanting his mouth over her lips as he delved deeper. It was impossible to resist his touch, and she placed her hands on his arms, then slid them around his neck. His warm skin beneath hers was her undoing, and she tilted her head, giving him greater access as she returned his kiss. The room and the audience faded away as she held him and she felt as though she was drowning in his touch. His grip tightened around her waist before his hand slid up her back and he began to caress her neck with his fingers. The intensity of skin against skin, the feel of his hands, his mouth, his tongue, all set her nerve endings on fire, and she was lost to the moment. The shuffling of feet and a loud cough brought her back to her senses, and she pulled back, staring at the Drameara in shock. His black eyes caught hers and held them for a moment before he turned away. He reached down, swept the cuffs from the floor, and placed them in his bag.

  “I think you should go,” the Rhymer said.

  Knowing any further protests were useless, Lark hurriedly stepped outside, quickly walking away as the Drameara fell in beside her. She turned to face him.

  “How dare you?” she demanded angrily.

  “You should be thanking me for removing the cuffs.”

  “Thanking you? You humiliated me!”

  “You needed to be brought down a notch or two.”

  “You’re despicable.”

  “And having kissed you, I can only wonder why the prince agreed to make you his wife. You really are an Ice Queen.”

  She glared at him, then spun on her heel and marched towards the path, holding up her chin as humiliation washed over her.

  Chapter 15

  It started raining that afternoon, a heavy downpour that soon had Lark drenched. Water sloshed in her boots while her cloak hung soddenly around her ankles. Despite her escape attempt the Drameara had not retied her wrists, and she pulled her cloak tight around her chest, trying to preserve the little warmth she had. After all the time spent longing for the cuffs to be gone, it felt strange to no longer be wearing them. The skin where the cuffs had been was red and irritated, and streaks of dirt had marred the pale whiteness until the rain washed them away.

  The Drameara marched a few yards ahead of her, seemingly unconcerned by the downpour that made Lark so miserable. The wind gusted around her, whipping her wet hair across her face and cutting through her clothes. She looked longingly at the trees they passed, but he strode by them, his booted feet churning up the mud which sent splatters onto her legs. She slowed her pace, but somehow the mud from his boots just flew further. She frowned, glaring at his back. She had no idea how, but she was certain that he was deliberately making her life as miserable as possible.

  Darkness fell, earlier than usual because of the heavy clouds, and still he walked as she stumbled behind him in the mud. Her legs were aching from weariness when she slipped in the mire, falling to her knees. She sat there a moment, watching his back growing more distant, then with great effort lifted one knee and slowly rose. Her legs were caked with mud, but she did not have the energy to care. The Drameara had disappeared again in the rain, but she knew another escape attempt was useless. She was more likely to drown in the mud than get away. She lifted one foot and then the other, and began a slow pace along the path, her eyes on the ground as she walked. She could see the tracks the Drameara had made and she followed these, counting as she did so. One, two, three … When she reached ten, she started again. The tracks disappeared, but still she kept walking. One, two, three…

  “Are you going to keep walking all night?”

  Lark stopped and turned wearily around at the sound of the Drameara’s voice. He was seated beneath a rocky outcrop a few yards back from the path, leaning over a small pile of sticks. She was too exhausted to do more than glare at him as she stumbled back to the sheltering rock. He had already managed to gather a small pile of kindling, which amazingly was dry, and sparks flew from his tinder box as he started a small blaze. She dropped to the ground, and leaning against the rock, she brought her legs to her chest and hugged herself. The Drameara watched her for a moment, then reached for his bag and pulled out an article of clothing which he tossed to her.

  “What’s this?”

  “Something a bit drier.”

  She shook it out to see that it was a light blue blouse. She glanced at him, and he met her gaze for an instant before turning back to the fire. She was certain that she had seen the same blouse hanging on the Cambrian woman’s line earlier that day, and while she knew she should be upset about the theft, she couldn’t muster up more than a faint flicker of disapproval.

  “Turn around,” she ordered the Drameara. He shot her an irritated look.

  “Do you think I’m in the slightest bit interested in seeing your pale nakedness?” he said, but he turned to look the other way as she put her back to him. She wriggled her way out of the sodden blouse and pulled on the fresh item; it smelled clean and leathery from being in the Drameara’s bag. Loosening her braid, she brought it over her shoulder and ran her fingers through the wet tendrils, squeezing out the water before flicking it to her back. From the corner of her eye she caught a slight movement, and she turned to look over her shoulder. The Drameara was watching her, and as she turned, his gaze met hers, holding it silently. A shiver ran through her and she looked away angrily and continued squeezing the water from her hair. The twigs were beginning to crackle, and after a few more minutes, she turned back to watch the flames grow. The Drameara was reaching into his pack, and he pulled out the clay jar that he drank from each day. He pulled out the stopper and poured some of the contents down his throat.

  “What is that?” she asked, shifting closer to the fire.

  “Dragon brew.” He resealed the jar and placed it in his bag, then withdrew a loaf of bread and a cut of cold meat. He broke off a piece of each and passed them to her. The bread smelled fresh.

  “Where did you
get these?”

  “Same place as your shirt.”

  “You stole their food?”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Are you complaining? Besides, she was Cambrian.”

  “And it’s alright to steal from a Cambrian?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t kill her.”

  “The Rhymer clearly held her in some affection.”

  “And you don’t want to upset a Rhymer.”

  “I don’t want the Rhymers questioning my motives. There is a difference.”

  “And what are you motives?”

  “I serve the Ancient.”

  “So, is your name Vance?”

  He leaned forward with an amused snort and stirred the kindling blaze with a stick. “No.”

  “Why did you tell those people that was your name?”

  “It started with a V. Should I have said Val?”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “You don’t have a name?” She frowned. “Everyone has a name.”

  He was silent a moment. “I have no need of a name beyond Drameara.”

  “Then how do you know who you are?”

  “I’m a servant of my mistress. She calls me Seven, because I am her seventh warrior; that is enough for me.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t believe that. You’re a unique individual.”

  “I am my lady’s creation, nothing more. I live to do her bidding.”

  “I thought you served the Shadow Warrior.”

  “And through him, the Ancient.”

  “And what does she bid you do?”

  “To bring about the destruction of Cambrians.”

  “And yet I’m still alive.”

  His eyes flicked to her, then fell back to the fire. “Tell me, princess, are you any different from me?”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Snowlark,” he said musingly. “A little bird in a golden cage. You do as you’re told and marry a man you do not love.”

  “What do you know of it?” she snapped.

  “I know that you were bound by cuffs that you did not want to wear.”

  She dropped her gaze to the fire. The kindling had caught and the flames were beginning to grow. “How did you remove them?”

  “They responded to my blood.”

  “Why?” She looked up at him with a frown.

  He shrugged. “It must have been magic.”

  She scowled, and he gave her a mocking laugh then turned away, picking up a dagger and checking the blade in the light of the flame.

  It was still raining when she lay down on the ground and used her hands to pillow her cheek. The fire had burned low and the Drameara was inspecting his weapons, as he did every night. She watched him as he worked, his hands running over the metal like a lover’s. She rolled over, wanting to block him from her sight, then jerked when she felt something touch her neck. A glance over her shoulder told her that he had not moved, and she turned back and stared into the night. The man had unsettled her with his intense kiss which had moved her as no other had ever done, along with his sharp words about her impending joining. She had lost count of the days since she had been taken, but by now she would have been joined if she were still in Lenora. She snorted beneath her breath. She could thank the Drameara for saving her from that. He had removed the cuffs; how, she could not say, and why – well, she could not say that either. He was not a man to be pushed into a corner, which meant he had chosen to remove them. But his means of doing so had been humiliating, a punishment in itself.

  She dreamed of him that night, his lips on hers, as he kissed her before sliding to other parts of her body. She woke up once and thought she saw yellow eyes watching her, but they blinked away and she fell back asleep, her breath coming out in soft sighs as she felt phantom lips on hers once more.

  She woke with a start the following morning and saw that the rain had finally stopped. She blushed when she remembered her dreams, angry at herself for the direction of her thoughts. She glanced around, relieved to see that she was alone, and scooted back to a tree, leaning against it as she ate the bread that had been left on a rock for her.

  The sun was steaming the water off the ground by the time the Drameara finally returned. She had debated taking the opportunity to run, but she had no way of knowing how long he would be gone; she also knew that her chances of success were slim. The Drameara had shown himself to be a master at thwarting her efforts.

  “Let’s go,” the Drameara said as he stepped between the trees. “There’s a Crimson Unit not too far away.”

  “Have you called your special friend to come and deal with them?” she asked dryly.

  “I don’t need to. They are being trailed by a group of Rhymers with a Warrior in their midst.”

  “They’re going to be ambushed.” She could feel a lump forming in her throat at the thought.

  “It’s nothing more than they deserve.”

  “Is it what I deserve, too?”

  “You’re Valor’s descendant, so yes. But the timing isn’t right.”

  She shivered, remembering his threat of a public execution. “Why do you hate Valor’s descendants so much?”

  “Valor killed dozens of Ancients because of his greed.”

  “He killed the Ancients because they were seeking to destroy his people!”

  “You really do believe that, don’t you?” He shook his head incredulously. “You’ve been fed a bunch of lies, princess.”

  “Perhaps you’re the one who’s been fed the lies, Drameara!”

  “Unlike you, I know the truth of what happened. Now let’s go.”

  The rock beneath which they had slept was at the base of a hill. The path, which zigzagged across the hill face, was a thick morass of mud, clutching at Lark’s boots with every step. Although it was still overcast, the clouds had lifted and she looked up to see that the ascent grew much steeper further up. She glanced at her clean shirt and pulled her cloak tighter around it, determined that it remain clean for at least one day. The yellow blouse had been snatched up by the Drameara and thrown into his bag as they started walking. She looked up to see that he was easily outpacing her. The mud did not seem to slow him down, and the ascent did not trouble him at all.

  As she had anticipated, the going got harder the higher they climbed. Trees started halfway up the slope, and she grabbed the branches gratefully, glad of the aid they offered. Her cloak dragged over the ground, which was no longer covered in mud but was slick with pine needles that slid beneath her feet. The Drameara stayed a good distance ahead of her the entire time, and there were moments when she lost sight of him altogether.

  They broke through the trees near the top of the hill. The path had narrowed to a single track, and once again was slick with mud. Rocks and stones littered the way, and Lark found herself scrambling more than walking, lifting her cloak to prevent it tripping her. The path took them along the edge of the precipice for a short distance, with nothing to stop her fall if she lost her footing. She had lost sight of the Drameara again, but as she rounded a corner, she saw him sitting on a rock, watching the path from above. He tossed her a piece of bread, and she leaned against the rockface with a sigh of relief, glad to have a few moments’ respite from the endless climb. A breeze blew strands of hair around her face, and she glanced at the sky to see that the clouds were growing darker. Behind her, trees creaked in the wind, and she shivered as a chill cut through her clothes. There was only a foot between the path and the edge of the hill, and she leaned forward to see a sheer drop. She pulled back with a small gulp and leaned against the rock.

  All too soon, the Drameara dropped down from his perch, and Lark wearily followed him. The path was deep in mud for a few feet, and with nimble steps he passed it and continued on his way, but Lark struggled through with a sigh of frustration. The wall of rock beside the path was pushing her closer t
o the edge, and she turned, putting her back against the wall as she walked crablike along the ledge. The wind was growing stronger and her cloak whipped around her feet.

  Suddenly there was a crashing above her as stones began to skitter over the stone face. When one hit her on the head she cried out and leaned forward, covering her head to ward off any further blows. Another stone hit her on the back and she fell forward, circling her arms wildly in an effort to regain her balance, but her feet were slipping towards the edge. She grabbed a branch, but it was thin and spindly, breaking away in her hand as she continued towards the edge.

  She cried out as her feet slipped over the ledge, carrying her over the precipice. A thin wail escaped her lips and she clamped her eyes shut, unwilling to see her impending doom, but they flew open a moment later as thick hands grabbed her waist and she was spun around in midair. The Drameara was beneath her as they fell together, his teeth clenched as he glanced over his shoulder to look at the ground rapidly rising to meet them. They slammed into it a second later, every bone in Lark’s body jarring as she landed on his chest. She lay still for a moment, then pulled away to look down at the Drameara lying on the ground beneath her. Blood was pooling around his head, and when she scrambled back, she saw that his leg was twisted beneath him at a strange angle, the bones poking through his skin. She stared at the leg in horror, then brought her gaze back to his face. He groaned, and she watched as his eyes flickered open, moving to look at her. They were darker than she had ever seen them, a pair of black holes.

  “The jar,” he rasped. “Get it for me.”

  “I can’t. You landed on your bag.”

  He groaned again, then using his hands, pushed his back off the ground. His breath hissed through his teeth as she dragged the bag from beneath him and he sank back to the ground with a grimace. She opened the bag and looked in, searching for the jar, certain it would have broken in the fall, then stopped as her hand brushed one of his knives. Slowly she wrapped her hand around the handle and pulled it out, staring at the blade. She glanced at him to see he was watching her.

  “Go ahead,” he whispered. “It’s the only chance you will ever get.”